Next week, ECW Press will publish The Sleuth of Ferren City, the third novel in the Brindlewatch Quintet by S. M. Beiko. To mark the occasion, and give readers a taste of the novel, the publisher has provided CR with an excerpt to share; something to tide existing series fans until the book’s release, and also give new readers a taste of what they can expect from the novels. First, here’s the synopsis:
Monsters are real. Well, monstros are, anyway — an emerging group of citizens trying to find their place in Brindlewatch, ever since the Camillites made a splash in the small town of Quixx, and the Jettites climbed out of their subterranean city beneath Lake Mallion. The Far Cities are bristling with newcomers looking for a fresh start in this brand-new world, but is it as safe for them as they think?
Sable, a Camillite who still lives on Mount Quixx, isn’t so sure. She sees the world through the distorted lens of the novels she steals from Professor Bedouin’s observatory and is slow to trust the strangers in the world beyond the page. She is a side-character in her own story, and she wants to keep it that way.
But a desperate letter begging for help rewrites Sable as the protagonist sleuth of her favorite novels, and hot on the trail trying to find her vanished friend, Sable uncovers more than she bargained for in the bright lights of the big a famous author with the ability to make every monstro’s dream come true, a dastardly underworld targeting vulnerable monstros, and a sweet bookseller who may be at the heart of the mystery.
And on the airwaves, a broadcast like no other promises a bold new world for everyone. Will Sable find her voice and save those terrified of speaking up, before it’s too late?
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📻 📡
Static. A quick dial turn to search the channels, waiting for the frequency to catch like a needle through the thick fabric of silence. There. A spark, a hum, resolving into a calming overture. Then, the voice. You don’t know whose voice it is, precisely, but it’s comforting. Caring. It only has your best interests at heart. It’s speaking to you, directly to your heart, your secret thoughts unuttered, and though it’s speaking, taking its turn, it’s urging you to do the same.
Urging you to tell your story.
“. . . for we are not the same as the Brindles,” the voice croons, softly, your inner ear vibrating as you nod along, like it’s plucked the red string of fate, your fate, and sensed your longing. “They call us monstros — monsters — but they cannot know us if we don’t tell them our true natures. Our stories. There are parts of us we won’t dare show this world: our mistakes, our fears. But it’s these things that bring us together and make us stronger. Shouldn’t we share them, together, before we lose the words? Before we forget our own voices?”
You could change the channel. It’s too late, though, because you’re already rooted in place, the broadcast weaving its cocoon tightly around you, and you don’t mind. Not after all this time of not being seen, not being heard. Here you are, finally understood, finally turning your face towards the inviting light. No longer will you live in shadow, no longer will you be afraid.
And the voice, so soothing, reaching out towards you . . . so clearly, in your mind’s ear, as if the voice, and the person speaking it, is standing right in front of you, beckoning. “Come,” it says. “Come, and tell your story.”
And your legs (however many of them you have), or your claws, or your hooves, or your tendrils, your tail — scale and fur, whisker and flesh that glow in the darkest dark of your secret heart — they move, forward, one step at a time, following the voice, leaving everything else you knew before far behind.
You are ready to tell your story. You are ready to be heard.
Chapter 1
The Thief on the Mountain
Once upon a time . . .
This simple line always made Sable’s heart quicken, because it was a promise to the reader. To her. A promise that ahead, woven between the lines of every book she clutched close, there would be a story to wrap around her shoulders like a comfort. Wherever the story took her, at least a book could be relied on; it never broke its promise. It had a beginning, a middle, and, while she often mourned it, an end. Even if they didn’t end the way she wanted or expected, the final word was the final verdict, and she could close the covers between her hands, press the book to her scales, and sigh, the warmth still there, even when it was over.
Then her scales would buzz anew, and she would have to leave her home in the knot of the old renderwood tree, and find another. A simple life. But, for what it was worth, hers.
