Every time you speak of the future
We’re to share
You forget to say we
But continue
To say
I.
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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.
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Only one light was on in the house when I arrived home, although it was by then fully dark
outside.
It was the light over the piano.
At first, I thought Mother wasn’t there and I was briefly confounded, trying to imagine where she
could be—she who no longer went anywhere in the evening except to the monthly church
supper. And it wasn’t church-supper week. But then I saw her rise from her chair on the night-
filled screened porch and place her Bible, which she could not have been reading, on the table
next to her.
I waited, hoping she would speak. She didn’t. She stayed in the shadows, looking down at the
book.
“Mother.”
Nothing. I didn’t believe she couldn’t hear me.
“Mother!”
She turned around briskly then and entered the living room. “You don’t have to shout,” she said.
“Where have you been?” “I went for a walk.”
The tortures of Hades could not have wrung from me that I had sought Brownlea’s advice.
“Well, it’s long past teatime. I’ll fix something to eat. Cold beef all right?”
“I’m not hungry, Mother, I want…”
“You may not think you are now, but if you go to bed with-out a bite, you won’t sleep well. Now,
what would you like? There are sardines and some…”
“Mother, I don’t want food! I want to talk to you!”
She stopped as if I had switched her off, gazing away from me at some distant point in the dim
room, gathering herself. After a moment, she turned her head a little toward me and said quite
calmly, “Then we had best sit down.”
Neither of us took the chair that had been my father’s.
I turned on another lamp and sat next to it at one end of the sofa. She did not choose to sit next to
me, perching instead on the piano bench. The light behind her made it hard to see her face.
She waited. She was not going to help me start.
“Mother, why?” My voice cracked, angering me. I spoke more loudly. “Why?”
“Do you mean, why am I sending you to Chicago? I should think it would be obvious—you’ll
need a teacher of the first rank if you’re to have a career.”
“But you’ve never asked me if I wanted a career. And why Chicago? Why not New York or
London? Why should I study with this Hellman geezer? Who is he, anyway?”
“No slang, please. And I’ll thank you not to inundate me with questions.”
Her mouth tightened and she folded her arms over her prim, blue-cotton blouse. She shook her
head as if a gnat were besieging her.
“My dear,” she said tentatively, trying out a foreign expression, “Gunter Hellman was at
university with your father and, unlike him, went on to a distinguished international career. He
plays with all the major European and American orchestras and is on the Chicago Conservatory
faculty. The fact that you have not heard of him signifies only that you are fourteen, not that he is
inconsequential.”
“But…”
“I beg your pardon. I was about to say that I had written to him two years ago to ask if he would
take you as a pupil, and he said that when you were old enough to go to an American high school
and if you were truly devoted to piano, then he would.
“I have prayed every night for the last year, hoping that God would grant you the passion and
ambition to match your talent, so that you would not let it go to waste. It is a sin to waste great
talent or to thwart it in any way. A sin.”
She wasn’t looking at me.
Her fingers gripped the edge of the bench, turning her knuckles livid and making the pale blue
veins strain against the skin of her hands.
“Gunter last wrote me a month ago to say that, if I thought the time was right, you could come to
him this summer. After I heard you play today, I knew you must go.”
“But why didn’t you tell me? You never tell me anything! Why does everything have to be a
secret?”
“You are told as much as you need to know. I can’t have you distracted from your music by
details and half-formed plans that do not require your worry.”
“There’s nothing half-formed about this! You’ve been plot-ting the whole thing since I was
twelve, you just said so! Why won’t you let me decide what my own future will be?”
Mother looked straight at me. Her eyes were as hard as jet beads.
“Your future is entirely up to you. I can’t earn your success for you or prevent your ruin. You
must decide which it is to be.” She stood, as if ready to quit the house and me with it, to stride
off with her sword and take up the cause of some worthier supplicant. I was angry and strangely
terrified that she would leave altogether, who had never really come close. I held out my hand to
stop her. She didn’t take it—she hadn’t taken my hand in years.
“But why aren’t you coming, too?” I said, suddenly pleading. “Why do I have to go by myself?”
She looked away. Was she crying? I had never seen her cry. She turned back to me, dry-eyed.
