Exclusive Excerpt: Still Waters, Deep (Between Hill and Sea) by Morgan Sheppard
- Archaeolibrarian
- 1 hour ago
- 9 min read
@MorganSheppardAuthor
@morganjsheppard
They say the lake answers when the moon burns blue.
In the shadowed water of Llyn Du, hydrologist Talise Calder comes searching for scientific truth—and finds a man shaped from water, memory, and an ancient sorrow. When a red thread of fate binds them together, a quiet, aching love begins to surface.
But the lake does not remain still. As its waters rise and old vows stir beneath the surface, Talise is drawn into a bond that defies time and asks for sacrifice, yet never demands what love should not freely give.
To choose him is to step into a destiny woven by Ariandwyn, the ancient goddess who waits between hill and sea and remembers every promise spoken at the water’s edge.
Tender and haunting, Still Waters, Deep is a standalone novel in the Between Hill and Sea series, steeped in Welsh folklore—where love is gentle, magic is old, and the waters remember every name.
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Talise Calder drove the last stretch along the single-track road, climbing the hills with care. Her tyres crunched over loose gravel where the asphalt had thinned and frayed. The land opened and closed around her in long curves, mist pooling in the folds of the hills, curling like smoke from some unseen hearth. The mist did not roll in from afar but slipped downward from the ridge, spilling into the bowl of the valley as though the mountain itself exhaled.
She eased the car down the narrow track that cut into the mountain’s flank, the escarpment rising sharply above her and sheep grazing quietly on the slopes. At the bottom of the long descent, the lake appeared all at once, circular and held fast within the bowl of the valley, a secret etched into stone and grass. The GPS confirmed her coordinates, Llyn Du, the Black Lake of the local maps, though the device felt almost superfluous. Her chest lifted slightly, breath catching in quiet awe, as if the lake’s stillness measured her as much as she measured it.
The water lay flat and unbroken, a sheet of wet slate reflecting the pale, shifting light of the high morning sky. Mist drifted downward from the ridge above, curling along the slopes in slow spirals, thinner than the fog of the lowlands, rising and falling as though the lake itself inhaled the mountains around it. Wind rolled in long breaths across the escarpment, carrying the faint jingle of distant sheep bells and the sharp cry of a curlew, the valley’s echoing acoustics amplifying each sound into a rhythm that threaded between the slopes.
She parked and stepped out, boots sinking slightly into the damp grass. The cool air pressed against her skin, thinner and sharper at this height, carrying a brightness that edged every shadow, with the kind of chill that lingered even through fleece and waterproof layers, the pale sun diffused by high, shifting cloud so that every edge softened and blurred.
The wind sweeping off the Carmarthen Fans tugged at her jacket and teased loose strands from her braid, carrying the faint scent of wet earth and heather. Talise stood still, watching as the lake swallowed the distant caw of a raven, the faint clink of sheep bells drifting from the slopes, and the whisper of reeds, the surface folding sound and light into its mirrored calm. She breathed in deeply and felt a subtle tension bloom in her chest, an odd convergence of relief at the solitude, professional anticipation, and something quieter she did not yet have language for, a tremor that moved just beneath the surface of her attention.
She unpacked her field kit with the ease of long habit, laying out the portable depth sensor, water-quality probes, sample bottles, and the small drone tethered to its solar charger; her hands moving with instinctive precision as she checked connections and calibrations, grounding herself in the familiar rituals of her work. Even so, her gaze returned again to the eastern bank. Beneath the mirrored slate, a glint shimmered—silver, luminous, as if recalling a memory older than the hills. A faint warmth threaded through it, red-threaded, a whisper inviting her closer, though she did not yet know to whom it spoke. She noted it in her workbook, pausing longer than necessary, the pencil heavy between her fingers.
Field Entry – Llyn Du Observations, 7th May:
• Water currents: minimal at surface.
• Depth: unknown beyond preliminary sweep.
• Shoreline features: steep bank of heather and gorse, mossy stones scattered at margins.
• Anomalies: silver, unsteady.
• Note: investigate further. Possible optical anomaly or unknown mineral. Consider revisiting in varying light. Observe for movement patterns.
Her hand hesitated, then added, almost reluctantly: or something else entirely.
She drew a quick sketch, the lake’s outline uneven where the land dipped and rose, a curl of mist lingering over the eastern arm. Closing the journal, she knelt at the water’s edge and lowered the temperature probe into the still, dark surface. The water was colder than expected, dense and slow, and the reflected hills rippled lightly as if the lake were breathing stone and sky back into the world. A thread of red and silver shimmered through the shallows, curling in quiet hesitation. A tremor ran along her spine, neither fear nor certainty, but the deep recognition of a presence that paused, waiting for her gaze to meet its own.
The sense of being observed settled on her gradually, not as fear but as awareness, the lake holding her gaze with a deliberate stillness, each small ripple seeming to arrive where she did not expect it, as though responding to her presence rather than the land around it. Her pulse quickened, a steady drum in her ears, and the fine hairs along her forearms lifted, the air itself seeming to pause and listen, while a quiet thread of unease wound through her thoughts, persistent and formless, older than the tidy frameworks she relied on to make sense of the world.
She tightened her grip on the probe, not out of panic but focus, anchoring herself in the weight of it, even as another part of her leaned forward, alert and unwilling to look away, attuned to the subtle movement beneath the surface where a thin line of silver-red light twisted slowly, like a strand caught in unseen currents. The wind softened until it carried only the faintest murmur, a susurration that might have been reeds brushing against one another, or something quieter still, something that felt less like sound than intention.
