Blog Tour + Review: Symbiote by Michael Nayak

Welcome to my stop on Angry Robot Books' blog tour for Symbiote by Michael Nayak! I'm excited to join my fellow book lovers in sharing some information about Symbiote, as well as my own review for this claustrophobic thriller set at the South Pole. Thank you to Angry Robot Books for inviting me to join this tour and providing me with a review copy of Symbiote. Above you can find the full blog tour schedule and where to find other creators who are participating, and below you'll find some info about the book and author, as well as my review. Happy reading!

ABOUT THE BOOK:
Title: SYMBIOTE
Author:  Michael Nayak
Pub. Date: February 11th, 2025
Publisher: Angry Robot Books
Pages: 400
Find it: Bookshop.org | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Angry Robot Books | Target | Goodreads

SYNOPSIS:

"'As World War III rages, the scientists in Antarctica are thankful for the isolation – until a group of Chinese scientists arrive at the American research base in search of help. In their truck is a horrifying sight, the first ever murder victim in Antarctica. The potential for a geopolitical firestorm is great, and, with no clear jurisdiction, the Americans don’t know what to do. But they soon realize the Chinese scientists have brought far more with them than the body…

Within seventy-two hours, thirteen more lie dead in the snow, murdered in acts of madness and superhuman strength.

An extremophile parasite from the truck, triggered by severe cold, is spreading by touch. It is learning from them. Evolving. It triggers violent tendencies in the winter crew, and, more insidiously, the beginnings of a strange symbiotic telepathy.

A small group of survivors try to resist the siren call of the growing hive mind and stay alive long enough to solve the mystery of the symbiotic microbe’s origins. But the symbiote is more than a disease – it could be the key to shifting the balance of power in a time of war.

The survivors cannot let anyone infected make it to the summer season, when planes will arrive to take them – and potentially the symbiote – back to civilization."

Review:

I've been fascinated by all things relating to Antarctica and the South Pole for a number of years, so I'm always excited to read a new book centered around that setting, whether it's fiction or nonfiction. Symbiote is a fictional thriller set in Antarctica, and I was most excited about it because the author himself, Michael Nayak, was actually stationed at the Amundsen-Scott Research Station and has therefore been able to draw from him own experiences (well, sans the horrifying contagion aspect, of course!) which adds so much credibility and intrigue to the story for me.

Symbiote has a pretty terrifying premise: World War III is underway and Americans working at an isolated Antarctic station are suddenly under threat of an unknown contagion that has begun sweeping through the station--and there's nowhere to hide.

I love an isolated, locked-room type of story, and Symbiote absolutely delivers on that front. Our story kicks off when a group of Chinese scientists show up unannounced at the American station with a dead body in tow and are unable to adequately explain what has happened. The South Pole's jurisdiction on these matters is unclear during this world war, which leaves everyone in a precarious situation--especially when not even days later more people begin dying at the hands of those who appear to have gone mad with no explanation. Symbiote novel excels in building a sense of isolation and anxiety with its slow, creeping dread that constantly increases the tension. This is a story that I would have expected to be (and maybe preferred) a quieter, slow build sort of story, but it's actually surprisingly action-packed and there are rarely any dull moments. This relentless feeling of action certainly mirrored what I'm sure many of the characters were feeling while these terrifying events were occurring.

Despite the fact that I enjoyed myself for a majority of this novel, it wasn't without a few areas that didn't work for me. Some of my biggest frustrations, however, were with the characters themselves. As the story progressed, some characters made some truly absurd decisions, and while I understand that people panic in emergencies and aren't always able to think clearly, the sheer number of reckless choices felt excessive. There was also a surprisingly large cast of characters that we follow throughout and that made it difficult to become fully invested in anyone's survival, which for me did lessen some of the tension and emotional impact of what each one's fate would be. Some of their reactions to events of this book also felt a bit overdramatized at times, but I'll admit that it's hard to really know how anyone would behave in such an extreme situation, so this was more understandable.

Additionally, the way female characters were handled didn’t really work for me. There was a strong sexual overtone surrounding almost every woman in this book and it ended up feeling a bit overdone and left me a little disappointed. I'm not sure if this was done with the intention of critiquing the way women are often objectified under patriarchal setups and male-dominated areas, but if so I think could have been executed in a much  more effective way that felt a bit less awkward and out of place. It felt like so much of the focus of this book was on the relationships and who was sleeping with whom, and while I can see where relationships play into a tense situation like this, it just focused too much on that and not as much on other relationship dynamics that could have been more interesting.

Overall, this was a fast-paced, action-packed, and terrifying thriller that is sure to get you wondering about what might happen if a contagion such as the one in this book actually occurred in real life. It didn't end being as serious in tone as I'd expected, but I think it worked incredibly well as a page-turning thriller that will surely keep readers engaged .

If you’re looking for a high-energy thriller with a claustrophobic setting and plenty of action, then Symbiote should be next on your TBR!

*I received a copy of Symbiote from the publisher in exchange for an honest review. This has no effect on my rating.*

ABOUT THE AUTHOR (from the publisher):

Mikey was born in Los Angeles and now lives in Washington D.C.; he has worked as a planetary scientist, pilot and skydiving instructor, and most recently as a Program Manager with the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA). He has logged 1,000+ hours of flight time in 30+ aircraft including the F-16, T-38 and BE-76, is a US Air Force Test Pilot School graduate, and former NASA Space Shuttle engineer. (Author photo from Goodreads)

Find Michael Nayak online: Author Website | X | Goodreads

Blog Tour: Apartment Women by Gu Byeong-mo + Excerpt

Welcome to my stop on the blog tour for Apartment Women by Gu Byeong-mo! This is a quiet, compelling story about the experiences of four different women living in a government-run housing complex. Below, you'll find some general information about the book and author, as well an excerpt to give you a taste of what to expect from Apartment Women. 