“You will learn faster on your own,” she said quietly.
“What? About playing?”
“About everything.”
She coughed and stood up, pushing the piano bench in and turning off the lamp.
“You’ll be able to come home for the Christmas holidays,” she continued, already halfway to the
door of her own room. “If you wish.”
She called goodnight without looking back.
I sat for a while, gazing around the room where I suddenly did not belong. I was to go; I was
already gone. The knowledge of my impermanence had, in an hour, made me a ghost in my own
home. Another member of the family who would leave nothing behind but his habitual imprint
on a cushion.
Oddly enough, I now wanted my tea. I went to the kitchen, unearthed some bread and cheese,
and finished them off, along with the rest of the lemonade. A kind of excitement was grow-ing in
me, conjoined to the lump of dread. I was going to study with the best, be the best. Everybody
would know my name. I would never again be locked away alone in silence. I would be
surrounded by cheering audiences, blazingly visible in stage light far friendlier than the sun. I
would succeed.
I rinsed my glass and knife, switched off the lamp in the liv-ing room, and brushed my teeth. The
dark of my room seemed to drown all my hope. I lay in bed and listened to the waves in the
cove, breaking against the beach.
Excerpted from THE CHANGING OF KEYS by Carolyn Jack © 2024 by Carolyn Jack, used
with permission from Regal House Publishing.
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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.
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.
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“Wait…you’re not still running that book club you started in high school, are you?”
Gia Rossi had been shopping at her local grocer when her sister called. “I’ve never really stopped. Not
completely.” She switched her phone to her other ear, so she could use her more dexterous left hand to
steer her empty shopping cart across the parking lot to the reclamation point.
“Most of the members weren’t your friends. They were just people who blindly followed you no matter
what you did,” her sister pointed out drily.
Was there a hint of jealousy in that response? Margaret, who’d been known as Maggie when they were
kids but now called herself a more distinguished Margot, was only thirteen months younger than Gia, so
just one year behind her in school. Margot hadn’t been nearly as popular—but it was because she’d
never done anything exciting. She’d been part of the academic group, too busy excelling to be going out
having fun.
“A few of them were close friends,” Gia insisted. “Ruth, Sammie and a handful of others are still in the
book club with me, and we rotate picking a read.”
“Seriously? It’s been seventeen years since you graduated. I thought you left them and everything else
behind when you dropped out of college and took off for Alaska.”
Her sister never would’ve done something that reckless, that impulsive—or that ill-advised. Gia had
walked away from a volleyball scholarship at the University of Iowa, which was part of the reason her
family had freaked out. But she was glad she’d made that decision. She treasured the memories of
freewheeling her way through life in her twenties, learning everything she could while working on
crabbing and fishing boats and for various sightseeing companies. She wouldn’t have the business she
owned now, with a partner, if not for that experience. “No. We fell off for a bit, then we went back to it,
then we fell off again, and now we meet on Zoom to discuss the book we’re reading on the fourth
Thursday of every month.” She lowered her voice for emphasis. “And, of course, we make sure it’s the
most scandalous book we can find.”
Margot had never approved of the book group or anything else Gia did—and that hadn’t changed over
the years, which was why Gia couldn’t resist needling her.
“I’m sure you do,” Margot said, but she didn’t react beyond a slightly sour tone. She’d grown adept at
avoiding the kind of arguments that used to flare up between them, despite Gia sometimes baiting her.
“So seven or eight out of what…about sixty are active again?”
“For one month out of the year, the ratio’s quite a bit better than that,” she said as the shopping cart
clanged home, making her feel secure enough to walk away from it. “The rest of the group gets together
for an online Christmas party in December.”
“How many people come to that?”
Margot sounded as if she felt left out, but she’d never shown any interest in the book group. “Probably
fifteen or twenty, but it’s not always the same fifteen or twenty.” She opened the door to her red Tesla
Model 3, which signaled the computer to start the heater—something she was grateful for since she
hadn’t worn a heavy enough coat for the brisk October morning. Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, didn’t usually
turn this cold until November or December.
The car’s Bluetooth picked up the call as Margot asked, “Why haven’t you ever mentioned it?”
