The Tide Keeper's Daughter

The Tide Keeper's Daughter follows sixteen-year-old Maisie Thorne, who moves with her father to the small Cornish coastal town of St. Morwenna after her mother's sudden death. What begins as a reluctant relocation to escape painful memories quickly becomes something far more extraordinary when Maisie discovers she has inherited her mother's role as the Tide Keeper, a magical guardian responsible for maintaining balance between the human world and the four seasonal courts of the fae.

As Maisie struggles to understand her new abilities and responsibilities, she finds herself navigating a complex world of ancient traditions, magical politics, and supernatural threats. With the help of Rowan Penhallow (a local boy whose family once held the Tide Keeper role) and her new friend Eliza Carne, Maisie must learn to perform seasonal rituals, negotiate with powerful fae courts, and protect St. Morwenna from magical disruptions that threaten both the natural world and human safety.

The story explores themes of grief, inheritance, friendship, and finding one's place in a world where magic and reality intersect. As Maisie grows into her role, she discovers that her mother's death may not have been entirely natural, and that larger forces are at work disrupting the seasonal balance across the region.

Set against the atmospheric backdrop of a Cornish coastal town where the boundaries between worlds are naturally thin, the novel combines elements of contemporary fantasy with coming-of-age themes, creating a story about learning to trust oneself while honoring family legacy and protecting those you care about.

Maisie Thorne pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the car window, watching the landscape blur as her father drove them deeper into nowhere. The narrow Cornish roads twisted like snakes between high hedgerows, occasionally opening to reveal glimpses of steel-grey sea. St. Morwenna. Even the name sounded like something from a twee postcard. Not like Bristol, with its proper shops and cinemas and people who didn't smell perpetually of fish.

She'd made a mental list of all the ways this tiny coastal town was inferior to home (their real home, not this place they were supposed to live in now). No shopping centre. No decent Wi-Fi, probably. No friends. No Mum.

The radio had been playing quietly, some classical station her father preferred, but as they passed the weathered stone sign welcoming them to St. Morwenna, it erupted into a burst of static that made them both jump.

"...Maisie..." A woman's voice, barely audible through the crackling, seemed to say her name before Dad reached out and jabbed at the tuning button with unusual force.

"Sorry about that," he said, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. "Signal gets patchy near the coast."

Maisie said nothing, just hugged her jacket tighter around herself. She'd heard what she'd heard, and the look on Dad's face, a quick grimace before he schooled his features back to neutral, told her he'd heard it too.

As they drove slowly through the village's main street, Maisie noticed something odd about the mist that hovered in the air. It wasn't evenly distributed as fog should be, but instead clung to specific buildings, wreathing the old stone bakery, curling around the post office chimney, while leaving others completely clear. Like it was choosing where to go.

"Almost there," Dad said, with the forced cheerfulness that had become his default tone since Mum died six months ago. "Just on the edge of town, bit secluded, which will be perfect for—"

"For hiding away," Maisie finished, then immediately regretted her words when she saw his shoulders slump.

They turned onto a narrow lane that climbed slightly above the town, and suddenly there it was: a small stone cottage with a slate roof and a garden so wildly overgrown it looked like it was attempting to reclaim the building entirely. Rambling roses grew alongside what might have once been a neat path, and what looked suspiciously like blackberry brambles had claimed an entire corner of the yard.

"Well, here we are," Dad said, pulling up on the gravel beside the cottage. "Tide Keeper's Cottage. Been in your mum's family for generations."

Maisie frowned. "Why's it called that?"

"Oh, just a family nickname, I think. Something about an ancestor who kept the lighthouse logs." He was already getting out of the car, clearly eager to change the subject. "Let's get inside before it rains."

The sky, Maisie noticed, was indeed darkening, though it had been sunny just moments before.

She stood in the overgrown garden, breathing in the scent of damp earth and salt while Dad fumbled with the old iron key. When the door finally swung open with a dramatic creak (because of course it would creak, this place was probably haunted), Maisie stepped inside and froze.

A wave of déjà vu hit her so forcefully that she nearly stumbled. She knew this place. The worn flagstone floor in the entryway. The slightly crooked wooden staircase with its carved bannister. Even the peculiar scent, sea salt mixed with lavender and old books.

"Everything all right?" Dad asked, watching her face.

"I've been here before," Maisie said slowly.

He nodded. "Once, when you were very little. Your mum brought you for a weekend while I was at a conference. I'm surprised you remember."

But that wasn't it. This wasn't the vague recollection of a childhood visit. This was bone-deep familiarity, like her body remembered the exact number of steps to the kitchen or which floorboards would creak underfoot.

Dad was already moving around, opening curtains and windows. "It'll need a good airing out, but it's structurally sound. And the marine research institute is just a fifteen-minute walk away, so I won't need to commute. We can really make this place homey, you know? A fresh start for both of us."

His voice held that brittle enthusiasm that made Maisie's chest ache. Like if he just pretended hard enough that this was an adventure rather than an escape, it might become true.

"Your room's upstairs, first door on the right," he continued. "The removal van should be here in an hour with our things, but there's some furniture already here. Family pieces your mum kept."

Maisie nodded and headed upstairs, each step feeling simultaneously new and familiar. The room he'd indicated was small but bright, with a window seat overlooking the garden and, beyond it, the sea. A wrought-iron bed frame stood against one wall, stripped of bedding but solid and antique-looking. A matching wardrobe loomed in the corner.

What caught her eye, though, was a dusty cardboard box sitting in the middle of the bare wooden floor. Someone had scrawled "Fiona's sketches" on the side in faded marker.

Maisie knelt beside it, lifting the lid carefully. Inside were several sketchbooks, their pages wavy from exposure to sea air. She opened the top one and caught her breath.

Her mother's distinctive style was immediately recognizable, flowing lines capturing the movement of waves, the jagged edges of cliffs, the curves of shells. But interspersed with these realistic coastal scenes were other drawings: strange, elongated creatures with too-large eyes peering from behind rocks; tiny, winged figures dancing across the surface of what appeared to be tide pools; and in one particularly detailed sketch, what looked like a person made entirely of mist, reaching toward the artist with spectral fingers.

"Found something interesting?"

Maisie jumped. Dad stood in the doorway, looking at the sketchbook in her hands with an unreadable expression.

"Just Mum's old drawings," she said, closing the book quickly. "I didn't know she used to draw the coast here."

"She loved this place," he said softly. "Always talked about coming back someday." He cleared his throat. "I thought maybe we could unpack together when the van arrives? Make it feel more like—"

"I'd rather be alone, actually," Maisie interrupted, more sharply than she'd intended. The flash of hurt in his eyes made her stomach twist with guilt, but she couldn't take it back now.

"Right. Of course. I'll just... I'll be downstairs if you need me."

When his footsteps had faded, Maisie set the sketchbooks aside and stood by the window, looking out at the unfamiliar view that would now be her daily reality. The removal van arrived precisely when promised, and the next few hours passed in a blur of carrying boxes and arranging furniture.