ABOUT THE BOOK:
Title: APARTMENT WOMEN
Author:  Gu Byeong-mo, transl. Chi-Young Kim
Pub. Date: December 3rd, 2024
Publisher: Hanover Square Press
Pages: 224
Find it: Bookshop.org | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | HarperCollins | Books-A-Million | Target | Goodreads

SYNOPSIS:

"'From the New York Times Notable author of The Old Woman with the Knife, comes a bracingly original story of family, marriage, the cultural expectations of motherhood, about four women whose lives intersect in dramatic and unexpected ways at a government-run apartment complex outside Seoul

When Yojin moves with her husband and daughter into the Dream Future Pilot Communal Apartments, she’s ready for a fresh start. Located on the outskirts of Seoul, the experimental community is a government initiative designed to boost the national birth rate. Like her neighbors, Yojin has agreed to have at least two more children over the next ten years.

Yet, from the day she arrives, Yojin feels uneasy about the community spirit thrust upon her. Her concerns grow as communal child care begins and the other parents begin to show their true colors. Apartment Women traces the lives of four women in the apartments, all with different aspirations and beliefs. Will they find a way to live peacefully? Or are the cultural expectations around parenthood stacked against them from the start?

 trenchant social novel from an award-winning author, Apartment Women incisively illuminates the unspoken imbalance of women’s parenting labor, challenging the age-old assumption that “it takes a village” to raise a child."

Excerpt:

The recycling truck kicked up pieces of cardboard and dust as it drove off. Soda cans and bottle caps that had fallen off the back tumbled along the ground. Danhui’s hands became sticky as she picked up the trash and put it in the sack.

After she cleaned up the recycling, she broomed the dust into a metal dustpan, dumped it into a trash bag, and headed up to the third floor. She could hear the baby’s cries from the bottom of the stairs.

“Hyonae-ssi, are you there? Hyonae-ssi? Sounds like Darim’s crying?”

She heard rustling as the crying settled, then the front door swung open. Exhausted, her eyes bloodshot, Jo Hyonae came outside holding Darim. She looked as desperate as a trembling drop of water clinging to the faucet. “Yes, what is it?” Hyonae’s voice was hoarse.

“Were you sleeping all this time? You don’t look like you got any rest!” “What’s going on so early in the morning?”

“Oh, Hyonae-ssi! You sent Sangnak-ssi down by himself the other day when we were all meeting the new family, and you haven’t shown your face since. It’s not early, everyone’s gone off to work and it’s already nine! I thought I told you the recycling truck comes at eight on Mondays.”

Hyonae shifted Darim to her other arm and scratched her tousled head. “I had to pull an allnighter again. I’m happy to take it on next time.”

This woman was the complete opposite of the new tenant Euno, who had come out to see if he could help when he heard the truck. Even though his family was still unpacking and settling in, Euno had come anyway and hovered about, asking if there was anything he could do, while Danhui and Gyowon waved him off, declining any assistance. What Danhui did want, although she refrained from asking, was for him to go pound on Hyonae’s door and wake her up. All this time Danhui had nodded and smiled sympathetically when Hyonae claimed to be too worn out from work to offer a hand; though she knew it wasn’t that big of a deal, Danhui had been waiting for a chance to have a serious talk with that self-centered Hyonae to make sure her neighbor knew she couldn’t walk all over her.

“Now you’re making me feel like I’m in the wrong here,” Danhui protested. “I’m not trying to imply that the work is hard. The workers collecting the recyclables are the ones doing the heavy lifting, and all we need to do is gather everything in one place so things don’t go flying around everywhere.”

“Right, that’s why I’m saying I can be the one to handle it next time.”

Danhui wanted to believe that Hyonae wasn’t purposely shirking her duties, but irresponsibility and laziness seemed something of a second nature to Hyonae. Even if Hyonae herself didn’t care, it was exhausting for the rest of them to have to deal with her.

“You know that’s not the issue. Doing communal work together is what makes it meaningful. Like I said before, if someone does it on their own this week and someone else handles it on their own the next week, it gets tricky and the system falls apart. Even if we made a schedule of whose turn it is to do what, there are always going to be times when we can’t follow it. That’s why everyone needs to come out and do this together. We can be flexible when someone has an unavoidable conflict. But if you can’t do the bare minimum, how will we be able to live together in harmony?”

This was when Darim, whose lips had been trembling during Danhui’s speech, burst into tears again, and Hyonae took that opportunity to cut her neighbor off. “Well, I need to nurse her right now.”

Danhui let out a sigh as she glanced over Hyonae’s slender shoulders into her apartment—the rumpled baby blankets, an open bag of sliced bread, toys strewn across the floor, clothes thrown every which way. “Sure. Text me later once Darim’s asleep. I’ll stop by for a second and we can finish talking.”

Danhui headed back downstairs, telling herself she shouldn’t be irritated by Hyonae, who, as always, had merely given a curt nod to put an end to their conversation.

It wasn’t a shock that Hyonae was exhausted—Danhui herself had experienced this fatigue when her two boys were younger, and she wouldn’t have been able to survive those years if the people around her hadn’t been unconditionally accommodating and considerate. You could try your best but not make it out of the apartment on time. Sometimes, no matter how hard you tried to wake up, it felt truly impossible to pry a single eye open, even with a wailing child beside you. Raising children was all about dragging yourself forward. Despite all your maternal love and inner strength, you’d still find yourself marooned from time to time, and you had no choice but to continue on until your last breath.

