“One of the biggest mistakes stable people make is believing they can predict and account for the thought patterns of narcissists.”
PLOT SUMMARY:
Once there were four Lasco siblings banded together against a world that failed to protect them. But on a hellish night that marked the end of their childhood, eldest brother Shawn died violently after being dragged behind closed doors. Though the official finding was accidental death, Nathan Lasco knows better, and has never forgiven their mother, Stella.
Now two decades later, Stella promises to finally reveal the truth of what happened on The Day of the Door. Accompanied by a paranormal investigative team, the Lasco family comes together one final time, but no one is prepared for the revelations waiting for them on the third floor.
GRADE: A-
REVIEW:
The Day of the Door by Laurel Hightower delivers a chilling and atmospheric ride, blending psychological terror with a fresh twist on the haunted house genre. Set in a seemingly ordinary home, the novel slowly unravels a deeply unsettling presence that blurs the line between reality and nightmare. Hightower excels in crafting a sense of unease from the very first page, with a building tension that grows into an almost palpable dread. The Lasco siblings want to find out exactly what happened the day Sean died, and Stella promises to give answers, only that as the book progresses, the siblings end up having more questions than before.
What sets this book apart from traditional haunted house stories is its exploration of personal trauma and grief, which heightens the supernatural horror. The house itself becomes a mirror to the protagonist’s inner turmoil, amplifying the horror he faces. The eerie presence in the house isn’t just a force from beyond but an intricate part of the protagonist’s emotional landscape, making the haunting feel personal and psychologically layered.
The writing is tight, with Hightower’s pacing carefully controlled to keep the reader on edge. The creeping horror never feels forced, instead, it’s a slow burn that builds to a climax of truly unsettling revelations. Hightower’s novel offers a unique perspective on the haunted house trope, showcasing not just a place of terror but a reflection of the deepest, darkest fears within the characters. Highly recommended for fans of atmospheric horror with emotional depth.
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I fail to understand why men think violence will intimidate women.
PLOT SUMMARY:
Grim Wolds, England: Winifred Notty arrives at Ensor House prepared to play the perfect governess—she’ll dutifully tutor her charges, Drusilla and Andrew, tell them bedtime stories, and only joke about eating children. But long, listless days spent within the estate’s dreary confines come with an intimate knowledge of the perversions and pathetic preoccupations of the Pounds family—Mr. Pounds can’t keep his eyes off Winifred’s chest, and Mrs. Pounds takes a sickly pleasure in punishing Winifred for her husband’s wandering gaze. Compounded with her disdain for the entitled Pounds children, Winifred finds herself struggling at every turn to stifle the violent compulsions of her past. French tutoring and needlework are one way to pass the time, as is admiring the ugly portraits in the gallery . . . and creeping across the moonlit lawns. . . .
Patience. Winifred must have patience, for Christmas is coming, and she has very special gifts planned for the dear souls of Ensor House. Brimming with sardonic wit and culminating in a shocking conclusion, Victorian Psychoplunges readers into the chilling mind of an iconic new literary psychopath.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
Victorian Psycho is exactly what it sounds like: a twisted carnival of blood, mayhem, and delightful madness that somehow manages to have a voice so captivating, you’ll feel like you’re sipping tea with a homicidal maniac in a top hat. And let’s be clear—this book is fun. Not just fun in the “let’s play a nice board game” way, but the kind of fun where you’re throwing dice and hoping they don’t land in a pool of blood. The plot is ridiculously thrilling, with a twisted blend of Victorian manners and shocking, gory violence. The characters? They’re more memorable than a morning in a butcher shop, and every chapter feels like you’re being whirled through a carnival of chaos. Blood splatters on the page with the same frequency as witty one-liners—both equally delicious.
But here’s where the book really shines: the voice. The writing is pure, unadulterated joy. Imagine an author who’s had too much tea laced with a dash of dark humor and a pinch of madness. That’s the voice. It’s snarky, witty, and always one step away from tipping over into total insanity. You’ll be chuckling at the absurdity of it all, even as you wipe the bloodstains off your clothes.
