The Temptation of Charlotte North

by Camilla Bruce

Genres: Occult & Supernatural; General Fiction; Horror; Gothic

Synopsis

When a sinister spirit invades an isolated community, three lives will be forever altered, in this dark gothic fantasy from “one of the most consistent and insightful authors of psychological thrillers writing today” (CrimeReads).

“Richly atmospheric and peopled with exquisitely delineated characters . . . the novel builds to a genuine shocker of an ending. Readers will be hooked.”—Publishers Weekly

A rebellious young woman desperate to escape her predetermined life.

The handsome but married priest who has caught her eye.

And the resolute schoolteacher who values science above all.

In 1910, on a small, remote island that boasts more sheep than people, the fates of Charlotte North, Jasper Hill, and Ruth Russel are perched on the edge of a cliff, and a strange wind is blowing. . . .

When an ancient tower—rumored to have once imprisoned a witch—crumbles, it releases something powerful: a restless spirit that knocks inside the walls and sends household objects flying. A spirit that seems to be drawn to Charlotte, who sees in it a potential for power and change.

But first she must overcome Jasper’s piety and Ruth’s fierce determination to banish the terrifying entity. Only then will she gain the power to claim the life that she desires.

Release date: May 19, 2026

Publisher: Del Rey

Print pages: 448

Sample

The Island of Margaret's Keep, 1910

.1.

Charlotte

The shed is a terrible place to be-a rectangular box of dirty gray wood where I have spent far too many of my days. Mother locks me in here for any perceived infraction-of which there are many. Especially of late, now that I am seventeen and no longer a child. Now that I desire things that go against her wishes.

My mother has a will of steel, but sadly for her, so do I.

At least the boards are set far enough apart that some daylight spills inside, painting a golden cage on the floor. There are shelves on the walls loaded with things that will not fit anywhere else, like a bucket of grease, wool shears, three coils of rope, and a tin box heaped with rusty nails. From hooks on the walls hang several dusty overalls, and a pair of boots with holes in them resides on the floor underneath. There are no lamps and no candles-no light at all save for the bars on the floor and what little sneaks inside through the single window set high up on the wall, though it is laced with spiderwebs and covered in grime and salt. The walls, too, are coated in the taste and smell of the sea. Even the air is saturated with brine; and if I listen, I can hear it, too: the rise and fall of the waves. Not even the clucking of the chickens in the barn next door can compete with the wash against the stones. I am used to it, though; we all are. Margaret's Keep is not a large island-only five miles across at its widest point and three hundred and fifty souls year-round. We barely even notice the sea. It is only in here, in the shed, that it comes rising from the back of my head to the front of my mind, and I can hear every breath it takes clearly.

I try to match its rhythm with my exhales.

The door to the shed is a flimsy thing; hastily thrown together from thin boards and hinged. Looking at it, you would think it would be easy to break through-just a well-aimed kick and it would splinter. I am sad to say that it is not so. I have tried it many times before. It is sturdier than it looks, and the padlock on the outside is vicious and heavy, hanging proudly like a medal on an officer's chest. Only Mother has the key to open it, and she keeps it safely tucked away.

When I was younger, I would often cry and bang uselessly on the door whenever Mother locked me up. I would beg on my knees to be let out, threatening Mother with all sorts of damage if she did not immediately open the door. I no longer beg or threaten. I have long since learned that such is fruitless. But I am far too old now to be punished in this way. I suppose that is why a new set of feelings has entered my rage: shame and humiliation at being treated in this way, and for no good reason at all. I can see it in my sisters' eyes, in our housekeeper's, and even in Father's, when I am finally let back inside. They all know that the shed is no longer a suitable punishment.

Their disapproval will not change Mother's mind, though. She will do as she pleases, and then blame me for it happening in the first place: If only you hadn't . . . If only you were . . . If only you could . . .

But clearly I can not, or else I would not find myself here, over and over again, locked in this terrible ramshackle shed with nothing but flies-and the sea-for company. The shed even haunts my sleep. For as long as I can remember, I have had horrible dreams about being trapped-staggering around like a bear in a cage, bellowing for my release.

The cage never relents, though. Its salt-crusted walls stand firm.

It takes seven steps to cross the length of the floor: one, two, three, four . . . After seven I knock on the wall three times before turning back again. It serves no purpose, but I have done this ever since I was a child, to pass the time and numb my mind.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . . knock, knock, knock.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven . . . knock, knock, knock.