Those feelings were normal, but she couldn’t help but be annoyed. Whenever childcare obligations kept Danhui from upholding her side of the communal bargain (like the time she missed a general meeting at her boys’ day care center), she would apologize in a manner appropriate to the magnitude of her act. She would personally deliver a handwritten note—I’m sorry I missed the meeting, my son was sick again—with a fruit basket or a cake box. Then she would bow in apology at the next opportunity and work twice as hard whenever a small task came her way. Even if the others were put out before, they would end up doing her a favor when she needed something; they might push her turn back or let her go first.
Long before they moved here, back when Jeongmok was a baby, Jaegang had been away on a business trip and the recycling had piled up for three weeks in the utility room of their tiny twenty-four-pyeong apartment. Of course it did; since the baby’s arrival, they had started buying and using more and more personal hygiene products, and all of them had come packaged in plastic. Recycling days were once a week like at most apartment buildings in Seoul, and the residents were supposed to bring their recyclables out between six in the evening on Thursday and five thirty the following morning when the recycling truck arrived. But Jaegang had come home late after work the first week, then returned drunk off his feet from a work dinner the following week, and then had gone overseas for business the third week.

She had opened the door to the utility room to discover Styrofoam dishes and plastic recyclables piled around the large overflowing polypropylene tote bag in which they carried recycling downstairs; the plastic refuse blocked the path to the washing machine, barring her from entry. If someone were to see the utility room, they would assume she was a hoarder, the kind you saw on the news, or an alcoholic who neglected her child, and she was made miserable by this thought; it felt as though everything she had done earlier in her marriage to live a more environmentally friendly life, which of course had taken attention and effort, had gone down the drain.

Deciding to handle this problem herself instead of waiting for Jaegang to get home, she carefully slipped sleeping Jeongmok in his baby carrier. She should have done this from the get-go, but she had been trying not to expose Jeongmok to the freezing winter wind, which they’d confront on the seven-minute walk down the long corridor to the elevator and out the front doors to the trash and recycling area. Danhui went out with the bag filled with cardboard boxes and plastic. As she made the second trip with the baby on her back—after all, she only had two hands—other residents and the security guard spotted her and rushed over to help. She gratefully accepted their kindness, though she hadn’t brought Jeongmok to evoke sympathy, but rather because of all the tragedies she heard about on the news, stories of a child falling or suffocating to death during the brief moments their mom washed the dishes or ran to the supermarket just across the street. By her third trip, the security guard and the residents who had been breaking down her boxes and stacking them offered to come up to her apartment to help bring the rest down.

She had, of course, bowed in gratitude, and later, once she had her wits about her, she found out which units the kind neighbors lived in and brought gifts of tteok and fruit for them and the security guard. After that, her neighbors were naturally happy to help out. This was just one of the many ways a young mother could pay back the inevitable debt she racked up among her neighbors; you just had to show your gratitude.

But Hyonae didn’t bother doing any of that. It wasn’t that she was incapable; she just didn’t care. As an example, a salesperson hawking red ginseng or health supplements might offer a regular customer a bottle of vitamins for free, and, if that customer had any sense, they would kindly refuse after the first time, appreciating the thought behind the gesture. But Hyonae never even gave out copies of the picture books she illustrated. She claimed to be embarrassed because they weren’t published by a well-known company, and said they were sold as a box set and therefore hard for her to give out only the one she illustrated; still, if she handed out a few books to the neighbors, whose children were all around the same age, she could easily generate some goodwill by showing everyone what kind of work she did and help them understand why she couldn’t fully participate in their day-to-day schedule, but she didn’t put in any effort. Relationships were like joints that creaked without fluid between them, and Danhui’s biggest complaint was that the same people always felt the resulting pain and discomfort. She wasn’t annoyed by the fact that she wasn’t on the receiving end of niceties; she sincerely believed that these small acts were the bare minimum when you lived in an apartment building.

Even if you weren’t a people person, all you had to do was merely say the right things at the right time. Reflecting on her experience raising two kids, Danhui felt that a mother had to constantly say “sorry” and “thank you” even if she had done nothing wrong. All Hyonae had to do was add just one more sentence; just now, after saying, “I had to pull an allnighter again,” she could have easily added, I’m so sorry. Again, it wasn’t that Danhui wanted Hyonae to prostrate herself, it was just that these were the skills— or rather, the basic courtesy—of maintaining relationships. Intellectually she knew she should forgive Hyonae’s disorganized disposition and not judge her based on her line of work, but her lack of social skills was obvious, sitting as she did in her room, working on projects alone.

Two days ago, Sangnak had emphasized that Hyonae had fallen asleep after meeting a deadline, which was why she couldn’t come to the welcome party for the new family. He had even brought Darim to the backyard on his own to allow Hyonae to rest. But here she was, up all night again despite her husband’s support. Was she drawing all the pictures in the world, all by herself? Danhui had gone upstairs merely to tell her that they should try to work more effectively together, and Hyonae had cut her off, saying she’d just handle the recycling by herself the next time. Not only was it incredibly unclear when exactly this next time would be, but this disorganized approach would also render a turn-taking system useless and confusing. Maybe someone might think Hyonae was being ostracized over the trivial issue of recycling…

But it wasn’t trivial.