The narrative isn’t just a story—it’s like you’re chatting with a delightful, if slightly unhinged, guide through a maze of murder and mayhem. And the blood—did I mention the blood? It’s there in all its crimson glory, a reminder that this isn’t a cozy Victorian novel where characters sip brandy and read poetry. It’s a bloody, thrilling roller coaster, and you won’t be able to put it down. In conclusion, Victorian Psycho is a masterclass in balancing dark humor with chaos and gore. It’s a wild ride you won’t forget—entertaining, bloody, and a perfect escape if you enjoy your stories with a touch of the macabre and a whole lot of wit.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & Liveright for the audio copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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I read a story on the internet about how elderly people without hobbies are among the saddest sacks on earth, although I’m sure I have that wrong and they didn’t use the word “sacks.” Anyway, it went on to say how having hobbies could greatly reduce one’s chances of developing dementia. They didn’t give a percentage and I would have liked a percentage, because if it’s only a one percent chance reduction, well then, why bother? But I guess they wouldn’t have written the whole article, in that case, or used the words “greatly reduce one’s chances” for that matter either, would they? So I decided I would like a hobby.
So, when I Googled “how to start a hobby” the first advice given was to break it into small steps so you’re not overwhelmed. For Christ’s sake, I didn’t Google how to embezzle diamonds from the Russian mafia, I was simply thinking I might take up cookie making or something. How could I get overwhelmed? Anyway…then I learned that professional cookie decorators call themselves “cookiers” and I just found the term so irritating I gave up on the whole thing.
Then Millie told me I could knit with her and I told Millie that she’s shamefully cliché, and how does she not have carpal tunnel by now? And it’s not really a hobby, is it? She’d be sitting in front of the television watching Bonanza with or without her knitting in hand, so it’s quite mindless, and I don’t think a hobby should be mindless. Bernie has taken up winemaking, but his room smells like a boiled egg, so I don’t think he’s doing it right. It’s still at the top of my list, though.
Gardening was a contender too. I was quite the gardener once, but the snow won’t melt until April, so that seems a long wait. I could be dead by then for all I know. But then Herb said I should make a podcast about gardening and share my wisdom with the world. This intrigued me—because I was once a news announcer on public radio, and in a way it’s a perfect idea. My love for plants and helping people learn, hmm. But how would one even begin? I just showed up and talked into a mic at the station, and that was long ago. I would need to figure out a lot of things, but learning it all would keep me busy, and maybe that’s a hobby all in itself. I was almost sold on the idea.
But then something very serendipitous happened. I was at Murph Moyer’s funeral, which was such a sad occasion since Murph had just had a hair transplant he was very excited about, and had planned a trip to the Bahamas to swim with the pigs. I guess that’s a thing… He even bought a bottle of spray tan on Amazon, and then just like that, a fall on the ice on his way down to The Angry Trout for a pint one night and that was it. And now he looks orange in his casket, poor Murph, and he never even got to put his new hair to good use. It’s like that these days, though. When you get to be our age, you start receiving invitations to a lot more funerals. And part of you gets used to it, but the main part of you never does.
At the reception, I was chatting with Rosie and Susan by the punch bowl. We were sitting in metal folding chairs and holding little slices of white cake on napkins when I noticed Winny pouring a long pull of scotch into a Santa Claus coffee mug and sitting by herself next to a fake ficus in need of dusting. She was hunched over her drink, and I saw her dot her eye with the corner of a napkin, so I excused myself and went to sit with her.
I could tell it wasn’t her first scotch because she had a glassy-eyed look and loose lips, but that’s a good thing. It was easy to get her to confide in me and tell me why she’d missed our bridge game last Tuesday and what in the world was the matter. I mean, I know her husband passed only a couple of months ago, of course. But he’d been battling severe diabetes complications and was in the hospital for who knows how long. He was even left unable to speak after a diabetes-induced stroke. Lord help him. It was a mercy, really, him passing. It was very expected. So I am quite surprised at what Winny tells me—that she thinks her husband was murdered and didn’t die of natural causes. Well, I had to set my punch on the floor next to me and rest my hand on my heart a moment.
“Sweetheart, why would you say that? Otis was so sick, bless him,” I say to her, placing my hands on her knees. I thought she lost the plot, if I’m honest, but I was still going to be sympathetic. She picks at Santa’s chipping glitter beard and talks into her lap.
“Something wasn’t right there,” she says with a haunted look on her face.
