The Mrs. Quarterhorse Series
The Mrs. Quarterhorse series, begun as a collection of amusing stories about an imperious lady and her card-reading protégé, gradually expanded into five obsessively and excessively constructed interconnected supernatural treatises on the bleak (but undeniably interesting) times in which we live. Our times might be bleak, but the stories are not! Despite six years of steady reworking, the stories have not lost their simple purpose—to provide engaging bed-time reading for discerning ladies and gentlemen.
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An Overview of the Mrs. Quarterhorse Series
Little Mrs. Quarterhorse enjoyed her parents’ soirées from a perch at the top of the stairs. Hidden in her cosy nest, she spied beautiful and villainous guests prowling the halls of her childhood home, and eagerly absorbed their villainous stories. She expected one day to join these villains in their villainy! How miserable those evenings would have been had she known she was witnessing the end of an era. In the fullness of time, Mrs. Quarterhorse would become the lady of a house devoid of life, let alone of beautiful villainy. She would stroll from room to room among the detritus of a lost world, avoiding her odious friends, preferring childhood memories to the tedium of our desolate twenty-first century.
As for me, I grew up expecting nothing, and the future did not disappoint. That is, until I was bitten by a diseased pig. That fateful chomp, in a roundabout way, piqued the interest of Mrs. Quarterhorse; I had started a plague, few people can make such a claim! And now we have fun, the two of us. Sometimes, at least. Other times I find myself scared out of my wits! Mrs. Quarterhorse is a dangerous force when motivated, and with the world falling apart around us, she has much opportunity for mischief. Mostly, though, we chat, play cards, and eat. For instance, at this very moment, as I’m writing the promotional copy that you are graciously enduring, Mrs. Quarterhorse has appeared with a dish of frosted peanut brittle (yes, she frosts peanut brittle), two enormous tankards of salted caramel coffee, and an old switchblade she found the other day that she’s planning to restore because it doesn’t pop open fast enough for her. It was her mum’s, evidently, and so I suppose it has sentimental as well as practical value.
I’m having difficulty writing this series description. I’m no good at self-promotion; words escape me, and I begin sputtering nonsense like “in the fullness of time.” It has only become more difficult with Mrs. Quarterhorse now peering over my shoulder, inquiring what I’m up to, sarcastically reading aloud as I write. And so, I’ll cut the spiel short, and simply ask you to take on faith that my adventures with Mrs. Quarterhorse are worth reading. They’re dramatic, exciting, occasionally frightening, and sometimes even meaningful (Mrs. Quarterhorse suggests I replace meaningful with coherent.)
Book 1 - Mrs. Quarterhorse
A bite from a diseased pig gave me a virus which I passed on to the rest of the world. The world hates me now (fair enough) except for my social worker (who is paid to not hate me), Tarpin across the street (who doesn’t hate me for free), and a lady called Mrs. Quarterhorse who has asked me to arrange a séance for her. I don’t know a thing about séances, but I’m able to accurately card-read the future (predicting pig bites and plagues notwithstanding.) I suspect Mrs. Quarterhorse’s interest in me is mostly because my virus has killed millions. “History loves nothing better than efficient destruction,” she explained once while preparing for us a late evening snack of rich cinnamon cocoa with butterscotch topped graham wafers and mini-marshmallow skewers. “It will remember Nero, Mount Vesuvius, Jack the Ripper, Mrs. O’Leary’s cow, and maybe even you if your blight drags on through the winter.” I think she meant this as a compliment, so I accepted it as such. I am nothing if not gracious, and these days I’ll take whatever kindness I can get.
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Book 2 - Mrs. Quarterhorse at the Masked Ball
Mrs. Quarterhorse’s Christmas Masked Ball will be the ball to end all balls, literally, because it will conclude with an asteroid pulverising the Earth. Her spectacular old ballroom cellar will soon be crowded with gowns and tails—all the beautiful people, as the world calls them, or, as Mrs. Quarterhorse prefers, all the ugly morons. I suspect she enjoys the company of these beautiful morons more than she lets on; otherwise why would she choose to spend her last night surrounded by them? We’ll all be wearing animal masks designed by yours truly. What animal masks have to do with the Christmas theme, I have no idea, but Mrs. Quarterhorse and I set aside the best masks for ourselves; she’s a cobra, and I’m a boa constrictor. I’ll do my best to fit in with all the better dressed (albeit lesser masked) aristos, but if someone tries to drag me onto the dance floor, or if I otherwise make a fool of myself, I’ll pilfer a tray of cocktail sausages and await the asteroid’s arrival in bed with a good book.
Available for pre-order at Amazon
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Book 3 - The Many Charms of Mrs. Quarterhorse (expected spring 2026)
The many charms of Mrs. Quarterhorse include her haughty manner, her eagerness to ridicule me for my shortcomings, her ability to spin a shillelagh like a majorette’s baton, her eight-course meals consisting of only desserts, and her disgust with humanity, particularly with the pilgrims who have made a Holy Shrine of her very unholy house. Mrs. Quarterhorse and I are now alone under her miraculous but shaky roof, tormented by our darkest fears, and perhaps also by a mob that may or may not lurk in the murky wasteland, lurching nearer every day. Mrs. Quarterhorse promises that soon we will be on our way to Greece for a holiday much needed but little deserved. Our luggage is packed and ready to go, yet here we remain. Why? What terrible secret is keeping us here, alone and vulnerable in the middle of the desert?
Book 4 - Mrs. Quarterhorse Adrift (expected late 2026)
So-called pilgrims got it into their pointy heads that Mrs. Quarterhorse’s home had been the site of a miracle. But they didn’t arrive to kneel and pray, not these virtuous worshippers, no, they arrived to take the house away with them. I’d noticed nothing particularly miraculous about the bricks they chiselled free, or the siding, or the shingles, or the galloping bull weathervane they pried off a gable. Unable to remain comfortably in a house with no sides and no roof, with no windows or doors or walls, Mrs. Quarterhorse and I fled to the sea; but we can’t seem to shake the mob we suspect has trained its beady eyes on the sailboat we now call home. With no hint of a breeze we drift through the fog, anxious and vulnerable. And to make matters worse, we’ve eaten all the shortbread. We’ve finished off the fudge. The almond chocolate bark, I miss it dearly. Once the frosted soft nutmeg cookies have disappeared down our throats, all that will remain in our pantry are beans. A hundred cans of long-expired beans. Misfortune, thy name is Quarterhorse.
Book 5 - The Ecstasy of Mrs. Quarterhorse (expected late 2026)
The merciless Aegean sun has melted my will and laid me out toffee-bronzed on the deck of our listless yacht. As I grope for the dish of sweets lying somewhere nearby, I wonder, even if my greedy fingers locate a cube of butterscotch fudge, have I the strength to hoist it to my lips? My hostess, Mrs. Quarterhorse, has similarly succumbed to midsummer languor, and is sprawled as lifelessly as me; but her nose still works, just barely, and she’s caught a waft of change in the air. Soon a tempest will toss our little boat into a deceptively sweet-scented lagoon below an ancient palace haunted by sinister socialites who cluster at a dirty little window to peer out at us. Will these weirdos invite us to their strange soirée, or will they leave us to the fiends of the forest? Omens pile quickly upon omens, mysteries upon mysteries, terrors upon terrors, and, because no catastrophe goes unrewarded, desserts upon desserts.
For a long, tedious, and unnecessarily florid explanation of how the Mrs. Quarterhorse books have evolved over the years, please visit the post titled Mrs. Quarterhorse's Beating Heart.