She made sure the scarf around her throat was secured, while her tail — her body — uncoiled, and pushed her up from the dark, warm den she’d called home all these years on the northernmost slopes of Mount Quixx. Her eyes flicked and flexed as daylight filled them, peering through the rotting underbrush to make sure she was alone, that she wouldn’t be disturbed. It was nearly sundown, which would help her endeavours; so would her scales, which shimmered as they caught the fading light to match the cascade of vermillion, chartreuse, amber, and the clinging viridian of the forest floor. But always, they went back to their natural shade of violet, which she preferred. It matched the threadbare cardigan she’d been wearing for the last two months, unable to remove it. Because it had pockets. Yes. That was it. Not sentimentality. Sable never had an attack of that.
Her heart thrummed as she thought the name of the person who made the cardigan, and the scarf to match, but she didn’t dwell on it further. She folded her thin arms to her chest, clutching the book close as she pressed to the ground and began down the mountain.
This book’s story had been, in Sable’s expert opinion, a little too cloying . . . she was never one for romances awkwardly shoe-horned into intricate plots of murder and vice. After all, she had nothing in her life to compare them to and didn’t feel interested in finding a point of reference. But she’d been unable to stop herself from turning the pages, devouring the story in less time than the last.
Kepler had taught her to read the Brindles’ strange slanting language, and she’d adapted quickly, learning so much more from these pages than she would have if she’d spent the last two years in the town below, as most of the Camillites had — even her own mother. You’ll never know them if you don’t try, Isolde had chided with one mouth while grinning with the other. Sable also had two mouths, but she couldn’t speak from either of them. That her mother could was really a trick of luck, one that Sable hadn’t been born with.
Absently, she touched the gem in her forehead, feeling the thin crack that ran along it. Defect, she called it. Unique, Isolde had corrected. But what did her mother know? About Sable, or even about Brindles, for that matter. Sable didn’t want to know the humans, and she didn’t want them to know her. She was content with things as they were.
Besides, what was there to know that she couldn’t simply read about?
Unlike in the books she’d spent these tenuous years devouring, Sable was not protagonist material. Not even in her own story. How can you lead a tale if you don’t have one? True enough, excitement had happened on this mountain and in the town, once upon a time, but it didn’t involve her. She was content with that, too.
Really.
And though many might despair at this realization, it gave her a rush of relief. She wouldn’t have to make the hard choices the heroes did. She wouldn’t have to take a single slither out her door to enjoy adventure. Adventure was already laid out for her with each new read, with the luxury of entering or leaving the stories from the convenience of her burrow.
Why bother having a story of your own when there were so many being written for her?
She shivered through the leaves, then stopped suddenly, the warning vibration of movement nearby humming in her jawbone, rippling through her forehead. She was near a drop off the mountain face, but this worked to her advantage as she spun herself upside down along the length of a sideways pine jutting out from the rock. She waited, coils blending in with the dun of the needles, and watched as, on the path above, two figures emerged — and even though Sable didn’t spend time in Quixx if she could avoid it, she recognized them immediately: Professor Derrek Bedouin and his partner, Constance Ivyweather.
Sable’s scales crawled. Had they seen — or worse, heard her? Sable tightened closer to the tree, flicking out her tongue, tasting the air coming off the pair. They both seemed relaxed, their crinkled eyes and upturned mouths suggesting they were in their own little world. She relaxed slightly at these cues, trusting in everything she’d read as she tried to understand not only Brindles, but what the Camillites saw in them. These two seemed capable of living together with ease, but to Sable, their bond was just another tangled mystery.
The pair leaned towards one another, hands linked, and Sable turned away, finally feeling like an intruder. She waited until the vibrations of their movements left her, the two strolling down the slope towards the new bridge that made it easier for folk to come and go between the town and the observatory. Sable had many close calls here, but if she were ever to get caught . . . no. She wouldn’t. She needed this place, needed what it held. And so far, no one seemed to mind — or notice — what she was doing.
