HTP Winter Reads Blog Tour Promo Post: The Book of Thorns by Hester Fox

An enchanting tale of secrets, betrayal, and magic…

Penniless and stranded in France after a bid to escape her cruel uncle goes awry, Cornelia Shaw is far from the Parisian life of leisure she imagined. Desperate and lacking options, she allows herself to be recruited to Napoleon’s Grande Armée. As a naturalist, her near-magical ability to heal any wound with herbal mixtures invites awe amongst the soldiers…and suspicion. For behind Cornelia’s vast knowledge of the natural world is a secret she keeps hidden—the flowers speak to her through a mysterious connection she has felt since childhood. One that her mother taught her to heed, before she disappeared.

Then, as Napoleon’s army descends on Waterloo, the flowers sing to her of a startling revelation: a girl who bears a striking resemblance to Cornelia. A girl she almost remembers—her sister, lost long ago, who seems to share the same gifts. Determined to reunite with Lijsbeth despite being on opposite sides of the war, Cornelia is drawn into a whirlwind of betrayal, secrets, and lies. Brought together by fate and magic at the peak of the war, the sisters try to uncover the key to the source of the power that connects them as accusations of witchcraft swirl and threaten to destroy the very lives they’ve fought for.

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CORNELIA

BEGONIA: a favor repaid, a warning foretold, a promise delivered in darkness.

Sussex, England, February 1815

I can feel Betsy watching me from the doorway.

She hovers like a bee, rehearsing some small speech in whispers. I pretend not to notice her fidgeting and instead focus on the vase of narcissi before me, the weight of my pencil in my hand. Betsy clears her throat, twice, but I am already arcing out the path of the dainty stems and unfurling petals. There is something calming about reducing the flowers to splashes of grays and blacks, finding beauty in the absence of light.

Betsy lets out a throaty cough. “You might as well come in and be done with it,” I tell her without looking up.

“Yes, miss.” She drops a curtsy, her gray ringlets bouncing under her cap. “It’s just that there’s a man in the drawing room with your uncle, miss, and your uncle asks that you join them.”

I continue sketching, watching the frilly petals take shape on my paper. “Please make my excuses,” I tell her. Uncle likes to bring me out when he has business meetings, the same way he sets out the good claret and crystal goblets with the old family crest. With no wife and no children of his own, I make a pretty addition and bring a touch of softness to his otherwise hard demeanor. “There’s a cake in the kitchen and cold ham as well that you might bring them,” I add as an afterthought.

But Betsy doesn’t leave. She wrings her hands and tuts about like a fussing hen. “No, miss. He’s for you.”

I carefully set aside my pencil. This is what I was afraid of. Closing my eyes, I rub my temples, wishing that it was anything else besides this. My time is not even my own, and I hate being pulled out of my work just to oblige Uncle.

“Very well.” I dismiss Betsy and take a moment in front of the mirror in the hall. Uncle’s friends and associates are mostly stodgy old men, but there is always the possibility that it could be someone young, someone exciting. I pinch roses into my cheeks and tease out a few of my yellow curls. If have control of nothing else in this house, I at least can take pride in my appearance.

I take a deep breath and let myself into the drawing room. “Betsy said you wanted me, sir?”

Uncle stands and tugs at his waistcoat. “Cornelia, come in.”

Though not more than fifty years in age, his poor temper and taste for rich food and drink has left my uncle with a ruddy complexion and portly figure. He is not a healthy man, and his jowls are loose, his complexion jaundiced. What he lacks in polished comportment, though, he makes up in his wardrobe, opting for elaborate cravats and showy brocaded waistcoats that never quite fit him but speak of money and an account in good standing at the tailor. Uncle waves me over, impatient. “Come meet Mr. Reeves.”

Obedient, I come and position myself near the window where I know the soft gray light is especially flattering to my fair complexion. The man unfolds himself from his chair. He is tall and spare, his black frockcoat well-cut and his boots shined. He looks familiar, perhaps from church or one of Uncle’s interminable business dinners. I suppose some might consider him handsome, but there is an intensity in his dark eyes that is more predatory than charming. “Miss Cornelia,” he says, taking my hand and bowing over it, “a pleasure.”

“Mr. Reeves.” I withdraw my hand. “I hope my uncle is not boring you with land yields and livestock accounts.”

He shares a confidential look with my uncle. “On the contrary. Our conversation has been on the most enjoyable of topics.”

“He’s here to see you,” Uncle says, plowing straight into the heart of the matter as he always does. “Mr. Reeves comes as a suitor.”

Uncle makes the outcome of this meeting perfectly clear in the sharp downturn of his lips. His patience with the matter of my marital status is wearing thin.

Well, that makes two of us.

I don’t fancy marriage, but I certainly don’t fancy spending one more day than I have to under my uncle’s roof, either. My dreams of publishing a book remain foggy and out of reach, and the money from my illustrations published in a French newspaper under a nom de plume pays only a pittance. It is not enough to live on, and certainly not enough for a young woman who enjoys fine things and an easy life. A husband would solve at least two of my problems, but it would create a host more.

“I’ll leave you two alone to talk,” Uncle says, cutting me with a look that says there will be hell to pay if I emerge from this room without securing an engagement.

The air usually lightens, the room sighing a breath of relief, when Uncle leaves, but Mr. Reeves’s presence prickles me under my stays, makes me fidgety.

Betsy is posted outside the door, her needles softly clacking as she knits some horrid bonnet or muffler. Outside, a fine mist has rolled over the gentle Sussex hills. A smile spreads over Mr. Reeves’s sharp features. “Your uncle says you’re a spirited filly. That you need a strong hand to break you.”

Ah, so it is to go like that, then. I pour a cup of tea, ignoring my guest’s outstretched hand, instead lifting the cup to my lips. “That does sound like the sort of nonsense my uncle would say.”

Mr. Reeves regards me, his dark eyes calculating. “Your uncle was right, but I think he also underestimated you. I can see you possess some wits, so I’ll not mince words.” He crosses his long legs. “I am looking for a wife, and your uncle is looking to expand his landholdings to the south of the county.”

If the man who has sat down across from me was meek, pliable, then perhaps I would have more patience in hearing his suit; I don’t need someone who will get underfoot or try to handle me. Even some doddering old lord who might die quickly and leave me a widow would be acceptable. But Mr. Reeves is irritatingly young and looks to be in good health.