Trivial things weren’t so trivial when they piled up, not a corn on the sole of a foot or dust heaped on a forgotten shelf. Danhui just wanted Hyonae to understand this.

Excerpted from APARTMENT WOMEN by Gu Byeong-mo. Copyright © 2018 by Gu Byeong-mo. English translation © 2024 by Chi-Young Kim. Published by Hanover Square Press, an imprint of HarperCollins.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

GU BYEONG-MO is an award-winning author. Born in Seoul, South Korea, she now resides in Jinju, South Korea with her family. The Old Woman with the Knife, her first book to be translated into English, was a New York Times Notable Book and an NPR Best Book of the Year.

CHI-YOUNG KIM is an award-winning literary translator and editor who has translated works by You-jeong Jeong, Sun-mi Hwang, Young-ha Kim, Kyung Ran Jo, J.M. Lee, and Kyung-sook Shin, among others.

Author Website | X | Instagram | Goodreads

Blog Tour: The Midnight Club by Margot Harrison + Excerpt

Welcome back to another blog tour! It's a busy, book-filled week this week, and today I am excited to be sharing my stop for the blog tour for The Midnight Club by Margot Harrison. Who doesn't love a good campus-based /mystery thriller? Be sure to keep reading to find out more about the book and author, as well as read an excerpt! Thanks for stopping by, and happy reading. :)

ABOUT THE BOOK:
Title: THE MIDNIGHT CLUB
Author:  Margot Harrison
Pub. Date: September 24th, 2024
Publisher: Graydon House 
Pages: 384
Find it: Bookshop.org | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | HarperCollins |

SYNOPSIS:

"'A strange, riveting, brilliant fable. Like a fever-dream of Donna Tartt’s The Secret History.' —LEV GROSSMAN

Four friends. A campus reunion. A dark new way to relive the past.

It’s been twenty-five years since The Midnight Club last convened. A tight-knit group of college friends bonded by late nights at the campus literary magazine, they’re also bonded by something darker: the death of their brilliant friend Jennet junior year. But now, decades later, a mysterious invitation has pulled them back to the pine-shrouded Vermont town where it all began.

As the estranged friends gather for a weeklong campus reunion, they soon learn that their host has an ulterior motive: she wants them to uncover the truth about the night Jennet died, and she’s provided them with an extraordinary method—a secret substance that helps them not only remember but relive the past.

But each one of the friends has something to hide. And the more they question each other, the deeper they dive into their own memories, the more they understand that nothing they thought they knew about their college years, and that fateful night, is true.

Twisty, nostalgic, and emotionally thrilling, The Midnight Club explores that innate desire to revisit our first loves, our biggest mistakes, and the gulf between who we are and who we hoped we’d be."

Excerpt:

You are hereby formally invited to a reunion of the Midnight Brunch Club. October 27th through 31st, 2014, 12 Railroad Street in Dunstan, Vermont.

Come to celebrate the life of Jennifer (Jennet) Sherilyn Stark (1967–89) and revisit our shared past through the elixir of the pines. There are still secrets to be discovered; the past is not even past (Faulkner); we are boats against the current (Fitzgerald). Leave all doubts and inhibitions at home. RSVP to Auraleigh Lydgate.

The first time Sonia ever received an invitation from Auraleigh Lydgate was in the Dove-Cat room freshman year, on the first warm spring day in Vermont, forsythia bursting forth on the quad.

Sonia was bent over a Mac Classic when Auraleigh swept in, wearing a leather jacket and drop-waist minidress, and noisily slid out a chair. “Oh my God, I’m dealing with a roommate nightmare! Marina got this brilliant idea to backpack in Europe, so now Paul and I are short a person for the townhouse.”

“Paul Bretton?” Sonia couldn’t hide her surprise. He was the newly elected editor of their lit magazine—quiet, earnest, and formidably intellectual. Auraleigh was rich and from LA and had a husky laugh that made boys’ eyes glaze over. They seemed like a complete mismatch.

“Yeah.” Auraleigh grinned. “No, we’re not dating. I like his espresso machine, and he likes my cooking. Hey, wait—do you have housing for next year?”

“I was just going to do the lottery.” This was only their second or third conversation, and Sonia, the daughter of an itinerant hippie who could only afford the college because of her mom’s job in the admin office, could barely understand why Auraleigh would talk to her to begin with.

When Auraleigh spoke again, Sonia almost thought she was hearing wrong: would she like to share the townhouse with them instead?

It cost more than the dorm, but Sonia barely hesitated in saying yes. She was tired of studying alone in the library and coming back to a silent room. She was tired of feeling like she didn’t belong.

Never mind that Auraleigh later admitted the invitation had been spur-of-the-moment, based more on what Sonia wasn’t than what she was. (You seemed quiet. I figured it would balance out my loud.) In that instant, whether Sonia realized it or not, she became part of a circle she would never quite be able to leave.

***

Crossing the campus of the New Mexico college where she had taught for the past decade, Sonia no longer felt the desert heat. Here was another invitation from Auraleigh, twenty-seven years later, but Sonia wasn’t the same person she’d been back then.

She climbed the library steps in a daze. At the entrance to the stacks, she pressed her ID card to the sensor. The light blinked red. She tried it again, then handed her card to the circulation assistant, a hungover-looking student who put down a copy of Teaching to Transgress to examine it.

“Semester ended yesterday.” The student had bangs in her face, too many barrettes doing too little work. She typed a number into her computer and peered at the screen. “This is invalid. Did you just graduate?”