Now that they lived thirteen hundred miles apart, there were a lot of things she didn’t tell her sister. It
wasn’t until she’d left her hometown behind that she’d felt she could live a truly authentic life—one
without the constant unfavorable comparisons to her “perfect” sibling.
But that wasn’t why she hadn’t mentioned the book group. She’d assumed her sister wouldn’t want to
hear about it. Margot had been mortified when Gia challenged the gaggle of well-meaning but
misguided women from the PTA who’d descended on Room 23 on Back-to-School Night, insisting Mr.
Hart, head of the English department, drop The Catcher in the Rye, The Outsiders and The Handmaid’s
Tale from the Honors English reading list. Gia had expected her favorite teacher to stand up for the
books she loved by explaining why they were so important. She’d known how much he’d loved those
books, too. Instead, just to avoid a fight, he’d caved in immediately, which was what had incited her to
start a club that championed the books they’d targeted—as well as others.
That was the first time Mr. Hart had let her down, but it wouldn’t be the last. “If you’d ever joined the
club, you’d be on the email list,” she said as she backed out of the parking space.
“I would’ve, but you know me. I don’t really read.”
Her sister would not have joined. The Banned Books Club was far too controversial for Margot. It
would’ve required a bit of rebellion—something she seemed incapable of. And maybe she didn’t read
much fiction, but Gia knew her to consume the occasional self-help tome. That was probably how she
reassured herself she was still the best person she knew, because if there was anyone who didn’t need a
self-help book, it was Margot. Their parents’ expectations were more than enough to create her
boundaries.
“You should try reading along with us now and then. It might broaden your horizons.” As good as
Margot was, she had a mind like a steel trap—one that was always closed, especially when faced with
any information that challenged what she already believed. She lived inside a bubble of confirmation
bias; the only facts and ideas that could permeate it were those that supported her world view.
“I’m happy with my horizons being right where they are, thank you.”
“You don’t see the limitations?”
“Are you trying to offend me?” she asked.
Gia bit back a sigh. That was the difference between them. Margot would sacrifice anything to maintain
her position as their parents’ favorite child, to gain the approval of others, especially her husband, and
be admired by the community at large. Growing up, she’d kept her room tidy, gotten straight As and
played the piano in church. And these days, she was a stay-at-home mom with two children, someone
who made a “hot dish”—what most people outside the Midwest would call a casserole—for any
neighbor, friend or acquaintance who might be having surgery or suffering some kind of setback.
Her conventionalism was—in certain ways—something to be admired. As the black sheep of the family,
Gia knew better than to try to compete with Margot. That wasn’t possible for someone who couldn’t
take anything at face value. She had to question rules, challenge authority and play devil’s advocate at
almost every opportunity, which was why she was surprised that her sister had been trying, for the past
two weeks, to convince her to come home for the winter. Their mother’s health had been declining
since she’d been diagnosed with breast cancer. It was at stage four before they discovered it, and the
doctors had done what they could, but Ida hadn’t responded to treatment. Margot claimed their mother
wasn’t going to last much longer, that Gia should spend a few months with her before it was too late.
But Gia was surprised Margot would risk the peace and contentment they all seemed to enjoy without
her.
Gia wasn’t sure she could go back to the same family dynamic she found so damaging, regardless. She
and her business partner ran a helicopter sightseeing company for tourists and flew hunters and
fishermen in and out of the remote wilderness—but Backcountry Adventures was closed during the
coldest months, from November to February. She would soon have the time off, so getting away from
work wouldn’t be a problem. It was more that when she was in Wakefield, the walls seemed to close in
around her. It simply got too damn hard to breathe. “Fine,” she grumbled. “Don’t answer that question.
But speaking of limitations, how’s Sheldon?”
“Seriously, Gia? I’m going to assume you didn’t mean to ask about him in that way,” her sister stated
flatly.
There was no love lost between Gia and her brother-in-law. She hated the way he controlled Margot,
how he could spend money on hunting or fishing or buying a new camper, but her sister had to scrape
and bow for a new pair of jeans. Margot explained it was because he earned all the money, that he was
trying to be a good “manager” by giving her such a tight budget so the business would be successful and
they’d have money to retire in old age, but to Gia, it seemed that Margot was making all the sacrifices.