“My uncle was mistaken. I am not in need of a husband.” I offer him a cold smile, my mind already back on my flowers, my fingers itching to hold my pencil. The light has shifted with the gathering clouds, and I will have to rework my shading.

He pours himself a cup of tea. “Come, wouldn’t you like to have a fine house? Be mistress of a whole host of servants? I can see that you enjoy some degree of freedom, and I can give you that. You will have a mare and a generous allowance.”

“I should think it would be terribly lowering to have to lure a wife into one’s home with promises of horses and gowns. Shouldn’t you rather wish her to come of her own volition because she holds you in some esteem?”

“You are naive if you think that marriage is anything other than a business transaction. You are a young woman of beauty and some small means but a drain on your guardian. I am an enterprising man, with successful business dealings and a good bloodline looking for a wife who will elevate his status and ornament his home. I hold a commission in the army and anticipate traveling to the Continent shortly. It is a good deal for you, and you would be hard-pressed to find a better one, especially with your lack of polish and manners.”

“It’s a little late to be going over to the Continent, isn’t it? I believe we quite vanquished Napoleon.”

Irritation animates his dark eyes before he glances away, taking what I suspect is an intentionally long sip of his tea.

I study him over the rim of my cup, imagining the way I would draw the sharp angle of his chin, the aquiline nose, before finally placing where I’ve seen him. “You were married before, were you not?”

There is an almost imperceptible stiffening of his body. “Yes, I make no secret of the fact that I am a widower,” he says shortly.

“And how, exactly, did your first wife die?” The roses in the vase on the table beside me are vibrating, warning me. I pretend not to notice, pretend that I am a normal young woman who does not receive messages from flowers.

His lips thin. “An unfortunate fall.”

“Mm. She did not bear you any children, did she?”

“Barren.” He tugs at his cravat, irritated. “You would do well not to let your ear wander to every housemaid that has a piece of gossip to peddle,” he says coldly.

“In any case, I am not interested.” I move to put my cup down, but a hand closes around my wrist, hard. I look up to find that he has leaned in close, his breath hot on my neck.

“Perhaps you’ve also heard that I have certain…proclivities.”

The roses in the vase strain toward me, singing, setting my teeth on edge. My fingers begin to tremble, but I do not let him see it. “Why would you tell me that?”

“Because I think, dear girl, that you are under the impression that I would use you poorly.” He leans back, but only slightly, the air around him still charged and menacing. “I can be a very hard man when I’m tested, but I can take my pleasures elsewhere, so long as my wife is obedient.”

His gaze is sharp, his grip painful, and I realize that here is a dangerous man, one who is not just a brute but also clever. He cannot be fobbed off with witty barbs or batting eyelashes.

“This conversation bores me,” I tell him, standing. “I will not be your wife. I’m sorry that you wasted your time in coming here.”

But he makes no move to stand, his cool gaze sliding over me in a way that leaves me feeling horribly exposed. “I’ve seen you often, Cornelia. In church, sitting so demurely with your hands folded in your lap. You may think to have everyone else fooled, but I see the spirit in your eyes. A woman like you can never be satisfied with the life of a spinster, put on a shelf here in Sussex. I can offer you fine things, take you to exciting places abroad with me.”

And I’ve seen you, I think. I’ve seen how cruelly you used your first wife, the bruises on her pretty face. The way she faded little by little every week in church, until she was just a ghost in a dress, her final service that of her funeral. That will not be me.

“Surely there are other young ladies that would be flattered by your attentions,” I tell him.

“None so beautiful, none that I would take so much pleasure in breaking. The more you deny me, the more determined I am. Ask your uncle. I am a man who gets what he wants, one way or another.”

All the promise of gold or Continental trips would not be enough to tempt any marriage-minded mama to let her daughter enter into an arrangement with a man like Mr. Reeves. But of course, I have no mama to arrange such matters for me, to keep me safe.

“Then, perhaps it was time you lose for a change. Do you not find it dull to always get what you expect?”

He stands, drawing close and jabbing a finger into my bodice. It takes some great force of will to stand my ground and not let him see my fear. “You may think yourself clever, but this visit was just a courtesy. Your uncle and I have all but drawn up the contract already.”

He storms out, and the room grows quiet in the wake of the front door slamming. Betsy startles from her seat where she had fallen to dozing. I close my eyes, take a breath, wait until my heartbeat grows even again. Then I return to my waiting drawing in the parlor.

If I work quickly, I can still finish it and have it ready for tomorrow’s post. But for now, there is no waiting publisher, no silly French pseudonym; it is just the light and the shadows and me, a silent dance as I commit them to paper. Mr. Reeves and his odious proposal quickly fade away from my mind.

But then a raised voice shatters the silence, breaking my concentration, and there is the thundering velocity of Uncle coming down the hall.


Excerpted from THE BOOK OF THORNS by Hester Fox. Copyright © 2024 by Hester Fox. Published by Graydon House, an imprint of HarperCollins.

About the Author

Photo Credit: Stephanie Patalano Photography

Hester Fox is a full-time writer and mother, with a background in museum work and historical archaeology. She is the author of such novels as The Witch of Willow Hall, A Lullaby for Witches, and The Last Heir to Blackwood Library. When not writing, Hester can be found exploring old cemeteries, enjoying a pastry and seasonal latte at a café, or scouring antique shops for old photographs to add to her collection. She lives in a small mill town in Massachusetts with her husband and their two children.

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HTP Winter Reads Blog Tour Promo Post: The Day Tripper by James Goodhand

What if you lived your days out of order?

It’s 1995, and twenty-year-old Alex Dean has it all: a spot at Cambridge University next year, the love of an amazing woman named Holly and all the time in the world ahead of him. That is until a brutal encounter with a ghost from his past sees him beaten, battered and almost drowning in the Thames.

He wakes the next day to find he’s in a messy, derelict room he’s never seen before, in grimy clothes he doesn’t recognize, with no idea of how he got there. A glimpse in the mirror tells him he’s older—much older—and has been living a hard life, his features ravaged by time and poor decisions. He snatches a newspaper and finds it’s 2010—fifteen years since the fight.

