CELTICLADY'S REVIEWS: Ever Mind the Rule of Three Mystic Academy Book 1 by Samaire Wynne Book Tour! @SilverDaggerBookTours #MysticAcademy @samairew @samairewynne

A Wytch & Magical Cat Urban Fantasy

"This is the story of a girl and her cat."

Ever Mind the Rule of Three

Mystic Academy Book 1

by Samaire Wynne

Genre

Urban Fantasy

★★★★★★★
Deep in the house lies a box, hidden where no human

would find it. Inside the box lies an object of such

immense power it refuses to be ignored even one more

day...
★★★★★★★

Tabitha Murphy is no stranger to tragedy. After losing both parents as an infant, she's being raised by her aunt and a very special cat.

Although she's descended from a long line of wytches, Tabitha has shown no sign of any powers whatsoever. Without magic, she won't be allowed to attend the school where her aunt teaches. In fact, with no better options, Tabitha plans to attend UCLA in the fall and live a mundane life.

During an afternoon out with friends after their last day of high school, she halfheartedly shares french fries and milkshakes at the local malt shoppe and agrees to go to a carnival in town later that afternoon.

That’s when something happens that shocks her to her core. Something that will change the course of her life forever.

⚡ ⚡ ⚡ ⚡ ⚡ ⚡ ⚡

Ever Mind the Rule of Three is a 120,000 word urban fantasy story suitable for all ages.
No AI was used to write this book or create its cover.

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Samaire Wynne grew up in a lot of different places, and now happily resides on the East Coast of America, laboring away at writing stories every day.

She is an animal lover with far too many pets, yet she still muses how she’d like to add even more.

A lover of all things night and gothic, she also loves to read and reread her favorite books.

Owned by a cat named Tyrion, she can be found haunting the shadows and mists that hang low over the hills of southern Virginia.

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Chapter One of Ever Mind the Rule of Three

With my birthday coming up next month, and no magic in sight, I had resigned myself to attending a mundane college. I idly wondered if I really felt comfortable attending UCLA, so far from the town I’d grown up in.

Salem, Massachusetts was an old town—very old, in fact. A current of custom and habit underlay the everyday lives of the mundane who lived here. I could trace my descent from a long line of wytches, going back more than four hundred years.

But, as my aunt reminded me every time I got to worrying so much that I paced the front sitting room of our three-story house, only about a quarter of the women in the family ever showed promise in the magical arts. Aunt Matilda had, of course. She’d first sparked magic when she was eleven, she’d told me.

“I lit the cat on fire, accidentally, of course,” she’d explained. “I’d run in from the twilight mist one October day, and Grimalkin had been napping in the window, and had just stretched and then jumped to the hallway, and we collided. I slid right into him and tumbled head over heels.”

“Then what happened?” I asked, chin in hands, leaning forward over the now-empty dinner plates. I’d heard the story many times and reveled in it every time. I loved my aunt with a passion. Huh. Hero-worshipped her, would be a more apt description.

“And then I grabbed my hat, which had fallen off, and got to my feet. I’d brushed my hair back — even then it was too long and unruly to manage without help, and placed my hat back on my head,” said Aunt Matilda.

I held my breath. I knew what was coming next.

She glanced down at me, one side of her mouth quirked in a smile. “And as I stood up, I stretched my hand out to pet Grimalkin. A spark flew from my fingertip and arced to his tail and lit the tip on fire.”

I’d shrieked with laughter, arching my back in glee.

“And you’d been eleven?” I asked, grinning

“Just barely,” she’d said. “Eleven and a week, at most. My birthday is October third, as you know, child.”

I laughed out loud in delight, picturing the cat’s tail with a flame at the end.

“I never forgave her,” a haughty voice came from the window. Grimalkin was washing his paw with great concentration, his digits curled as his tongue swept up from his elbow.

“Oh, you love me,” said Aunt Matilda, standing up and sweeping the beloved cat into her arms. “You know you do.” She planted a kiss on the top of the cat’s head.

The cat curled against his mistress fondly, purring. “Maybe,” he mumbled. “On Tuesdays.”