Stingy was stingy, and yet he was the one who wanted Margot at home, waiting for him with a hot meal
at the end of the day. Their boys, Matthew and Greydon, were eight and six, both in school. Margot
could work part-time, at least, establish something of her own, if Sheldon wasn’t calling all the shots.
“It was a joke.” Gia really didn’t want to cause problems in her sister’s marriage. Margot insisted she
was happy, although if that were her life, Gia probably would’ve grabbed her kids and stormed out of
the house—for good—long ago.
“He’s doing great. He’s been busy.”
“It’s deer hunting season. I assume he’s going.”
“Next week.”
And what will you do—stay home and take care of the kids and the house while he’s gone? Gia wanted
to ask, but this time she managed to bite her tongue. “He’s going to Utah again?”
“Yeah. They go there every year. One of his buddies grew up in Moab.”
“Last winter, Sheldon’s business slowed down a bit, so I’m surprised to hear you say he’s been busy.”
“That was the economy in general. All trucking companies took a hit. I don’t think the same thing’s going
to happen this year, though. He just bought two new semis and is hiring more drivers.”
“He’s quite the businessman.” Gia rolled her eyes at her own words. He hadn’t built the trucking
business; he’d inherited it from his parents, who remained heavily involved, which was probably what
saved it from ruin. But thankfully, Margot seemed to take her words at face value.
“I’m proud of him.”
He was proud of himself, could never stop talking about his company, his toys, his prowess at hunting or
four-wheeling or any other “manly” pursuit. Gia was willing to bet she could out-hunt him if she really
wanted to, but the only kind of shots she was willing to take were with her camera.
Still, she was glad, in a way, that her sister could buy into the delusion that Sheldon was a prize catch.
“That’s what matters,” she said as she pulled into the drive of her two-bedroom condo overlooking Mill
River. The conversation was winding down. She’d already asked about the boys while she was in the
grocery store—they were healthy and happy. She was going to have to ask about Ida before the
conversation ended, so she figured she might as well get it over with. “And how are Mom and Dad?”
Her sister’s voice dropped an octave, at least. “That’s actually why I called…”
Gia couldn’t help but tense; it felt like acid was eating a hole in her stomach. “Mom’s taken a turn for
the worse?”
“She’s getting weaker every day, G. I—I really think you should come home.”
Closing her eyes, Gia allowed her head to fall back against the seat. Margot couldn’t understand why Gia
would resist. But she’d never been able to see anything from Gia’s perspective.
“G?” her sister prompted.
Gia drew a deep breath. She could leave Idaho a few weeks before they closed the business. Eric would
cover for her. She’d worked two entire months for him when his daughter was born. She had the
money, too. There was no good excuse not to return and support her family as much as possible—and if
this was the end, say goodbye to her mother. But Gia knew that would mean dealing with everything
she’d left behind.
“You still there?”
Gathering her resolve, Gia climbed out of the car. “Sorry. My Bluetooth cut out.”
“Did you hear me? Is there any chance you’d consider coming home, if only for a few weeks?”
Gia didn’t see that she had any choice. She’d never forgive herself if her mother died and she hadn’t
done all she could to put things right between them. She wished she could continue procrastinating her
visit. But the cancer made it impossible. “Of course. Just…just as soon as I finish up a few things around
here.”
“How long will that take you?”
“Only a day or two.”
“Thank God,” her sister said with enough relief that Gia knew she couldn’t back out now.
What was going on? Why would having her in Wakefield matter so much to Margot?
“I’ll pick you up from the airport,” her sister continued. “Just tell me when you get in.”
“I’ll get back to you as soon as I’ve made the arrangements.”
Excerpted from THE BANNED BOOKS CLUB by Brenda Novak. Copyright © 2024 by Brenda Novak. Published by MIRA Books, an imprint of HarperCollins.
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PROLOGUE
Nottingham, England April 1931
JUST ONE MORE CHAPTER. Emma lingered in the storage area on the second floor of her father’s bookshop, Tower Bookshop, with Jane Austen’s Emma cradled in her lap. Sadly, not her namesake—her parents had named her Emmaline for an aunt she’d never met, who had died on Emma’s seventh birthday ten years ago.