After finally drifting off to sleep, Alex wakes the following morning to find it’s now 2019, another nine years later. But the next day, it’s 1999. Never knowing which day is coming, he begins to piece together what happens in his life after that fateful night by the river.

Why does his life look nothing like he thought it would? What about Cambridge, and Holly? In this page-turning adventure, Alex must navigate his way through the years to learn that small actions have untold impact, even in a life lived out of order. And that might be all he needs to save the people he loves and, equally importantly, himself.

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SEPTEMBER 6, 1995 | AGE 20

It’s three-deep at the bar, and I get my order in seconds before they ring for time. I double up: a JD and Coke each and two beers to take with us. The lights are up and the music’s gone quiet as I weave the tray through the punters. Standing in the doorway out to the terrace, I am disorientated. There must be fifty tables outside between here and the river and it’s still packed out, darker and smokier than ever. I search the crowd but can’t see Holly.

I negotiate my way down to the water’s edge. She’s maybe ten tables away, oblivious, a ciggie poised skyward in her fingers like she’s posing for Vettriano. I smirk, enjoy my good fortune again.

“Excuse me, good gentlemen,” I say to a group of four in my path, voice cocky with booze and lust. They shuffle over, not breaking from their conversation. The resulting gap between their circle and the edge of the path isn’t wide enough—a careless elbow would send the tray of drinks into the river, possibly me with them.

“If you don’t mind, guys?” I lay a palm on the forearm of the bloke with his back to me. Their circle opens out and he turns side-on, ushering me past. “Nice one,” I say, glancing at him as I pass.

I look back at the ground. There’s a delay in my brain processing who it is I’m walking past. There’s a moment in which it seems that we’ll just carry on, pretend like we don’t know each other.

The air thickens. Time slows. I stop, a step past him. Look again. Razor-sharp short back and sides, hooded eyes, lopsided mouth. Preppy. It’s a face I catch myself imagining sometimes, never for long. A waking nightmare. Not that my imagination does it justice. Not even close, I now realize.

His recognition of me unfolds in slow motion. Perhaps like me, alcohol has dulled his synapses, delayed the inevitable shift of mode.

Blake Benfield. There have been times in the past when just hearing that name in my head has stopped me dead, left me incapable.

How long since we last ran into each other? I was sixteen—best part of four years, then. Feels so recent. Our paths crossing has always been inevitable; we grew up barely a mile apart. He spat at me that last time, called me faggot cunt. The many times before that I’d just legged it, hidden from his fury and his hatred. But you get too old to do that.

This crowded place seems so quiet now. Like there’s cotton wool stuffed in my ears. The two bottles tip over on my trembling tray, foam splattering to the ground. One rolls over the edge and shatters on the concrete. People turn.

How long have we stood here, him glaring at me, me unable to hold his stare? Saying nothing. A few seconds? Feels longer.

There’s the smell of burned-out house in my nose. The sound of his whisper in my ears that I try to drown out.

Don’t think about it. Do not think about that day.

Why do I shake? I’m a fucking grown man. Why am I shaking?

He takes a half step closer to me.

I once told him I was sorry. It was years ago—when I was still a kid. I was sorry. Does he remember?

I spin around. Where’s Holly? She must be watching this.

There’s no more delay. There is, of course, nothing for me and this bloke to say to each other. We have ventured into each other’s space, and that brings with it a remembering. And, as we always have, we must deal with that in our own way.

His knuckles graze my chin. I stumble backward and the tray falls to the ground. His swing is off, though; there is no pain. Not even surprise. We definitely have an audience now.

My response is pure instinct: palms raised, lean away. Easy now.

I don’t want to fight this man. I want to go back thirty seconds, walk a different route, have this night back for myself.

Blake closes the gap, my weakness an invitation. His second punch crashes into my ear like a swinging girder. My brain slaps side to side in my skull. Vision sways. My head boils, a cool trickle from my eardrum.

Where is Holly? Panic grips. I can’t just stand here and take this.

My eyes flit to our audience. He swings again, this time with his left. But I see it coming, dodge. He stumbles.

I drive my weight, shoulder first, into his ribs. He goes over, sprawled among the spilled drinks and shattered glass.

On all fours, he stares up at me. I’m perfectly positioned. I could kick him square in the face. End this right now. Why don’t I do it? Why can’t I bring myself to do it? I’d rather turn my back and cry than kick his head in.

He glares up at me. Why do I pity him? Why am I so uncomfortable towering over him like this? It’s like the positions we’ve always held have been reversed. The power is mine.

I let him find his feet.

He’s up and level with me again. He glares like a bloodthirsty dog, wipes his nose on the sleeve of his polo shirt. If we were alone, maybe I’d run. But with people watching, with Holly watching, that’s no option.

My punch lands perfectly. His jaws scissor against each other. For a second his head floats, eyes rolling.

I realize my error too late. I should’ve followed up when I had the chance. One punch is only enough in the movies, everyone knows that. His hands are on the collar of my shirt, cloth tearing as he holds firm. His forehead slams into the bridge of my nose like a sledgehammer. My face is suddenly and totally numb. I drop to the ground. A ruby-red stain spreads fast through the jewels of broken glass around me.

He shouts above me. Every filthy word I’ve long come to expect. Something soft disperses against my head. Spit.

The neck of the Stella bottle I dropped lies on the ground. Inches away. Blood gurgles in my mouth as I take a deep breath. I launch like a sprinter. Leading with the dagger of green glass, I’m aiming straight at his face and closing fast.

Blake backs into a table, stumbles, hands slow to cover his face. His eyes widen, abject fear. But this is no time to be derailed.

I see it too late. No time to react. One of Blake’s friends windmilling a table ashtray. The side of my skull cracks like thunder.

The ground feels like a cushion, drawing me in and bouncing me back. My vision finds enough order in time to see the sole of boot accelerating toward me, like a cartoon piano from the sky.

There is no pain. Just a sense of floating in space.

Time passes. More blows land.

The surface of the Thames billows like a black satin sheet as it rises toward me. There’s no fear. Is that Holly I can hear calling my name? It’s so distant, so hard to tell.

The river gathers me in like it’s here to take care of me.

Cool water spears my lungs like sharpened icicles. I sink forever.