Once Constance and Derrek were well out of range, Sable uncoiled from the tree and slithered out, arching upwards to get a better visual, then made her way around the back of the massive round building. As the shadows of the first days of autumn crept in earlier, she used that to her advantage, still clutching the book close as her tail clung to the observatory’s inviting curves, up towards the great telescope that pointed to the heavens. If only the fog were still here, she thought, not for the first time. Better cover, at least.
When she reached the observatory, Sable took a moment to look up at the sky, the dusk clouds tinged rose against the stark, magnificent blue of a dobber egg. Sometimes there were sights worth coming out of her burrow for, especially ones painted so miraculously. Kepler was right; there was beauty out here. But maybe only in small doses.
Kepler.
Sable turned away, her tail looping effortlessly around the telescope as she slid inside the observatory’s roof, sticking to the shadows cast by the equipment and letting her scales flex and change with the light. She had her usual route and kept time accordingly. Three minutes was all she needed to make her selection and get out again. Derrek and Constance usually walked to town together every second evening to eat in the Solarium at the Happy Bell Boarding House. They would be gone for hours, but Sable couldn’t risk lingering. If she were caught, she’d be cut off from her supply, and that wouldn’t do at all. She’d already been caught at the Quixx Library, and this was all that was left to her . . .
She slid along the floor, slipping through an open door, down a corridor, and — there, at the end, a wide set of double doors inlaid with elegant golden whorls.
Professor Bedouin’s study.
Sable wouldn’t touch the door. Beside it was a panel, and when she put the book down and pressed her palms into it, it gave, sliding sideways. She wiggled through, pulling her tail after her in one quick snap, then she turned, reclaimed the book she’d put down, and slid the panel back.
She turned towards the room, towards her prize . . .
“Hello, Sable,” came Derrek’s cheerful signing with his four hands, Constance standing patiently next to him.
Sable froze, clutching the book, her tail coiling tightly in a spiral as she hunched down, down, shrinking into the shielding cover.
“It’s all right!” Derrek signed again, then held up his top pair of hands. “You’re not in trouble.”
“Sort of,” Constance signed from beside him, her gestures a little awkward. Sable continued to go into her coils, casting her eyes down as she held the book up in her quaking hands.
Derrek crept forwards on his eight legs, a bemused smile on his face. His amber eyes blinked in concert, reading the title out loud. Sable could make out the words as he mouthed them: “The Fatal Promise. Ah yes, one of my favourites!”
Constance came forward cautiously, and when she did, Sable noticed the study’s window, her usual escape route, was open, and at the edge of the casement, a few stray red threads, likely from the dropped hem of Constance’s red trousers.
Sable shook her head, trying to focus and not get caught up in little details, but she couldn’t help herself. They must have known she was coming, their little display earlier a ruse so they, too, could sneak back in. The professor was an elegant climber, after all. Too bad about the trousers, though.
Derrek’s hands flashed again, and Sable was taken aback. “What did you think of it?” He pointed to the book.
Sable blinked, her shoulders lifting as she folded her arms, looking to the side. After a pause, one that was likely too long for polite conversation, she signed, “Romance isn’t my thing.”
It didn’t stop you from reading it all in one night, she chided herself, and was glad that thoughts, like the rest of her world, were also silent, despite her second mouth — her traitor-mouth — bulging behind the scarf knotted tightly to conceal it.
Derrek tapped his chin, then turned towards his impressive library, the shelves reaching to the ceiling and across the room from his great, silken web. He replaced the book in its slot.
“You’ve been doing this a while.” Constance’s signs were stilted, some of them incorrect, but she spoke the words, too, and Sable could read the odd Brindle mouth movements just fine. In the air, she tasted Constance’s nervousness, which made Sable relax. At least they had something in common.
Sable shrugged again, her coils loosening as she stood up a little taller. She fiddled with the ends of her scarf, then signed, “I was going to give it back. I always do.” A quick glance at Derrek. “What gave me away?”
Derrek seemed confounded at first, then recovered, signing awkwardly, “Nothing, actually. I forgot my pocket watch, came back up, and saw you . . .” He pointed skyward.