“What do you mean, love?” I ask, trying to look in her eyes so she’s forced to look back at me, but she continues to mumble. And I suppose I would speak quietly too if I were saying the crazy thing she was about to say.
“Someone there killed him,” she whispers.
“At the hospital?”
“Yes, Florence. I… Yes. I’m not just—I’m not crazy. I’m not making shit up.”
“Of course you’re not, dear,” I say, but I don’t really mean it. “Well, did you tell the police?” I ask, because what else does one ask in this sort of situation? “Of course, but they don’t believe me. I can tell. They say they’ll ‘have a look,’ whatever that means, but I know when I’m being condescended to. They will not have a look. Plus that old detective Riley has a head full of chipped beef. Has he ever helped anyone solve anything in this town?” she asks, becoming louder and more agitated as she goes. She puts her mug down and takes a deep breath.
To be fair, the only crime I can remember happening in the last few years in this town, besides petty bike theft or drunk fistfights, is the tragedy that happened to Mack and Shelby that terrible night last year, but I can’t blame Riley for that. It absolutely baffled everyone. He does have a head full of chipped beef though, I’ll give her that.
“Why would you think something like that, love? You know all of the hospital workers,” I say, which is a given. She pretty much knows everyone around here. “You think one of them hurt Otis? That’s…” I stop, because I don’t know what to say. It’s absurd and makes me worry for Winny. I wonder if she’s gone around telling other people this sort of thing.
“He told me,” she says, and since I know he was unable to speak, now I really zip my lip and just look over at the bottle of scotch on the refreshments table with a longing gaze, wondering how to kindly extract myself from the conversation.
“Something’s goin’ on around here, Flor. Something is happening. First Shel and Mack, and poor Leo wherever the hell he really is. Now this.” It’s strange to hear someone say “poor Leo,” because the general, mostly unspoken consensus is that he’s a rat bastard who ghosted his wife. I hope I’m using that term correctly. Ghosted. Anyway, I wonder if it would be rude to lean over and pick a few cucumber sandwiches off of the table while she’s talking. I do hate to be rude, but I really am famished, and I know Liddy Wingfield made them, and she uses the pimento cream cheese on them, which is a dream.
Before I can decide, Winny leans in conspiratorially.
“Can I show you something?” she asks.
“Of course,” I agree, giving up on my chance for a cucumber sandwich as she motions for me to follow her. The reception is at Dusty Waltman’s house because he and Murph were very good friends. I suppose he’s a nice enough man, I just can’t get past the urge to take a bottle of Pledge and a washrag after him each time I hear the name Dusty. Not his fault, I suppose, and his house is quite tidy, although too drafty for my taste.
Even so, I follow Winny down his front hall with the brown plaid wallpaper and creaky wood floors, and we pull our coats from a pile of other sad-looking black and navy down coats draped over an old steamer trunk near the door and walk out into the frozen air. It’s so cold the snow is having trouble trying to fall, and it swirls around the lampposts in light, icy specks. Before I can complain about freezing to death, I hear “My Heart Will Go On” start to play inside, and now I’m happy to be out here, so I give her a minute as I shift from foot to foot and blow on my hands while she pulls something from her pocket. Why do they play songs like that at funerals? Everyone is already sad, and now I can hear sobs from inside. I hope they play “Another One Bites the Dust” at my funeral. And have it at a Dave & Buster’s, where everyone will get free mojitos and play free SkeeBall, and not in a drafty house with peely wallpaper and stale sheet cake.
Winny finally fishes out whatever it is she’s been digging for, then shoves the pieces of a ripped-up sheet of paper at me. I take it, examining it and have no idea what the hell she’s playing at.
“What is it?” I ask. She takes the papers back, swipes a layer of snow off of Dusty’s porch swing, and sits. I sit next to her, and she lays them out on her knees.
“Look,” she says, and I do. I see a scrap with the words “Help me” scrawled across it, and another that reads “Trying to kill me.” But the words before it are torn away. She stares at me, waiting for a response. “Well, what is this?” I ask. “Otis wrote it. Look! This is the clearest one.” She puts a scrap on top of the others. It says, “You have to tell someone what’s happening here.” The last part says, “Warn Mack and Shel…” but the end of her name is torn away.