A low hum builds in my ears. Lights fades to nothing.

And I sleep.

NOVEMBER 30, 2010 | AGE 35

My head throbs. It doesn’t matter if I open or close my eyes, the pain worsens either way. My mouth is like dust. Joints and muscles lie seized.

Last night is a blank. I hate that. I look above me. Focusing is excruciating. The ceiling is browny cream, textured in spikes like a Christmas cake. An unshaded bulb swings in the draft, the filament shivering. It’s really cold in here.

Where the fucking hell am I?


Excerpted from THE DAY TRIPPER by James Goodhand. Copyright © 2024 by James Goodhand. Published by MIRA Books, an imprint of HarperCollins.

About the Author

Photo Credit: HarperCollins

James Goodhand has written two YA novels. His YA debut, Last Lesson, was called "a powerfully charged study in empathy," by the Financial Times. THE DAY TRIPPER is his adult debut. He lives in England with his wife and young son.

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Blog Tour Promo Post: Marvelous by Molly Greeley

1547: Pedro Gonzales, a young boy living on the island of Tenerife, understands that he is different from the other children in his village. He is mercilessly ridiculed for the hair covering his body from head to toe. When he is kidnapped off the beach near his home, he finds himself delivered by a slave broker into the dangerous and glamorous world of France’s royal court. There “Monsieur Sauvage,” as he is known, learns French, literature, and sword fighting, becoming an attendant to the French King Henri II and a particular favorite of his queen, the formidable Catherine de’ Medici. Queen Catherine considers herself a collector of unusual people and is fascinated by Pedro… and determined to find him a bride.

Catherine Raffelin is a beautiful seventeen-year-old girl whose merchant father has fallen on hard times and offers up his daughter to Queen Catherine. The queen will pay his debts, and his daughter will marry Monsieur Sauvage.

Catherine meets Pedro for the first time on their wedding day. Barely recovered from the shock of her father’s betrayal, she soon finds herself christened “Madame Sauvage” by the royal courtiers, and must learn to navigate this strange new world, and the unusual man who is now her husband.

A mesmerizing novel set in the French royal court of Catherine de’ Medici during the Renaissance, which recreates the touching and surprising true story behind the Beauty and the Beast legend, from the acclaimed author of The Clergyman’s Wife and The Heiress. Gorgeously written, heartbreaking and hopeful, Marvelous is the portrait of a marriage, the story of a remarkable, resilient family, and an unforgettable reimagining of one of the world’s most beloved fairy tales.

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Excerpted from the book MARVELOUS by Molly Greeley. Copyright © 2023 by Molly Greeley. From William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Reprinted by permission.


MARVELOUS
CAPODIMONTE, ITALY
1618

Catherine

It happens in the trembling time between night and day, long after the passing of midnight but well before the cock wakes to crow. The waiting hours. The witching hours. A fitting time for a man long assumed to be born of witchcraft to die.

Many years ago, Catherine spent these same hours with her newborn babes, all four of whom wakened without fail at the same gray and blurry time of morning-night, mouths opening and throats keening for the breast; and then, when their hunger was sated, their eyes opening too, looking around at the darkness. Though she is past sixty now, Catherine’s arms still remember the weight of each infant; the center of her back, the ache of rocking. Her ears and throat hold the memory of cradle songs passed down to her by her mother, which devolved into broken, tuneless humming as the hours passed, and still her children stayed awake and watchful, as if to keep their mother safe from monsters in the night. That frayed-string feeling of waiting for the sun to paint the horizon all the colors of peaches, when at last they consented to sleep again and she, too, could finally rest.

She does not want to rest now. She woke after a short sleep, as she has so often before, with a fragment of a dream ready on her lips, a fragment that unthreaded itself and slithered away when she saw how he exhaled, eyes closed, through his open mouth, and heard the great pauses between one breath and the next. And then she could not sleep at all, waiting with him through the hours for his final exhalation.

Her mind skims now from those early days of motherhood—days that lasted for years and years, when she sometimes hated the man beside her for the completeness of his sleep, his deep insensibility to the world while he dreamed—it skims from there to the early days of love, when they lay together and fought sleep just for joy of one another’s wakeful presence, and for irrational fear of the parting sleep would bring. Now it is only she who struggles to stay awake, though her body subtly shakes with weariness and her eyelids draw down and down, like those of a corpse being gently closed by loving fingers.

A little earlier, she pushed open the window curtains, and in the light of the moon Petrus lies stiller than he ever did in sleep, and ageless, the silver of moonbeams brightening the silver of all his hair. Catherine lies upon her side facing him, facing his stillness. Holds herself nearly as still.

Soon enough will come peach-tinted morning, and the necessity of announcing his leaving to their children and grandchildren. Madeleine and Henri, asleep now in their own homes, will wake and come to see their father, only to find instead the sealike sadness of his loss; and it will be Catherine who must comfort them. Then the washing of his body, and the wrapping. She will tuck bay leaves and rosemary sprigs between his body and his shroud to keep back the creeping scent of decay.

She is strangely aware of her fingers now, at their fleshy tips, a restless sensation. Instinctively, she reaches for Petrus to alleviate it, puts her hand over his where it rests at his side. Moves her whole hand lightly up and down the length of his, that she might feel the familiar whisper against her palm of the fine hairs that cover the backs of his hands and creep up the tops of his fingers. His nails have grown long and ragged, and guilt stuffs her throat with sand. She must trim them before anyone else sees.

MADELEINE IS PREDICTABLY WET in her grief when she arrives to find her parents hand-clasped, her father’s fingers growing stiff. With a wail she clutches at Catherine’s legs like the child she has not been for decades, and Catherine pulls herself from the muck of the sleep that must have closed over her despite her best efforts. She sits, releasing Petrus’s hand without thinking, gathers her daughter into her arms and onto her lap, where Madeleine’s full-grown weight is both burden and delight. Catherine presses their cheeks together, furrowed flesh to long soft hair, and lets her daughter cry.

But after a moment, she turns her head to look back at Petrus. Her own grief rushes up very suddenly from her chest, catching in the slender opening of her throat, and she makes a terrible strangled sound, and would reach for him again, would apologize for letting him go at all; but no—there is no need. For she can see, in the bright of morning: he is more obviously gone than he was while they lay together in the in-between.