Still, the book was one of Emma’s favorites.
“Emma.” Papa’s voice rose from somewhere in the bookshop, sharp with irritation.
She frowned. Papa was seldom ever cross with her.
Perhaps the smoke from the man who had come in with his cigar earlier still lingered in the shop.
She settled a scrap of paper into the spine of her book.
“Emmaline!” Something to that second cry snapped her to attention, a raw, frantic pitch.
Papa was never panicked.
She leaped up from the seat with such haste, the book dropped to the ground with a whump.
“I’m in the warehouse,” she called out, racing to the door.
The handle was scalding hot. She yelped and drew back. That’s when she saw the smoke, wisps seeping beneath the door, glowing in the stream of sunlight.
Fire.
She put her skirt over her hand and twisted the knob to open the door. Thick plumes of smoke billowed in, black and choking.
She sucked in a breath of surprise, unintentionally inhaling a lungful of burning air. A cough racked her and she stumbled back, her mind reeling as her feet pulled her from the threat.
But to where? This was the only exit from the storeroom, save the second-floor window.
“Papa,” she shouted, terror creeping into her voice.
All at once, he was there, wrapping a blanket around them, the one she kept in the shop for cold mornings before the furnace managed to heat the old building.
“Stay at my side.” Papa’s voice was gravelly beneath the blanket where he’d covered the lower part of his face. Even as he led her away, a great cough shuddered through his lean frame.
Beyond the wall of smoke was a vision straight out of Milton’s Paradise Lost as fire licked and climbed its way up the towering stacks of books, devouring a lifetime of careful curation. Emma screamed, the sound muted by the blanket.
But Papa’s hand was firm at her back, pressing her forward. “We have to run.” Not slowing, he guided her to the winding metal staircase. She used to love clattering down it as a girl, hearing the metal ringing around her.
“It’s hot,” Papa cautioned. “Don’t touch it.”
Emma hugged against his side as they squeezed down the narrow steps that barely fit the two of them together. It swayed beneath their weight, no longer sturdy as it had once been. The blazing heat felt as though it was blistering Emma’s skin. Too hot. Too close. Too much.
And they were plunging deeper into the fiery depths.
The soles of Emma’s shoes stuck to the last two steps as rubber melted against metal.
What had once been rows of bookshelves was now a maze of flames. Even Papa hesitated before the seemingly impassable blaze.
But there was nowhere else to go.
The fire was alive. Cracking and popping and hissing and roaring, roaring, roaring so loud, it seemed like an actual beast.
“Go,” he shouted, and his grip tightened around her, pulling her forward.
Together they ran, between columns of fire that had once been shelves of books. An ear-shattering crack came from above, spurring them to the front as fire and sparks poured down behind them.
Emma ran faster than she ever had before, faster than she knew herself capable. Papa’s arm at her side yanked her this way or that, navigating through the fiery chaos. Until there was nowhere to go.
Papa roared louder than the fire beast and released her, running toward the blazing door. It flew open at the impact, revealing clean sunny daylight outside. He turned toward her even as she rushed after him and grabbed her around the shoulders, hauling her into the street.
Emma gulped in the clean air, reveling in the cool dampness washing into her tortured lungs. A crowd had gathered, staring up at the Tower Bookshop. Some came to Emma and Papa, asking in a frenzy of voices if they were hurt.
In the distance came the scream of emergency sirens. Sirens Emma had heard her entire life, but had never once needed herself.
There was need now. She held on to Papa’s hand and looked behind her at the building that had been in her family for two generations and was meant to become hers someday. Her gaze skimmed over the bookshop to the top two floors where their home had once been.
The fire beast gave a great heaving howl and the top floor crumpled.
Someone grabbed her from behind, dragging her back as the rest of the structure came down, ripping her hand from her father’s. She didn’t reach for him again, unable to move, unable to think, her eyes fixed on the building as it crashed in on itself in a fiery heap. Their livelihood. Their home.
All the pictures of her mother who had died after Emma was born, all the books she and her father had lovingly selected from bookshops around England on the trips they’d taken together, everything they’d ever owned.