“No, I’m faculty.” Were those bangs keeping the kid from seeing the fine lines and sags of middle age? But then Sonia understood. “I… My contract wasn’t renewed for next semester.”

The student handed her back the ID. “That’d be it.”

Sonia took the meaningless laminated rectangle that had given her access to every campus facility. She’d hoped to use the job databases that were only accessible from terminals in the chilly bowels of the library. To reach them, she would have traversed the concrete gallery hung with mementos of faculty achievements—including a one-sheet for the 1998 semi-cult film Retrophiliac, with her own name right after the director’s.

Instead she felt like a criminal. “I didn’t realize it would be invalid this soon.”

“You could apply for a temporary pass,” the girl said.

But Sonia was already headed back outside, through two sets of hissing doors and down the stucco steps into the furnace heat. She just needed to rest for a moment before cleaning out her office.

She found a shady table on the quad, sat down, and pulled out the mail she’d stuffed in her bag earlier.

The invitation.

Sonia turned over the heavy, cream-colored card and really read it this time.

You are hereby formally invited to a reunion of the Midnight Brunch Club. October 27th through 31st, 2014, 12 Railroad Street in Dunstan, Vermont.

Come to celebrate the life of Jennifer (Jennet) Sherilyn Stark (1967–89) and revisit our shared past through the elixir of the pines.


Of course—today, May 22, was the twenty-fifth anniversary of Jennet’s death.

The “reunion” was five days in October in Dunstan. Auraleigh had moved back to their college town to watch over her daughter, who was now a freshman there, and had gotten busy transforming a rundown Victorian into a cozy home. The reno must have gone well, or Auraleigh wouldn’t have invited all of them to stay there in high-foliage season.

Still, the invitation came as a surprise, because Auraleigh hadn’t called Sonia since December. During their last phone conversation, she’d grown borderline huffy when Sonia failed to show interest in the intricacies of spray-foam insulation. Since then, there’d been pictures on Facebook of the evolving home/B and B—gables, bathroom fixtures. Sonia had commented on a few of them, then gotten bored and stopped.

October was midterm season, packed with grading and tearful emails from students begging for conferences. Where would Sonia be next October? In a month, she would have no campus mailbox, no email address, no health insurance.

Take it as a sign from the universe! Auraleigh would probably say, flinging her arms out. Go back to LA! Follow your dreams!

Sonia tried but failed to tear the card in half. When you followed your dreams, you ended up like her mother—moving seven times in ten years, from the shabby-chic environs of Morningside Heights to the Vermont wilderness, always chasing a great love or transcendence in a commune’s soybean field. When you reached a certain age, you realized that the real dream, the only one that mattered, was safety.

As she shoved the card back into the envelope, her eyes again ran over the lines: There are still secrets to be discovered; the past is not even past (Faulkner); we are boats against the current (Fitzgerald).

Auraleigh had used only half the quote from The Great Gatsby; the next part was borne back ceaselessly into the past. Borne back into the past, against the inexorable current of time, by an elixir of the pines…

Sonia rose, her heart racing. In December, Auraleigh had asked if she remembered the boy with the time travel drug. Sonia had laughed and said, “Don’t be silly. That was a campus myth. There was no time travel drug.”

But she knew exactly who—and what—Auraleigh was talking about.

There was a way to go back, if you really wanted to—an elixir of the pines. People just weren’t supposed to know about it.

Sonia, who did know, had spent the past twenty-five years trying to forget.

Excerpted from THE MIDNIGHT CLUB by Margot Harrison, Copyright © 2024 by Margot Harrison. Published by Graydon House, an imprint of HarperCollins.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

MARGOT HARRISON is the author of four young adult novels, including an Indies Introduce Pick, Junior Library Guild Selections, and Vermont Book Award Finalists. She grew up in New York and now lives in Vermont. The Midnight Club is her debut adult novel.

Author Website | X | Instagram | Goodreads

Blog Tour: In the Garden of Monsters by Crystal King + Excerpt

Welcome to my stop on the blog tour for In the Garden of Monsters by Crystal King! This historical fiction has Greek mythology, art, plenty of food, and Salvador Dalí himself. I have some information posted below about the book and the author, as well as an excerpt to hopefully encourage you to pick it up! It's out tomorrow, so you won't have to wait long to read it. :) Happy reading, and thanks for stopping by! (Be sure to stop by again later this week, as I may have another blog tour post to share with you as well...)

ABOUT THE BOOK:
Title: IN THE GARDEN OF MONSTERS
Author:  Crystal King
Pub. Date: September 24th, 2024
Publisher: MIRA Books
Pages: 384
Find it: Bookshop.org | Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Harlequin | Books-A-Million | Apple Books 

SYNOPSIS:

"A Goodreads Most Anticipated Historical Fiction Book of Fall 2024

“A sinister romance and hypnotic Gothic fairytale—surreal and luscious with a fascinating twist on the story of Hades and Persephone.” —Jennifer Saint, bestselling author of Ariadne

A woman with no past. A man who seems to know her. And a monstrous garden that could be the border between their worlds…

Italy, 1948

Julia Lombardi is a mystery even to herself. The beautiful model can’t remember where she’s from, where she’s been or how she came to live in Rome. When she receives an offer to accompany celebrated eccentric artist Salvador Dalí to the Sacro Bosco—Italy’s Garden of Monsters—as his muse, she’s strangely compelled to accept. It could be a chance to unlock the truth about her past…

Shrouded in shadow, the garden full of giant statues that sometimes seem alive is far from welcoming. Still, from the moment of their arrival at the palazzo, Julia is inexplicably drawn to their darkly enigmatic host, Ignazio. He’s alluring yet terrifying—and he seems to know her.

