Novels by Ade Holar

The Abbey rose from the mist like a memory stone walls half lost to ivy, bell tower leaning slightly from age and neglect. The road that led to it was nothing more than mud and broken cobbles, bordered by the bare skeletons of trees.Amelia Fairbourne dismounted, her legs trembling with exhaustion. Her horse snorted softly, as if relieved to stop. The scent of wet earth and woodsmoke hung in the air.A friar approached from the gate, lantern in hand. His brown robes were frayed at the hem; his beard was silvered with age.“Peace be with you, child,” he said in French. “You are far from any safe road. What brings you to Saint-Léon?”“I was told you offer sanctuary,” Amelia replied, her voice hoarse. “Please… I’ve come a long way.”The friar studied her for a moment, then nodded. “All who seek refuge will find it here. Come.”He led her through the courtyard, past cloisters where vines curled around the columns, into a small guest chamber. The walls were cold, but clean; a simple cross

The wind off the northern fields carried the chill of winter and the scent of ash. France was burning not just its cities and estates, but its very soul.Amelia Fairbourne rode through the darkness with her cloak drawn tightly around her, the horse’s breath clouding in the cold air. Each hoofbeat echoed like a heartbeat against the hollow silence of the countryside. She had not slept in nearly two days.Her hair clung damply to her temples; her hands were raw from the reins. Every muscle in her body ached. But it was not the exhaustion that haunted her it was him.Ryan Ashford’s voice still rang in her ears, that final, torn whisper before she fled: “You don’t understand.”She had wanted to hate him to curse his name and the stone walls of Château d’Ashford. Yet as the miles passed and the world grew colder, hatred slipped away, leaving only something quieter, sharper.Loss.She remembered the young man he had been laughing beneath the apple trees at her father’s estate in Kent, his c

The evening air lay thick with mist, curling through the corridors like whispered secrets. Candles flickered weakly in their sconces, their flames struggling against a draught that carried the scent of rain and distant smoke.Amelia Fairbourne sat by the small window of her chamber, her sewing abandoned in her lap. She could not sleep. Ever since her arrival, something in the château felt… wrong. The servants spoke in hushed tones, their eyes avoiding hers. And Ryan no, Monsieur Ashford had been distant to the point of cruelty.She had known him once as a man of warmth and laughter. Now he spoke in clipped sentences, his gaze unreadable, as if every word cost him a measure of pain.Amelia pressed her fingers to the windowpane. Beyond the glass, the courtyard shimmered with puddles from the day’s rain. Somewhere beyond those gates lay Paris and the rising tide of revolution. She had seen its edges in the villages: bread riots, tricolour flags, whispers of vengeance. France was unraveli

The fire in the study had nearly burned itself to embers by the time Ryan Ashford returned to his desk. The letter lay where he had left it, its black seal cracked, its cruel words still echoing in his mind.“Arrest orders for Amelia Fairbourne.”He stared at the parchment, the ink bleeding slightly where rain had touched it from his coat. Outside, the storm had quieted to a soft, persistent drizzle. It should have been peaceful, but peace had long since left the Château d’Ashford.Ryan pressed a hand to his forehead. He had worked too hard to build this life of stone and silence, too long to let the past crawl back into his heart. And yet, she was here. The woman who once shattered him now slept under his roof, oblivious to the danger hovering just beyond her door.The Crown’s orders were clear. Amelia Fairbourne was to be detained and delivered to the authorities in Paris. No explanation was offered, but none was needed. In times like these, suspicion was enough to condemn.A log cr

The rain had been falling since dawn, turning the narrow French roads into slick ribbons of mud and sorrow. Inside a modest black carriage, Amelia Fairbourne sat with her gloved hands clasped tightly in her lap, her heart drumming faster than the raindrops against the glass.Six years. It had been six long years since she last saw Ryan Ashford the man whose name she no longer dared to speak aloud. The man she had once refused.The countryside blurred by in shades of grey and green. France was restless the whispers of revolt had long escaped the taverns and markets, spreading into noble halls and servants’ quarters alike. Even the sky seemed heavy with the weight of change.Amelia pressed her fingers to the small locket that hung around her neck a relic of her past, and of him. When she closed her eyes, she still saw that moment on the steps of Fairbourne Manor, the night she broke his heart.> “I cannot, Ryan. My family would never approve.”“Your family?” His voice had been raw, woun