THE REST OF THE day is predictable, and predictably exhausting. Catherine prepares Petrus’s body with help from Madeleine, along with Girolama, her son Henri’s wife. Girolama is silent in the face of the weeping of her sister by marriage, Madeleine’s facial hair flattening against her cheeks as if she has been standing in a pour of rain.

Catherine clips her husband’s fingernails and toenails, washes and combs his body, listens to her daughter’s mournful wails, and feels detached from all of it, her earlier grief stuffed back down deep among her dark insides. Never before, in all the times she prepared someone she loved at death, has she felt so far away from her task, her hands working entirely on their own. She thinks of Maman, over whose body she wept as helplessly as Madeleine weeps now for her father. Of Ercole, whom she cradled in his shroud, swaying and singing to him as she had every night of his brief life, raising her voice in spikes of fury to drown the voices of anyone who tried to take him from her. Of Henri and Girolama’s dear Giacomo, dead before his second birthday, how terrible, how unnatural, it seemed to stitch his shroud closed over his round-faced sweetness. The feet, which carried him running before he was twelve months old, stilled; the voice, which was so joyfully raucous, silenced.

Every single time, a knife stab. But she was there in every instance. When it was Girolama who would not release her son, who stroked his softly furred back for hours as if he merely lay sleeping, it was Catherine who kept others from disturbing her. When it was her own child dead, she was present for every slicing wound. She honored them with her pain.

She pauses, palms pressed to the tall arches of Petrus’s feet, and breathes to anchor herself here, in these last moments with this well-known flesh, though already it begins to turn unfamiliar as death makes itself comfortable. She tries to feel, knowing that if she does not, she will wake in the night reaching for his toes with her own.

The last thing she does, once all the rest is finished, is to take up a sharp knife, the best of the kitchen knives, with its handle of bone and its blade whetted to a keen cutting edge. Petrus kept it so for her, knowing that it was her favorite knife, that it sliced through meat like a sword through an enemy. She takes the knife now, feels the familiar weight of it in her hand, and looks at him where he lies. Soon he will be stitched into a shroud, but now he is there for her to look at, and she takes her time choosing where to cut. His head, she decides at last; his head, as if he were any other man, as if it were the only possible place to do this. She moves to his head, looks not into his face but at the hair that grows so thickly from his scalp; takes a soft lock of it between her fingers; slices it off with the knife he sharpened for her when he sat there, just there beside the hearth, the grating sound of the whet stone, the calm concentration on his face. So many nights.

She puts the knife carefully away and ties the lock with a bit of ribbon, knotting it firmly, that not a single hair might escape.

CATHERINE LIES EASILY to the priest when he comes to sit with them in their grief. How terribly unfortunate, he says, gently admonishing that she was too stricken by shock and sadness to send for him in time to administer the last rites.

Yes, Catherine hears herself say. I should have, Padre.

In this one thing, she honors her husband. If she cannot manage tears or wailing, she has at least kept the church’s hand from his brow, though it would have given her some comfort to know he was blessed before passing on to whatever awaits the dead. Heaven, she still likes to think, though Petrus had reason to think otherwise. Wherever he is now, she imagines his quick, conspiratorial smile at her complicity in keeping the priest from him, and something bittersweet fills her mouth.

THE SUN FALLS IN a brilliant flare to sleep, and, together with Madeleine, Catherine sits beside her husband’s body. Untouched plates of white beans in herbs and oil sit congealing beside them both, left there by Girolama. Earlier, Henri came to sit beside his father, his face running with tears as easily as Madeleine’s. But he went away again to his own home, leaving the women alone with the body.

Her other daughter should be here, Catherine thinks. The thought is a little knife-stab of its own. Antoinette—

But she cannot think of her youngest girl just now. She will not.

Instead, she sings. Her voice is not what it once was, age stretching it thinner even than it was when she sang to their children, but Petrus would not mind. After a moment, Madeleine joins her, Madeleine who never sings, for embarrassment of how her voice cracks like plaster on both the highest and the lowest notes. The song is a ninnananna that Catherine’s mother used to sing to her when she was small, an old, old tune that must have soothed thousands of babes to sleep. The firelight flickers lower and lower, and they sing in deepening shadow until their voices grow hoarse, heedless of the rasping, with no one but themselves and the dead to hear it. When at last they fall silent, the creases of Catherine’s face are filled, like the many branches of a river, with wet.

“Another,” Madeleine says, and then begins without awaiting a reply, her voice straining to reach like a child wavering on her toes, fingers stretching toward the sugar on a high shelf. Catherine pauses a moment, listening. From far away, she almost hears something, sweet and improbable as songbirds after dark—the echoing voices of their collective lost. Even Petrus, in that instant, seems about to stir.

There! There is Antoinette, who shouted even when she meant to whisper; Giacomo’s trill; Maman’s hum. Papa, too, who never sang, only spoke, long and often; but whose voice in music Catherine knows all the same. All of them a distant, joyous, discordant racket.

Madeleine trips a little on a note, as if perhaps she can hear them, too.

SHE IS VEILED DURING the funeral Mass, pretending to watch and listen to the priest from behind a skim of gossamer black. This is to the good, for the film of it hides the wandering of her thoughts, which dart like startled sheep from one side of her mind to the other. Long ago, at the beginning of their marriage, she had clutched at the daily Mass, which all courtiers were expected to attend, as if it were a rope thrown as she slipped beneath a roiling sea. Those mornings the rituals and rhythms she had known since infanthood were soothing, as soothing as her mother’s songs when she was a child.

Now, she does not want to hear the priest’s intonations, does not want to think about the reason they are here; about Petrus’s death. She will dissolve if she does, all her bones turning liquid, her spine running in drips down the bench and making a murky pool on the floor.