Posing for Dalí as the goddess Persephone, Julia finds the work to be perplexing, particularly as Dalí descends deeper into his fanaticism. To him, she is Persephone, and he insists she must eat pomegranate seeds to rejoin her king.

Between Dalí’s fevered persistence, Ignazio’s uncanny familiarity and the agonizing whispered warnings that echo through the garden, Julia is soon on the verge of unraveling. And she begins to wonder if she’s truly the mythical queen of the Underworld…"

Excerpt:

Prologue
Bomarzo, Italy, 1547–1560

It took me years to find Giulia Farnese, but no time at all to win her confidence. I did so with an unassuming cherry rose tart. It had been nearly a hundred years since I last looked upon her face, but from the moment she pulled the golden tines of her fork away from her lips and she looked to me, not her husband, I knew my influence had taken hold.

“You truly are a maestro, Aidoneus,” she said, closing her eyes to savor the sweet, floral flavors. “And a welcome addition to our kitchen.”

“Madonna Farnese, you flatter me.” I gave the couple a polite bow, my gesture more fluid than human custom, and turned back to my earthly duties.

“It seems you will eat well when I am gone,” Vicino joked behind my back. “But don’t eat too well, my beauty, or you won’t fit into those lovely dresses.”

Giulia laughed, and my heart warmed. Oh, she would eat well, I vowed. Very well.

* * *

 The next day, as Vicino Orsini gave his wife a peck on the cheek and vaulted onto his horse, I watched from the rooftop terrace, my gaze lingering on the horizon where earth met sky—a threshold I knew all too well. Then, with a flick of the reins, he led his men down the road into the valley. They were headed to Venezia to escort the Holy Roman Cardinal, Pietro Bembo, to Rome. Afterward, Vicino would depart for Napoli and Sicilia on business for Papa Pio IV.

Jupiter had blessed the region of Lazio with a warm spring, and a week after Vicino left, Giulia asked me if I wanted to take a walk. I suggested we explore the wood in the valley below the palazzo. She readily agreed, which did not surprise me. It was impossible for her to ignore the aphrodisiac qualities of my food, let alone the timbre of my voice, and the brush of my hand against hers. The first time she startled at my warmth— no human runs as hot as I—but she did not ask me to explain. In all the centuries past, she never has. This alone stoked the fire of hope within me.

She led me on a thin path through the verdant tapestry of the forest, where sunlight, diffusing through the emerald canopy, dappled the woodland floor with patches of gold. Beneath our feet, a carpet of fallen leaves, still rich with the scent of earth, crunched softly. We moved through clusters of ancient evergreen oaks, their gnarled limbs reaching out like weathered hands, and past groves of squat pomegranate trees with their ruby-hued fruits catching the sunlight and casting a warm, inviting glow.

Upon reaching a clearing surrounded by several large tufa stones jutting up through the grass and weeds, I was immediately drawn to one of the stones embedded in the hillside. The exposed side was round and flat, and it hummed, a song of the earth, a low vibration that warmed the deepest depths of me.

Giulia could not hear the humming, but she was surely aware of it in some hidden part of her, for she turned to me then.

“I love this wood,” she said, her arms outstretched toward the stone. The early morning light brightened her features, making her blue eyes shine.

“I can see why.”

She twined her hand in mine. “I come here often to bask in the feeling. The moment I arrived in Bomarzo, I felt like I had been called home, to my true home. And this wood, this is why. It re-minds me of a fairy tale, or a place from the ancient, heroic myths.” It was then that I had the idea. The stone—it hummed be-cause the veil to the Underworld was thin there. Perhaps…yes… if the wood was enhanced, and energy from the darkness was better able to pierce the surface into this realm I would no longer have to spend years attuning to Giulia when she reappeared in the world. Instead, she would be drawn closer, and I would find her faster. It would work. I was sure of it.

“Vicino doesn’t like me walking here alone. Too many wolves and bears, he says.”

I could sense a wild boar in the far distance, but no wolves or bears. “I think we’re safe here.” I gestured toward one of the big misshapen rocks. “Sometimes I like to imagine rocks as mythical creatures. Like that one. It could be a dragon poised to fight off danger.”

“Ooo, I can see it. The big open mouth, ready to take on any wolf, or even a lion.” Her enthusiasm was exactly what I had hoped for.

I waved my arm toward the large, round, smooth rock be-hind it. “And that should be a great big orco, with a mouth wide open. And it eats up and spits out secrets.”

“An ogre that spits out secrets?” Giulia laughed.

“Oh yes. This orco would tell all. Ogni pensiero volo.” I made my hands look like a fluttering bird.

She wore a wide grin. “All thoughts fly! How perfect. But if he eats up secrets, there should be a table inside this orco. It could be his tongue.”

As we wandered through the wood, dreaming up new lives for the monstrous rocks left eons ago by a force of nature, I was delighted to see how invested she was in the game.

“There are so many stones,” she said, clapping her hands together. “We could make a whole park of statues. I will write Vicino tonight.”

I did not expect it would be quite so easy. Usually it took a long while to convince Giulia of the merit of my ideas. But the pull of the Underworld was strong here and my influence was far greater than it would have been in Paris, or some backwater hill town in the wilds of Bavaria or Transylvania.

On the walk back, she paused by another enormous stone that jutted out of the ground, the size of a giant. She leaned against it. “Can you keep a secret?” she asked coyly.

“Of course.”