Sable’s scales flashed a brighter shade of their natural violet before settling. That’s what I get for admiring the view . . . She dipped her head, her dark, bluntly shorn hair falling into her eyes like a protective veil.
“I saw the book was missing, but I thought Derrek was just reading it,” Constance said, signed. “I know you’ve had some . . . trouble at the library, but . . . I’m sure they’d still give you a card.” Sable tried not to, but she rolled her eyes. Had she broken into the library after hours? Yes. Had she stolen books, when apparently one could simply take them out whenever they pleased, for free? . . . Also yes.
But, at least, she hadn’t had to talk to anyone. Since then, she had returned the books — well, after hours. And after another break-in. Anyway, now things were terribly awkward, and why did it bear repeating?
Derrek beckoned for Sable to join him, and, defeated, she obeyed, sliding past Constance heavily.
“Your mother mentioned how much you love books when I saw her last.” Sable cringed. There went Isolde and her two big mouths. Ever since her mother had moved into Quixx proper, she’d become a regular gossip. With so much going on nowadays, why did Sable have to be the subject of it? She wanted to sink into her coils again . . .
Derrek must have sensed Sable’s unease. He quickly pivoted the subject. “What do you like to read? I’d be happy to make a recommendation.”
Sable flicked her glance from Derrek’s fine, folded hands to the bookshelf next to him. She had known exactly what she was going to read next, which is why this should have been a cut-and-dry job, if she’d been more careful. She signed “Excuse me,” and after Derrek moved aside, she plucked it free.
“Ah!” Derrek clapped, signing excitedly. “Mysteries, then? Constance’s sister, Ivory, has reeled me into them, too.” He tapped his narrow chin again and shrugged. “Though I confess, the culprit is never who I think it is . . .”
When Sable picked up the book, she could tell it had been read, but once, and carefully. The spine was barely cracked, but there was an imperfection in the endpapers. That’s when she saw the author’s signature and let out a gasp.
“So you’re a fan!” Constance had tapped the page to get Sable to look up as she spoke and signed. She was smiling. Sable wasn’t sure if she should smile back, but she nodded. “I went up to Ferren City to visit a friend’s hotel recently, and Mr. Foreword was doing a book signing in the lobby. This one is the most recent in the series.”
Abiding Shadow by Arthur Foreword. Sable let her fingers dance across his name. He was the first author Sable had felt connected to, and her favourite ever since. Each story Arthur came up with seemed more incredible than the last, his lady sleuths intelligent and cutting, but relatable. Their narratives were rich with the ideas and questions that battered Sable daily, and it was because of these sleuths that she felt less lost when it came to Brindles. Arthur Foreword’s narratives were soothing. If there was any Brindle she’d be willing to speak to of her own accord, it was Arthur Foreword.
“Pity about the next book in the series,” Derrek signed. “I read an article in the Overture Journal that the next book and all the research materials were lost to a fire at his family home . . .”
Maybe we could see Arthur Foreword in Ferren City if we went together! Think of that!
Sable clapped the hardcover closed, the memory of Kepler’s words sending a wave of ice rushing beneath her scales. Her coils tightened again, and both Derrek and Constance looked up suddenly.
Sable ducked a nod, signing, “Thank you. I’ll bring it back . . . through the front door, this time.” She needed to consciously pull each scale downward, force herself to seem relaxed, at ease. She couldn’t think of Kepler. That was the whole point of this. She’d been thinking about them too much. Thinking too much was the enemy — that’s what fun-loving Isolde had always said about Sable’s tendency to look at everything like people, and long-past scenarios, as puzzles to be solved.
Sable begrudged any time her mother was right.
“Let me walk you home!” Constance signed abruptly, arms waving. To the unhearing, the gesture could definitely be interpreted as squawking. Even Derrek danced to the side to avoid her.
“Are you sure about that?” Derrek said, bottom hands wringing as he glanced at Sable. “I believe Sable lives on the northern slope, which is difficult this time of year . . .”