She thinks instead of things that make her smile, safe, behind her veil, in the knowledge that no one can see her clearly. Petrus’s love of melon, eager as a little boy’s, though the juice ran sticky down his beard. How he taught her to read, long after their children were grown, in spite of her protests that there was no reason, no point; and how he kept his frustrations with her slowness at fifty tucked into his cheeks like a squirrel with a walnut, too big to be hidden, though he tried anyway. The way he slept, noisily, all rumbles—he made her think of a bear in its winter cave; though that was not a comparison he would have appreciated, and so she kept it safe inside herself. She liked his rumbles, once she knew him better, just as she learned to like, to treasure, the soft hairy bristle over his flesh and muscle and bone. Strange to think how two people can be such utter strangers to one another and then so intertwined, as threads of silk weave together to make cloth. The cloth of their life together has unraveled in the days since his death, and she’d have thought she would unravel, as well, all the fibrous parts of her pulling in opposite directions until there was nothing left. But here she still is.

Catherine looks down at her hands. They are still soft, though the skin now is lightly spotted, stretching thin as onionskins across the backs. She remembers when Petrus would not take her hands for fear of frightening her; remembers when she was frightened. It seems so long ago—another man, another woman. Another life entirely.

THE FUNERAL MASS GOES on and on, the warmth of the day bringing out the odors in people’s clothing. Or perhaps Catherine’s mind is drifting, perhaps she is gone from this place, gone away to someplace where time moves differently, where hours stretch slow and aching in the space of ten breaths here in the church. Under the concealing fall of her veil, she holds a little pouch of fawn leather, unadorned, the throat of it pulled tight by a darker leather thong. The lock of Petrus’s hair is inside, and she cups the bag between both palms, a prayer.

Also in the bag is a folded bit of paper, creased, the ink faded. She has nothing left of her mother but the thimble from her sewing kit; even the hair powder she had once used, one of the few things that escaped being sold after the sinking of Papa’s ship, is long gone. Catherine had brought that powder, which smelled so like her mother that it made her weep, with her to Château de Fontainebleau, to her wedding; she wore it in her hair until none of it was left. And though she made more powder, doing her best to reproduce her mother’s recipe, it never smelled quite the same.

But she does have this one bit of her father—this letter, this paper, his words, his slanted hand, his love in ink. When she cups the bag, she can hear the paper rustle, just a little. She inhales, breathing in again the bodily odors of all the people around her, and oh, how she longs suddenly to be small again, to have known no sorrow, to have her father smiling into her face, palms full of rose petals that would one day be turned into scents for women’s wrists and throats, into powder, like Maman’s, for their hair. Smell, ma petite belle. Breathe them in. Would your mother like them?

She rises at the end of the interminable Mass, all the words and rhythms that have comforted her all her life, and which she clung to so desperately for their familiarity in the midst of so much overwhelming strangeness when she arrived at court as a bride, sounding hollow now as poorly cast bells. Henri reaches her first from his seat a little down the bench, and offers her his arm; his wife remained behind at their home, laying out the food.

Catherine finds herself faltering a little as they walk, round stones in the dirt street catching under her feet. She tightens her grip on her son’s arm, and feels really old for the first time in her life. Madeleine detaches herself from her husband and takes Catherine’s other arm in a firm grip; together, her two children steer her toward the funeral feast.

The other mourners straggle out behind them, mumbling to keep their voices at an appropriate, funereal level. There are more of them than Catherine expected. Most, she suspects, will have come because Petrus enjoyed the patronage of the Duke of Parma, under whose protection the whole village rests. Only a few have come because they knew and loved Petrus himself; but then, he made himself difficult to know.

She finds herself looking back, as if her other children might have joined them—Ercole floating alongside from wherever it is the dead do go, Antoinette, grown now and richly dressed, following at a sedater pace than she would have set in childhood. Come from wherever she is now.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MOLLY GREELEY earned her bachelor’s degree in English, with a creative writing emphasis, from Michigan State University, where she was the recipient of the Louis B. Sudler Prize in the Arts for Creative Writing. She lives with her husband and three children in Traverse City, Michigan.

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HTP Winter Blog Tour (Inkyard Press/YA Edition) Promo Post: The Iron Sword by Julie Kagawa

As Evenfall nears, the stakes grow ever higher for those in Faery…

Banished from the Winter Court for daring to fall in love, Prince Ash achieved the impossible and journeyed to the End of the World to earn a soul and keep his vow to always stand beside Queen Meghan of the Iron Fey.

Now he faces even more incomprehensible odds. Their son, King Keirran of the Forgotten, is missing. Something more ancient than the courts of Faery and more evil than anything Ash has faced in a millennium is rising as Evenfall approaches. And if Ash and his allies cannot stop it, the chaos that has begun to divide the world will shatter it for eternity.

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Excerpted from THE IRON SWORD by Julie Kagawa © 2022 by Julie Kagawa. Used with permission by HarperCollins/Inkyard Press.

1.

The Missing King

I’ve lived a long life.

Not as long as some in Faery. Robin Goodfellow, for example, is older than me by several hundred years (though you wouldn’t know it by the way he acts). King Oberon, Queen Titania, and Queen Mab are older still, ancient beings with the power to rival anything in the Nevernever. I’m not as old or as powerful as the kings and queens of Faery, but even by fey standards, I’ve lived a goodly while. I’m known in the Nevernever; my name is recognized and even feared, by some. I’ve been to the farthest reaches of Faery. I have seen things no one else has. Nightmares, dragons, the End of the World. I’ve passed impossible tests, triumphed in unwinnable challenges, and killed unbeatable monsters.

None of it prepared me for being a father.

Meghan stared at Glitch, her face pale in the sickly light of the wyldwood. At the Iron faery who had just turned both our worlds upside down with his announcement.

Touchstone is no more. Prince Keirran, King of the Forgotten, has vanished.

“Explain, Glitch,” Meghan demanded. Her voice was calm, steely, though I caught the tremor beneath. “What do you mean, Keirran has vanished? What has happened to Touchstone?”

“Your Majesty.” Glitch bowed his head, the lightning in his hair flickering a subdued purple. “Forgive me, I only know what the messenger told us. That Touchstone has disappeared, and Prince Keirran is gone. I wish I could tell you more.”

Keirran. Fear twisted my insides. Not for me, but for the son who, despite all his assurances, couldn’t seem to keep himself out of trouble. Even before he was born, he had a prophecy hanging over his head that proclaimed him either a savior or a destroyer, and the entire Nevernever watched to see which he would become. For years, Meghan and I raised him with that knowledge, trying not to let it influence us, but knowing that one day, we would have to face the consequences of Keirran’s decision.