“This secret is only for you.” She leaned forward and grasped the edge of my cloak, pulling me toward her. Our lips met and she melted into me.


In the years following, as Vicino began work on the garden, a change was palpable in the air. Each evening, as the twilight deepened, a subtle energy began to emanate from the heart of the valley. I found contentment not just in the evolving grove, but also in my closeness to Giulia. Our time together, so abundant and intimate, felt different. I had never waited so long to make my attempt, but I nurtured this earthly bond, knowing it was essential for the garden’s growth.

The day finally arrived when Vicino ushered Giulia into the heart of the Sacro Bosco—the Sacred Wood—the name he had fondly bestowed upon the garden. As she crossed the threshold, I sensed it—a strengthening of our connection, more profound than ever before. It was time.

That night, the chicken with pomegranate sauce I prepared was met with Giulia’s usual lavish praise, although I knew she took in the single pomegranate seed garnishing the dish as a courtesy, not a desire for the fruit. As she savored each bite, I felt a loosening in the ethereal shackles binding her heart. A vivid, red-hued hope blossomed within me.

Post dinner, I retreated to the palazzo’s highest balcony, my gaze drawn to a nascent light in the wood below. The light, though barely perceptible, was imbued with a power that seemed to bridge the realms of mortal and divine. A faint green luminescence that whispered of unwanted things to come. It pulsed like a languid heartbeat, beckoning to something—or someone.

I was immediately compelled to find Giulia. Amidst the soft murmur of the salon where she played with her children, I enveloped her in my senses and the flower of hope within me withered. Her heartbeat, steady and unsuspecting, echoed the rhythm of the garden’s glow.

Excerpted from In the Garden of Monsters by Crystal King © 2024 by Crystal King. Used with permission from MIRA/HarperCollins.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Crystal King is the author of In The Garden of Monsters, The Chef’s Secret and Feast of Sorrow, which was long-listed for the Center for Fiction’s First Novel Prize and was a Must Read for the MassBook Awards. She is an author, culinary enthusiast, and marketing expert, and has taught at multiple universities including Harvard Extension and Boston University. She resides in Boston. You can find her at crystalking.com.

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Blog Tour: Indian Burial Ground by Nick Medina + Excerpt

Today, I'm thrilled to be a stop on the blog tour for Indian Burial Ground by Nick Medina! I read Nick Medina's novel Sisters of the Lost Nation last year and–because of how much I enjoyed it–knew I'd had to check out Indian Burial Ground. This captivating story is full of mystery, intrigue, family, the supernatural, and so much more. Below, you'll find some information about the book, author Nick Medina, and an excerpt from the first chapter to show you why you're going to want to read this book! :) 

 Thanks so much for stopping by, and happy reading!

ABOUT THE BOOK:
Title: INDIAN BURIAL GROUND
Author:  Nick Medina
Pub. Date: April 16th, 2024
Publisher: Berkley
Pages: 384
Find it: Bookshop.org | Amazon | Barnes & Noble 

SYNOPSIS:

"A man lunges in front of a car. An elderly woman silently drowns herself. A corpse sits up in its coffin and speaks. On this reservation, not all is what it seems, in this new spine-chilling mythological horror from the author of Sisters of the Lost Nation.

All Noemi Broussard wanted was a fresh start. With a new boyfriend who actually treats her right and a plan to move from the reservation she grew up on—just like her beloved Uncle Louie before her—things are finally looking up for Noemi. Until the news of her boyfriend’s apparent suicide brings her world crumbling down.

But the facts about Roddy’s death just don’t add up, and Noemi isn’t the only one who suspects that something menacing might be lurking within their tribal lands.

After over a decade away, Uncle Louie has returned to the reservation, bringing with him a past full of secrets, horror, and what might be the key to determining Roddy’s true cause of death. Together, Noemi and Louie set out to find answers...but as they get closer to the truth, Noemi begins to wonder whether it might be best for some secrets to remain buried. Born in"

Excerpt:

Noemi

The bathroom door opened just then, and I'm sure we were both glad it did. From within, black leather boots, skinny jeans, a black tank top with a rainbow heart bedazzled across the chest, shiny lips, and puffed-up hair emerged. Mom.

Her eyes widened. Fear momentarily cracked her made-up face, and a scream of terror in response to the strange man standing in our living room almost rang out, transforming instead into a cry of joy at the last second, right when she recognized him. "Louie!" She did a little hop, her boots thumping against the laminate floor. "Don't do that to me!" A second later, she was in her brother's arms.

"Lula," he cried.

We'd gone years without phone calls, video chats, and greeting cards. Sometimes we'd exchange texts on birthdays and holidays, filled with statements like Hope you're well, rather than questions that might encourage conversation.

Mom looked up at him, taking his face in her hands. "You cut off your hair. It's gray." Even though she was three years older than him, Mom's hair has been chocolate cherry my entire life. "Let me turn back time for you." She laughed. "My god, what are you doing here?"

"Pow wow," he said.

"I wish you'd have told me. Everyone's going to be so surprised to see you. But this is perfect!" She clapped her hands. "We're meeting friends at the Blue Gator tonight. You can meet Noemi's boyfriend. My new guy's gonna come by too."

"No he won't," I interjected from the couch. Mom threw a dismissive wave in my direction.

"Say you'll come," Mom said.

"Sure. Yeah." He seemed to reassure himself again. "I'll meet you there after I check in at the hotel."

"Why not stay here? I know it's a little small for-" Mom paused, finally looking past her brother. "Where's Holly? Jill?"