When I was a little girl, they kept coal in the shed, and I would use it to draw on the walls: human figures and mazes mostly-I was taken with the latter as a child. Perhaps in my young mind I needed to believe that there was always a way out, no matter where I was trapped. My hands were black with filth when I was done. I can still see my artwork some places in here: faint outlines etched deep into the wood. Mother caught me doing it once and made me wipe off the coal using a wet rag. It did not truly work and you could still see misty ghosts of my figures, which only enraged her further. They did not keep coal in the shed after that.

Back in my drawing days, "mischief" had been what got me in trouble-or that was what Mother called it anyway. I cannot recall much of it, except for Mother's anger when we passed by the graveyard, which was often enough. When I was very young, I thought I used to see people in there: wispy souls drifting between the graves. They appeared so real to me that I would sometimes wave or even talk to them. I remember once following the misty specter of an old woman between the withered stones. Though she looked as if she was eighty years old, she ran like a colt in spring with the young me hot on her heels. I remember the lady looking back, laughing-and I was laughing, too. But then the happy chase was interrupted by Mother, grabbing my neck in a steel grip and yanking me out of my fantasy. I recall drawing the old woman when I got home, right here on this wall. As I grew older, I stopped seeing them, so maybe Mother was right, and it was only a quirk of my youthful mind. Still, it seemed a harsh punishment just for having a lively imagination. I suppose it is a fear of the irrational that makes parents behave in such a way.

Later, it was other infractions that landed me in the shed, like when I threw my new dress into the fire in Father's study because I did not want to attend a dinner, or when I stole Mother's watercolors and threw them in the sea to punish her for speaking harshly to me. Another time, it was because I cut off my braids so that I could be a boy and not have to do any needlework. I do admit those were acts of mischief.

More recently, it has been a man that has put me in here-one that I have grown to love, though I am told I should not. The first time I saw him, he came to dinner with his pretty wife. It was just a few days after they had arrived on Margaret's Keep, and we were all on our best behavior. Back then, I had found the new reverend to be handsome but dreadfully boring-a man of no consequence to me. He and Father had spoken of the island as we ate our fish and glazed pears, while Mother tried to entertain Mrs. Hill-though the latter barely said a word all through the meal. I had mostly thought of other things and waited for the dinner to be over.

For three years after that, I thought very little of Jasper Hill, although I could not help but notice how our new clergy-young and energetic-seemed determined to breathe new life into our small church. Among his efforts was the children's choir, set to practice every Monday, and he needed a volunteer to help him lead it. It did not even occur to me to offer. I am as musical as a bay horse and find most psalms tiresome, but Mother was present for the announcement as well and-tired of seeing me around the house now that my schooling was done-she figured it was a splendid idea for me to have something noble to do with my time. I agreed only reluctantly, and only out of boredom. I sat through my last lessons in the schoolhouse at fifteen, and when the question of the children's choir came up, I had already turned sixteen, so a change was admittedly in order.

The choir was small, with only seven children, and one of them was my youngest sister, Sophie. The fact that Jasper Hill was at the rehearsals, too, accompanying the songs on the piano, was of no importance to me. I dutifully did as I had been instructed and taught the children how to perform in such a way that it did not hurt the ear. Whatever he and I said to each other had only to do with music.

I suppose it was a slow thing, like bread dough rising. After six months, by the time the choir was ready to give its first Sunday performance, the reverend and I were laughing together, and quite often stayed behind after practice to exchange frank opinions on the day's work. We spoke of other things, too, like ourselves and the island. To my surprise, I found him to be amusing-funny even.

He said that we had become friends-that he was happy to be my friend-but it did not feel like a friendship to me. Rather it felt like something warmer and sweeter-something that grew bigger every day, until it had become this unwieldy thing that I could not keep contained. It was something about how our eyes met and held whenever we spoke. How neither of us wanted to look away. How his hand would gently land on mine when we sat next to each other in a pew, listening to the children-or rest on my shoulder when we rifled through sheets of music together.

I sensed that he wanted to be close to me-and I wanted to be close to him, too. I felt like he truly listened when I spoke, and that my opinion was valuable to him. We understood each other so well and laughed together often. I do not laugh much normally; it is not entirely approved of in my mother's house. But with Jasper Hill, I did. We laughed about little things mostly-like how Lillian Fisher sounded like a squeaking mouse when trying to reach the high notes. Other times we laughed for no reason at all, but only because it felt good. Jasper Hill said that laughing was celebrating life, and I felt that, too, when I laughed with him.