Through the Yew Hedge: A Tale of Identity Magic

Book One of the Silverton Estate Duology by Islay Corwin

May 31, 2026

Welcome to Through the Yew Hedge, a lyrical work of magical realism infused with gothic atmosphere, botanical lore, and the disquiet of hidden histories.

About the Story
When thirteen-year-old Stella discovers that her adoption did more than change her name, that it legally erased her origins and sealed away part of her identity, she begins to understand the strange phenomena that have followed her since childhood. Morning glories bloom in winter. Black roses appear in her footsteps. Mirrors reveal glimpses of worlds beyond her own.
At the Silverton Estate, a secluded world of cedar groves, hidden libraries, medieval gardens, and forgotten archives, her adoptive mother, Sarah, a botanist and curator, has spent years documenting these “anomalies” without explanation.
Guided by three ancient guardians and drawn ever deeper into the Estate’s concealed histories, Stella must confront the fracture at the center of her life. To survive, she must reclaim the selves adoption divided: Ruth Ann and Stella, science and enchantment, loss and love.
Blending magical realism with the emerging shadows of gothic dark academia, Through the Yew Hedge explores identity, legal erasure, inherited memory, and the hidden systems that shape belonging.

Please enjoy a preview from Part Two: Stella, The Growing Seasons

Cedar Grove

Sarah walked with me to the Cedar Grove for the first time on my fifth birthday, the Autumnal Equinox.

“I’m curious to find Cedra’s sod-roofed hut. James once said he thinks it’s in the second grove,” Sarah said.
“She works in the greenhouse and garden most days. You’d like to see her home, too, wouldn’t you, Stella?” I nodded, because I knew Cedra as a quiet, constant presence, and I hadn’t yet been to the interior of the woodland.
“Yes, I want to see the gardener’s home.”
We strolled down the first soft-needled path, but there was no sign of a hut.
Sarah said, “Oh, well. Someone will guide us to Cedra’s home another day,” and we returned to a clearing at the edge of the woods.
Sarah called as though from a distance, “Please stay where I can see you, Stella.”
I was mesmerized by branch shadows, or maybe by the shapes, or textures on the forest floor.
“I’m here, Momma.”
I’m far smaller than the sentinel cedar above me, as I sit cross-legged on the forest floor, selecting soft, young twigs to twist into spirals. I whisper secrets to the tree that protects me. My guardian between moments of the Equinox twilight. The trees trust me with their secrets, as I trust them with mine.
I said louder, “I’m here playing with cones and twigs, Mom!”
Sarah leaned against an ancient tree to sketch, satisfied that I was safe.
The patterns around me could have been copied from Mom’s notebook.
A sudden flash of silver shifting in the grove. I hear a soft voice above a whisper, not Sarah’s. Is it Cedra’s voice? Does Cedra know my story?
Then, Sarah was there. She took my hand, and we turned back toward The Garden. We didn’t speak of shadows or about my speaking to trees, or how the whispers in the cedars were like goodbyes.

Mom’s research journal entry that evening was brief and precise:
First exploration of remnant Cedar Grove with S. Notable specimens est. 500+ years. Traditional medicinal uses: bark infusions for fever, needle tea for vitamin C. Further investigation is needed regarding folklore connections to ancient protection rites.
Sarah’s personal note:
S. stood perfectly still for 15 minutes, watching something I couldn’t see in the cedar shadows. When I asked what she was looking at, she said, ‘The trees, Momma. They remember everything.’ The air felt different. More research is needed.