The prophecy finally came to a head when a powerful new foe rose up to threaten all of Faery. The Lady, the first queen of the Nevernever, furious that Faery had moved on without her, gathered the Forgotten to her side and waged war on all the courts. She promised them a new world, a world where humans would fear and worship the fey again, and where no faery would Fade away from being forgotten. She demanded the courts be dissolved, and that the rulers of Faery step down and acknowledge her as the true and only queen of the Nevernever. Naturally, the other rulers refused, and the war with the Forgotten began.

At that moment, Keirran made his choice, and it was Destroyer. He betrayed his court, turned his back on his family, and joined the Lady in her quest to conquer the Nevernever. And even though I had known it could happen, even though the prophecy had foretold it, it was still a devastating blow for both Meghan and myself. Keirran was stubborn, idealistic, and once he set his mind to something there was no changing it, but I hadn’t thought him capable of betraying his entire court.

Meghan took a quiet breath. I could sense the struggle within; the desire to know what had happened to our son, balanced against the duties and obligations of the Iron Queen. Faery wasn’t safe. We had just returned from the wyldwood, after battling a vicious new monster that nearly killed us all. I still ached, muscles battered and bruised, from the power of the creature’s attacks. There had been five of us: myself, the Iron Queen, Robin Goodfellow, an Iron faery named Coaleater and a Forgotten called Nyx, and even then we barely managed to bring down the creature. Only to discover the threat to the Nevernever was far from over. In fact, it was only beginning.

Meghan knew this. A shadow had fallen over Faery, the echo of a new prophecy hovering over it like a storm. The end has begun. Evenfall is coming. Faery and every living creature that exists under the sun are doomed.

I stepped close to Meghan and put my hands on her shoulders, feeling them tremble beneath my palms. Leaning in, I murmured, “I can find him, Meghan. If you need to return to Mag Tuiredh, I’ll take Puck and Grim, and we’ll go look for Keirran. Grim can lead us to Touchstone, and from there we’ll see what happened to the capital and where Keirran could have gone. You don’t have to come with us this time.”

“No.” She reached up and squeezed one of my hands. “I need to know what happened to Touchstone, why it suddenly vanished. If another one of those monsters is responsible for its destruction, you’ll need my help to take it down. Besides…” She paused, a shadow of pain crossing her face. “If something happened to Keirran, if one of those creatures got to him like they got to Puck, I want to know. I want to see it for myself. If both of us are there this time, maybe that will be enough to bring him back.”

My insides felt cold. The Monster we had fought and killed was unlike anything I had ever seen before: a physical manifestation of hate, rage, fear, and despair. It poisoned the land around it, tainting everything with dark glamour and negative emotions, and worst of all, it was able to bring out the shadow side of any living creature it touched. I had seen this firsthand with Puck, where he had been transformed into a faery consumed by jealous anger and vicious spite. The Robin Goodfellow of old. The Robin Goodfellow who was still furious with me for stealing away Meghan, who held a grudge for all the times I tried to kill him.

Not that I blamed him.

Fortunately, Puck had been able to fight through that darkness and return to his normal, carefree, irreverent self. But I knew what Meghan was thinking, and I shared her fear. Keirran had already shown himself capable of turning on and betraying everything he loved. Would we venture into the Between to find our son had turned into a soulless enemy once more?

I leaned close to Meghan, feeling her grip on my hand tighten. “We’ll find him,” I said quietly. “We’ll find him and whatever it takes, we’ll bring him home.”

She nodded once, then stepped away to gaze down at the still-kneeling Glitch. “You’ve done well,” she told the Iron lieutenant. “Return to Mag Tuiredh. Keep our people safe. I am going to search for Prince Keirran. I will return as soon as I am able.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Glitch said, though I knew he wanted to protest. The First Lieutenant never liked it when both rulers of Mag Tuiredh left the Iron Kingdom for unknown amounts of time. But he had been with Meghan long enough that he simply bowed his head and replied, “Good luck and safe travels to you both. I will keep the city safe until you return.”

Meghan turned, her gaze seeking the rest of the party behind us. Puck stood under a tree with his arms crossed, bright red hair making him stand out in the gloom. Beside him, a cloaked, hooded figure watched the proceedings silently, seeming to blend into the shadows. It took Meghan a moment to

locate her. “Nyx,” she said, “you are a Forgotten, and a member of Keirran’s court. Right now, it appears Touchstone has disappeared, and the Forgotten King has vanished. Can you part the Veil and take us into the Between?”

The silver-haired fey with the twilight skin and golden eyes raised her head, a steely expression on her face. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she answered. “If Keirran is in danger, I must find him right away. When do you wish to go?”

“Right now.” Meghan turned her gaze to the others, to Puck and Coaleater, watching intently. “This is an uncertain time for all of us,” she said. “Faery is under threat. Something is coming, and none of us know what it is or when it could arrive—only that it is close. The rulers and leaders of Faery must be made aware of this threat. Coaleater…” She glanced at the large Iron faery, who straightened as her gaze fell on him. “I know you want to help us find Keirran, but I need you to return to the Obsidian plains and warn Spikerail of what happened. He needs to be aware, and should the time come when we must call on the Iron herd, I want him to be prepared.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The big man bowed his head, and I saw the shadow of his real self behind him: a huge warhorse made of black iron and flickering flame. “The Iron herd will stand ready to aid you against all threats. You will have our support for as long as you need it.”

Meghan nodded gratefully, then turned to the red-haired fey beside him. “Puck?”

“Come on, princess.” Robin Goodfellow flashed his toothy smile. “You know where I stand. You don’t even have to ask.”

“I believe I will come as well.”

A fluffy gray cat sauntered into view, waving an exceptionally bushy tail. His golden eyes regarded us all with bored appraisal. “If Touchstone has disappeared, I would like to see it for myself,” Grimalkin said. “Someone with an ounce of intelligence should be there to make sense of things and point out the obvious. And to point you in the right direction should you become lost. Not that I doubt the Forgotten’s abilities, but you will need a guide should you happen to lose your way.”

The Iron Queen gave a decisive nod. “Then let us go,” she said. “I fear time is slipping away, and the longer we wait, the more difficult it will become to find Keirran. Nyx…” She gestured toward the Forgotten. “Whenever you are ready, take us into the Between.”

