Maeve Bramwell trained as an ethnobotanist and spent nine years cataloguing folk-medicine plant use across rural New England, which is a career that consists largely of sitting in kitchens while women in their eighties explain what their grandmothers put in things and why. She has notebooks full of remedies that should not work and a professional inability to write a witch who does not know her plants properly.

Raised in a small Vermont town where the historical society and the garden club were the same eleven people and disagreed violently anyway, Maeve has a lifelong interest in how small communities enforce their rules – who gets to belong, what the price of belonging is, and what the institutions quietly gain from keeping people at odds. Her fiction runs on that: covens as governance, feuds as policy, and magic with mechanics you can actually learn.

Her Witches of Sorrelwood novels drop two people into a binding neither of them agreed to and let the magic do the rest. Readers can expect witches with real craft, a tether with rules that never bend for the plot, enemies-to-lovers heat that escalates because honesty is literally load-bearing, covens with agendas, open-door scenes with genuine emotional weight, and a guaranteed happily-ever-after at the end of every book.

Maeve lives in Vermont with her wife, Ines, a stubbornly practical carpenter who built the drying racks; a black cat named Sorrel who is entirely ordinary and deeply resents the implication; and a herb garden that has outgrown three separate plans. She still cannot walk past a hedgerow without stopping.