"Can we-?" he started, but was cut off by a trio of stern knocks against the door.

It wasn't Holly or Jill.

"Chief Fisher," Mom and Uncle Louie said in unison the instant I opened the door.

Luke Fisher wasn't chief of the tribal police anymore, but he had been for so long that most of us still called him that. Most days, he still acted like he was on the job.

"Noemi." His hands reached for mine as his eyes gave Mom an acknowledging glance. They lingered a little longer on Louie, but whatever he'd come to say took precedence over the friendly reunion that might have otherwise occurred.

"What is it?" I said. Luke wasn't the type to just drop in for visits. He wasn't the type to just stroke the back of your hand either.

"Let's sit," he said.

I didn't want to.

"It's Roddy," he uttered. "I know how close the two of you are, so I thought I should tell you before-"

"Tell me what?"

His old hands, veins stretching the thin skin, squeezed mine. "He was hit by a car."

"What?" I shrieked. Mom did too.

Luke glanced at the sofa, but I hadn't changed my mind about sitting. "I'm really sorry."

Sorry. I'd never known how much weight a word could hold until Luke uttered it.

"No!" Tears appeared as if a magician had waved a wand in front of my eyes.

"Tribal PD will figure out what happened."

"You're saying . . . ?" Though I heard what he was saying, I couldn't grasp it. Didn't want to.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"How?"

"He was out on Grand Nacre Drive. The driver said he came out of nowhere."

That didn't make sense. I'd texted Roddy a couple hours earlier, confirming our plans for the night. He was going to pick me up at eight. I told Luke as much. "He didn't say anything about driving anywhere else."

"He wasn't driving. He was on foot."

That made even less sense. "It's the height of summer. Roddy hates walking in the heat." There were only two reasons to be along Grand Nacre Drive: to get to the casino or to leave it. "Was he at the casino?" I asked, knowing he had no reason to go there.

Luke's shoulders hitched. "There's a lot to figure out."

I pulled my hands away from his and braced myself against the wall. Reality wasn't yet registering, but I knew what I'd lose if I lost Roddy. Hopes, dreams, second chances. Without him, all I'd have were memories, regret, and forty years in the rearview mirror. Mom told me the years would go fast, back in my twenties when $130k-the amount of my trust fund, thanks to years of per capita payments I couldn't touch until I turned twenty-one-seemed like a million bucks. And Mom was right, the years came and went like sparks. And, like the money, I'd wasted them all.

"When?" I asked Luke.

"About an hour ago."

I looked out the window. The sun was below the horizon. All that remained of its light was a fiery orange band like the ring around a lit cigarette. "It must have been light when the accident happened." Anger rose within me. "Was the driver drunk?"

"Noemi . . ." Luke threw his head back and cupped his brow. I'd never seen him so unsettled. "It might not have been the driver's fault."

"He's blaming Roddy?"

"She's saying . . ." Eyes clenched tight, he slowly exhaled and then, finally looking like the authority he'd always been, as his arms fell to his sides and he gave it to me straight. "The driver said Roddy lunged in front of her vehicle. You've already said yourself that Roddy didn't like to walk and that he hadn't mentioned going anywhere today. There's concern"-his voice softened-"that this could have been suicide."

"What?!" I shrieked again. "No fucking way. He wouldn't. He wouldn't. We had plans. We were gonna get out of here. We were gonna get tattoos!"

"There's a lot to figure out," he repeated.

"What exactly did the driver say about Roddy?" Uncle Louie asked, stepping closer to Luke.

"According to her, he jumped in front of-"

"He wouldn't!" I insisted.

"With the way word travels around here, I might as well tell you everything." Luke exhaled another deep breath. "The driver ran for help. When she returned to Roddy, she saw a coyote standing over his body . . . with blood around its mouth."

My stomach churned. I finally sat. Mom plopped beside me, wrapping me in her arms, while Uncle Louie, paler than before, inexplicably locked the door.

Excerpted from Indian Burial Ground by Nick Medina Copyright © 2024 by Nick Medina. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Born in Chicago, Illinois, Nick Medina appreciates blues-based music, local folklore, and snowy winters. A member of the Tunica-Biloxi Tribe of Louisiana, he drew on personal and family experiences, along with research into the Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls (MMIWG) epidemic, to inspire his debut novel, Sisters of the Lost Nation. He has degrees in organizational and multicultural communication, and has worked as a college instructor. He also enjoys playing guitar, listening to classic rock, and exploring haunted cemeteries and all sorts of spooky stuff. Learn more online at nickmedina.net.

Author photo by Ashely Suttor, 2022.

Blog Tour: Book of Thorns by Hester Fox + Excerpt

I hope everyone's April is off to a great start (and hopefully no one got too pranked by any April Fool's jokes yesterday!)! If you're looking for a good book to start your month off right, then look no further because Hester Fox's latest release, The Book of Thorns, is out today! Today I'm sharing my stop on The Book of Thorns' blog tour, and below you'll find some information about the book, as well as an excerpt so you can get a taste of what to expect from this incredible story. Huge thanks to Kali Luckhee and HTP Books for allowing me to be a part of this tour!

 Thanks so much for stopping by, and happy reading!

ABOUT THE BOOK:
Title: THE BOOK OF THORNS
Author:  Hester Fox
Pub. Date: April 2nd, 2024
Publisher: Graydon House
Pages: 328
Find it: Bookshop.org | Amazon | HarperCollins | Barnes & Noble 

SYNOPSIS:

"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."

Excerpt:

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:

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. 

Author Website | Twitter | Instagram | Goodreads