Standing, Talise brushed damp strands from her forehead and traced the gentle curve of the bank, her eyes gliding over the lake’s surface, noting anomalies that stubbornly refused to settle into chance, a ripple carving a straight, deliberate path across the water, a glimmer among a cluster of submerged stones that shifted so subtly it was almost as if the lake itself breathed beneath her gaze. She recorded everything with meticulous care, the margins of her workbook crowded with sketches, arrows, and crosshatching that mapped the interplay of ripples, reflections, and silver-red streaks, and the mist that rose in curling eddies, drifting as if alive, following her movements and echoing her pace with a patience that was both deliberate and eternal.
She exhaled and loosened the straps of her pack, struck yet again by the paradox of her work, of solitude chosen and cherished, yet never quite complete. She had mapped waters across high moors and quiet valleys, places where centuries lay folded into silt and flow, and she had trusted her ability to listen without being overwhelmed. Llyn Du resisted that ease. It did not merely reflect its surroundings; it absorbed them. Beneath the surface, layers of time, sediment, and memory pressed together, held in a stillness that seemed watchful rather than inert, as if the lake itself were keeping vigil over all that had passed and all that might yet emerge from its depths.
She crouched again, fingers brushing the rim of a smooth stone at the water’s edge, imagining the countless seasons that had shaped it, and watched as a faint thread of red-silver light drifted through the shallows before dissolving into darkness. Her heart gave an uninvited thud, anticipation arriving without explanation.
The wind rolled down from the escarpment in a low, gathering sweep, and a soft voice seemed to move through the valley, distant and indistinct. Talise stilled, scanning the banks of reeds and stone, finding nothing altered or out of place. The sound faded, leaving not fear but a widening wonder that settled deep in her chest, unsettling and alive, as though the lake had acknowledged her and, in doing so, altered something fundamental.
By late afternoon, she had mapped the shallows and logged preliminary water data. Most instruments behaved as expected, though the depth sensor flickered near the eastern glint before steadying. She frowned, noted the anomaly, and launched the drone. From above, the lake no longer seemed circular but elongated and intent, a long dark blade cut into the mountain’s flank, its edges held within the echoing acoustics of the bowl-shaped terrain. Sheep grazed on the slopes that rose around it, their pale forms scattered like quiet sentinels against the green, while the water lay still and inscrutable below, absorbing sound and shadow alike as though the mountain itself had carved it for keeping secrets. Beneath the surface, the red-silver thread shimmered faintly, twisting like a loose braid before fading again.
At last, she allowed herself to rest. She poured tea from her thermos, the steaming liquid warming her hands as she sat on a mossy rock, watching mist curl like breath from stone. She thought of her home in Caernarfon, of maps, lectures, and spreadsheets, and of the quiet longing she habitually ignored, the desire for something that could not be reduced to figures. Here, at Llyn Du, that longing stirred.
Is there a memory from childhood that shaped your love for lakes and rivers?
I remember paddling in a small lake with my grandfather, watching the sunlight scatter across the surface. He would tell me stories about the “secret life” of water, and I’ve been listening ever since.
If you weren’t a hydrologist, what might you be doing instead?
Probably something outdoors… a wildlife photographer or maybe a park ranger. Anything that keeps me moving, noticing, and caring for the land.
What drew you to study Llyn Du?
It’s not just a lake. It’s a living archive of water, land, and memory. Every current and reflection tells a story if you’re willing to listen.
You have a very scientific approach—do you believe in the myths surrounding Llyn Du?
I believe in observation. And sometimes, when the light hits the water just so… I think the lake itself insists on its own kind of story. It’s a balance between what I can measure and what I feel.
What’s a typical day for you in the field?
Layers. Thermal base layers, fleece, waterproofs. Boots caked in mud. Measuring pH, oxygen, currents, sketching patterns, and collecting stones. And yes… occasionally whispering encouragement to the water.
Do you have a comfort ritual after a long day in the field?
Tea, always tea. In a thermos, with a splash of milk. Sitting by the water and sketching the patterns I’ve observed helps me decompress and make sense of the day.
If you could share one piece of advice for aspiring conservationists or hydrologists, what would it be?
Listen first. Observe carefully. The land, the water, the wildlife—they all respond to attention and care. Data is vital, but so is patience and curiosity.
What’s your favourite place in North Wales when you’re not working?
There’s a quiet valley near the Llyn Peninsula where the light hits the bracken just right at dusk. I go there to hike, breathe, and sometimes just sit by a stream and let the world catch up to me.
Any personal quirks you’d like readers to know?
I always carry a sketchbook. And I collect small polished stones from each lake I survey. They’re little markers of the stories I’ve been allowed to witness.
Do you have a personal connection to any of the stones you collect?
Yes, one from Llyn Du itself—I found it after a storm, polished and red-veined. I keep it on my desk; it reminds me that every lake has stories waiting to be discovered, and that I am part of something larger than myself.
Morgan Sheppard, originally from the United Kingdom, now lives in Germany, though she fondly admits that a part of her heart remains in Wales. A dedicated writer primarily in the fantasy genre, Morgan’s love of reading spans a wide variety of genres, and she is rarely seen without a book close at hand.
When she’s not writing or reading, Morgan enjoys spending time with her family and tackling the challenge of learning German—an endeavour she approaches with persistence, even if languages don’t come naturally. So far, she can confidently order a beer and a pretzel, and she’s determined to keep improving.
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