Nyx immediately stepped forward. Closing her eyes, she put out a hand, fingers spread wide, as if searching for something that could only be felt. “Keirran showed me how to enter the Between,” she murmured, taking a few steps forward. “He said that only the Forgotten remember how to do it, and that the Lady gave him the gift when she was alive. You have to find a spot where the Veil is thin.”

“Like a trod?” Puck asked, referring to the magical paths that led into the Nevernever from the mortal realm.

“Similar,” Nyx murmured, still walking steadily forward with her hand up. We trailed the Forgotten as she continued to search. “The Veil is like a mist,” she went on, “constantly moving and changing. Those weak spots you find might not be there when you return to them. But, if you search long enough, you should be able to find… There.”

She stopped. Paused a moment. And then, as I had seen

Keirran do only once or twice before, pushed her fingers into the fabric of reality and drew it back like a curtain. A narrow gash appeared where she parted the Veil, and beyond that tear was darkness. A few tendrils of mist curled out of the hole and writhed away into nothing.

Standing at the mouth of the gash into the void, Nyx shook her head. “The Between,” she murmured. “It feels…different. Angrier than it was before. That’s not good.” She opened her eyes and looked back at us. I saw concern on her face, but it was overshadowed by a somber resolution. “Guard your emotions,” she warned. “Calm your mind, and your feelings. The Between can manifest physical representations of strong emotions. So, if you are not careful, we might be facing your worst fears, or the darkest parts of your anger.”

I took a furtive breath to quiet the tangle of emotions, searching for the cold, empty calm of the Winter prince. It didn’t come as easily as it did in the past. Before Meghan and Keirran, when I only had myself to worry about, I feared very little. I wasn’t afraid of venturing into the unknown. Whatever came at me, whatever monster, nightmare or horrific abomination I would face, the worst that could happen was that they would kill me. And I was exceedingly hard to kill. Fear for my own life had rarely been a concern.

Things were different now. I had a family. I had a wife, and a son; two people that meant more to me than anything, in any world. If they were in danger, my entire being was consumed with wanting to protect them, to utterly destroy whatever evil they faced so it could never threaten them again. I could feel that anger in me now, rising up to dominate my thoughts, and breathed deep to find my center. If Keirran was out there, we would find him, and I would cut down anything that stood in our way. Simple as that.

Puck gave a loud, noisy sigh and glanced at me. “Well, ice-boy,” he said, “here we go again. Another adventure through the worst Faery has to offer. Oh, wait, you’ve never been through the actual Between before, have you?” He grinned, green eyes shining with mischief as he stepped toward the gateway. “You’re in for all sorts of fun surprises.”

About the Author

Born in Sacramento, CA, Julie Kagawa moved to Hawaii at the age of nine. There she learned many things; how to bodyboard, that teachers scream when you put centipedes in their desks, and that writing stories in math class is a great way to kill time. Her teachers were glad to see her graduate.

Julie now lives is Louisville, KY with her husband and furkids. She is the international and NYT bestselling author of The Iron Fey series. Visit her at juliekagawa.com.

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Blog Tour Book Review: The Wisteria Society of Lady Scoundrels by India Holton

The Princess Bride meets Kingsman in this fantastical romance debut about a delightfully proper young Victorian lady's quest to save her kidnapped aunt while navigating magical hijinks. 

Cecilia Bassingwaite is the ideal Victorian lady. She's also a thief. Like the other members of the Wisteria Society crime sorority, she flies around England drinking tea, blackmailing friends, and acquiring treasure by means far more interesting than purchase. Sure, she has a dark and traumatic past and an overbearing aunt, and no, she's not technically an official member of the Society yet, despite years of petitioning--but all things considered, it's a pretty pleasant existence. Until the men show up.

 

Ned Lightbourne is a sometimes assassin who is smitten with Cecilia from the moment they meet. Unfortunately, that happens to be while he's under direct orders to kill her. His employer (one of them, anyway) is Captain Morvath, who possesses a gothic abbey bristling with cannons and an unbridled hate for the world. He intends to rid England of all its presumptuous women, starting with the Wisteria Society. Ned has plans of his own. But both men have made one grave mistake: Never underestimate a woman.

 

When Morvath kidnaps the members of the Wisteria Society, Cecilia is forced to team up with her devilishly handsome would-be assassin (who seems quite inept indeed), face her demons, and risk her life to save the women who raised her--hopefully proving, once and for all, that she's as much of a scoundrel as the rest of them.

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This book was EVERYTHING I needed! It’s a lovely historical romance disguised as a whimsical fantasy adventure à la The Princess Bride with a good amount of puns. The main character, Cecilia, is a pirate and first-rate scoundrel. Cecilia comes from a long line of cunning lady pirates. She hopes to build a reputation as a swashbuckling pirate and ultimately earn membership into the Wisteria Society of Lady Scoundrels. After interning under another pirate, Cecilia has not made much progress towards her goal. While Cecilia aspires to carry on her family’s legacy, she is also the epitome of a proper Victorian lady with a moral code. This duality of Cecilia’s character serves as a plot device that confounds Ned Lightbourne, a Victorian-era James Bond, who falls in love with Cecilia. Ned is an interesting character. He’s a jack of all trades. He’s a pirate, sometimes assassin, and courier to the Queen. Ned is under orders to kill Cecilia, but ends up falling in love with her. This certainly puts a damper on their budding romance. For me, romances with “instant love” plotlines have lost their appeal, but for this book, I stuck it out and was glad I did. Captain Morvath, one of Ned's employers, has a vendetta to settle with the ladies of the Wisteria Society. After members of the Wisteria Society are kidnapped, Cecilia teams up with Ned to rescue them. Overall, the writing flows well, the characters are interesting, and the pace was perfect for this madcap romp.

4 stars

 

About the Author

India Holton is the author of The Wisteria Society of Lady Scoundrels, a fantastical rom-com set in an alternate Victorian era. She lives in coastal New Zealand, where she grew up running barefoot around islands, following ghosts through forests, and messing around in boats. She spent several years teaching and now writes about plucky girls, unconventional women, and the men who love them. India's writing is fuelled by tea, buttered scones, and thunderstorms.

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