Even with the barest tongue flick, Sable could tell the air around Constance radiated with what Kepler called anxiety. But there Sable went again, thinking about them. The sooner she got back to the renderwood, to immerse herself in this new book, the better. She started for the door, and Constance followed; with her back turned, Sable couldn’t witness any further sweet nothings.
Once they were outside, the rustle of the leaves pulling against Sable’s scales, she felt a little better. Silence was her true friend, though silence with other people was always hard. She never knew what to do; should she try to make the other party comfortable by asking questions she didn’t care to know the answers to? When she chanced a glance through her dark fringe at Constance, she felt the familiar vibration again. A tension, a terror, but not for anything in the darkening mountain forest all around them. A mind-terror, the fear of misstepping socially.
Kepler would understand.
Sable grimaced, touching her forehead gem. She willed it to work, to do something. A faint ripple — was that something? She glanced at Constance; had her shoulders dropped a little? Was her face relaxing?
Sable shook her head. No, her gem only worked when it wanted to. Sable’s second mouth rolled its lips beneath the scarf. She flicked it.
Sable must have made a sound of irritation, because Constance turned sharply towards her. The Brindle smiled, brow creasing, stiffly signed, “I heard about your friend.”
Without tone, it was impossible to interpret, but Sable was still working out the subtleties of expressions, so decided to imagine it was said with sympathy. She tried not to cringe, to keep herself from shrinking down and building a burrow here in the middle of the narrow path heading up to the north peak. Anything to keep this conversation from happening.
Sable just waved a free hand, the Abiding Shadow hardcover clenched in the other. It’s fine, she hoped it conveyed, but when she looked, Constance was still talking, only halfway signing, so Sable had to watch her mouth to catch the words.
“So many of my friends still live in Ferren City. It’s tough when the people we care about go their own way — but Ferren City is quite close by! If you ever want me to take you there to visit Kepler . . .”
Sable’s forehead buzzed, then throbbed. Her second mouth, she could feel, was opening.
Sable froze. Constance halted a half step, as if she heard its nascent speech.
“What was that . . . ?”
Sable was shaking her head frantically. She was holding the Arthur Foreword book so tightly, fingers shaking, that she couldn’t tighten the scarf at her throat, which had come loose. She pressed the book into her throat.
Constance tilted her head, signed, “Are you all right?” The look she gave Sable was something like compassion, but Sable took it instead to be pity. The scarf shifted again as the secret beneath it licked its lips.
She shot forwards and away from Constance’s unspoken questions without a backward glance.
Sable didn’t see the words that Constance formed to try to get her to stay. She needed to get away fast before she betrayed herself. She was a cannonball up the rock, sending leaves in a crackling wave in her wake. The gravity of Mount Quixx pulled her quicker, higher, as if aiding her escape. Finally, the renderwood was in view, and Sable bolted into the hollow beneath, landing in a familiar pile of roots as she coiled tighter and tighter, heart hammering, scarf bunched in her claws.
The grin beneath the wool twisted, the mouth cracked open, but Sable held on tight. You have nothing to say. Nothing at all. Be silent. Stop ruining everything.
Silence. That’s what Kepler had given her the last time Sable’s second mouth had opened, betraying her, destroying the one friendship she had. And she hadn’t even been able to hear what the words her traitor-mouth had said that had put a look of horror on Kepler’s small, shining face . . .
Sable took a breath, then another, from the security of her coils. Nothing could harm her here. No Brindles. No feelings. It was consistent here in the dirt beneath the tree. Storyless. She need not slither out her door for anything.
Not even for her now-fled best friend.
After a time, Sable gently cracked open the book’s cover, seeking reassurance in a story that wasn’t her own, and tried not to think about Kepler.
Wherever they were.
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Excerpted in part from The Sleuth of Ferren City: The Brindlewatch Quintet, Book Three by S.M. Beiko.
Copyright © by S.M. Beiko, 2026. Published by ECW Press Ltd.
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S. M. Beiko’s The Sleuth of Ferren City is due to be published by ECW Press on June 30th.
Civilian Reader 