Gone.
Emma choked on a sob at the realization.
Everything was gone.
“We need a doctor.” A man’s voice broke through her horror, pulling her attention to her father.
He lay on the ground, motionless. Soot streaked his handsome slender face, and his thick gray hair that had once been the same shade of chestnut as hers was now singed in blackened tufts.
“Papa?” She sagged to the ground beside him.
His eyes lifted to her, watery blue and filled with a love that made her heart swell. The breath wheezed from his chest like a kettle’s cry. “You’re safe.”
Once the words left his mouth, his body relaxed, going slack.
“Papa?” Emma cried.
This time his eyes did not meet hers. They looked through her. Sightless and empty.
She shuddered at how unnatural he appeared. Like her father, and yet not like her father.
“Papa?”
The wailing sirens were still too far-off.
“I’m a doctor.” A man knelt on the other side of her father. His fingers went to Papa’s blackened neck and the man’s sad brown eyes turned up to her.
“I’m sorry, love. He’s gone.”
Emma stared at the man, refusing to believe her ears even as she saw the truth.
It had always just been Emma and her father, the two of them against the world, as Papa used to say. They read the same books to discuss together, they worked every day at the bookshop together, friends and colleagues as much as they were father and daughter. Once Emma had completed her schooling, she’d even traveled with him, curating books like the first editions they were still waiting on to arrive from Newcastle.
Now that beautiful light that shone in his eyes had dulled. Lifeless.
It was no longer Papa and her against the world.
He was gone.
Their shop was gone.
Their home was gone.
Everything she knew and loved was gone.
Excerpted from THE BOOKLOVER’S LIBRARY by Madeline Martin, Copyright © 2024 by Madeline Martin. Published by arrangement with HTP Books, a Division of HarperCollins.
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Berlin 1961: When Uli Neumann proposes to Lise Bauer, she has every reason to accept. He offers her love, respect, and a life beyond the strict bounds of the East German society in which she was raised — which she longs to leave more than anything. But only two short days after their engagement, Lise and Uli are torn violently apart when barbed wire is rolled across Berlin, splitting the city into two hostile halves: capitalist West Berlin, an island of western influence isolated far beyond the iron curtain; and the socialist East, a country determined to control its citizens by any means necessary.
Soon, Uli and his friends in West Berlin hatch a plan to get Lise and her unborn child out of East Germany, but as distance and suspicion bleed into their lives and as weeks turn to months, how long can true love survive in the divided city?
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I have scratches on my thighs when I get out of bed the next morning.
PLOT SUMMARY:
Iðunn is in yet another doctor’s office. She knows her constant fatigue is a sign that something’s not right, but practitioners dismiss her symptoms and blood tests haven’t revealed any cause.
When she talks to friends and family about it, the refrain is the same ― have you tried eating better? exercising more? establishing a nighttime routine? She tries to follow their advice, buying everything from vitamins to sleeping pills to a step-counting watch. Nothing helps.
Until one night Iðunn falls asleep with the watch on, and wakes up to find she’s walked over 40,000 steps in the night . . .
What is happening when she’s asleep? Why is she waking up with increasingly disturbing injuries? And why won’t anyone believe her?
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
I don’t think I’ve ever read a book from an Icelandic author so I was curious about that going in. I love how the language used is direct and to the point, and the short chapters allow the story to move at a fast paced rhythm. The plot is very intriguing and mysterious, as you the reader, along with the protagonist have no idea what’s going on and what exactly is happening to her every time she falls asleep. Is she sleepwalking? Why is she waking up with bruises? Why does she feel like she has spent all night walking or lifting?
Iðunn doesn’t know what’s happening to her, and neither does the reader. It’s a dark, twisty journey and you can’t stop reading wanting to know exactly what’s going on. If you love short books, this may be exactly what you need, as it’s almost 200 pages.
The prose is sparse, but you get the feeling of loneliness and isolation that plagues Iðunn like a haunted specter. From the first page, you will be sucked into this dark tunnel of no return and yet you cannot stop, because you need to know.
I recommend this book if you love mysterious, quiet horror and enjoy short books and chapters.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Tor Nightfire for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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The Inkblotters 