“See,” she says, “and then it stops, like he couldn’t finish.”
“I don’t… Why is this in scraps? Why would he write this?” I’m shivering from the cold, and my words come out in white puffs.
“All I can think is that he was trying to get this note to me. Maybe something happened when I went home that last night, because he was gone by morning and he never had a chance to give it to me. And then I think back to all the people who were in the room when I was there, and maybe he couldn’t risk giving it to me then, but I was there so much it’s all a blur. I can’t keep it all straight. I found it just a few days ago in the wooly sweater he always wore over his hospital gown. It was sitting in a bag for weeks and then I went through it all and… God. He was begging for help. I’ll never forgive myself. Maybe he didn’t want someone to find he’d written it—someone he was afraid of. I don’t know,” she says, tears welling in her eyes as she pushes the paper shreds back into her pocket.
“Why else would it be torn up?” she asks before I even have a chance to respond to all this shocking information. “I mean, that’s all that makes sense, right? For why it’s torn up? It’s like he was afraid of someone finding it, I mean why else? He was trying to warn me—to get help, and he was afraid the person who was after him would find it. I know how that sounds, but I have gone over this a million times in my head, and what other reason could there be?”
“Shit” is all I manage to say.
“My poor Otis, I couldn’t help him and he was all alone there with someone trying to hurt him. But who would want to hurt Otis? I mean, who in the world?” she says, and that’s exactly what I was going to ask.
“And you told all of this to Detective Riley?” I ask.
“Yeah right. What do you think he’d say—that Otis had a stroke and we didn’t know the extent of the damage, so this was probably some delusion or paranoia?” she says, and he would have a point, of course. “But I know my Otis, and he seemed different those last days. I know, of course, a stroke makes people different, but I still know him, Florence. I know him, and I saw his eyes change. Now I think it was fear, not just being sick, but…this…” She half motions to the papers in her pocket.
“I can’t let it go. I can’t have his cries for help literally in my hand and blow it off as paranoia. I need to find out the truth. And fine, people can think whatever they want about me, but what about Mack…and poor Shelby Dawson. It was a warning to them too.”
“You think he meant they’re in danger?” I ask. She closes her eyes and blows a cone of white mist into the frozen air, shaking her head. “I don’t know,” she says. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“This could all be connected,” I sort of mumble to myself, thinking about any reason why, even if he was suffering from some delusion, he would bring Mack and Shelby into it. That’s pretty specific for a delusional man’s imaginings. Winny holds her head in her hands and I put my arm around her shoulder. We shiver together for a few moments.
“I believe you,” I say.
“You do?” she asks, straightening up and looking at me with wet, desperate eyes.
“If there’s some motherfucker out there responsible for this, we’re gonna find him,” I say. She puts her arms around me and cries while I hold her and tell her it’s going to be okay.
And that’s the moment everything was set in motion. I didn’t know it then, but hunting a killer would become my new hobby, not gardening, as it turns out.
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Helaine stumbled forward, unable to see through the black void that surrounded her. She could feel the shoulders of the others jostling on either side. The smell of unwashed bodies rose, mingling with Helaine’s own. Her hand brushed against a rough wall, scraping her knuckles. Someone ahead tripped and yelped.
Hours earlier, when Helaine had been brought from her underground cell at the police station into the adjacent holding area, she was surprised to see other women waiting. She had not encountered anyone since her arrest. She had studied the women, who looked to be from all walks of life, trying to discern some commonality among their varied ages and classes that had caused them to be here. There was only one: they were Jews. The yellow star they wore, whether soiled and crudely sewn onto a worn, secondhand dress or pressed crisply against the latest Parisian finery, was identical—and it made them all the same.
They had stood in the bare holding area, not daring to speak. Helaine was certain that her arrest had been some sort of mis take. She had done nothing wrong. They had to free her. But even as she thought this, she knew that the old world of being a French citizen with rights was long gone.
An hour passed, then two. There was nowhere to sit, and a few people dropped to the floor. An elderly woman dozed against the wall, mouth agape. But for the slight rise and fall of her chest, she might have been dead. Hunger gnawed at Helaine and she wished that she still had the baked goods she purchased at the market just before she was taken. The meager breads, which had seemed so pathetic days earlier, now would have been a feast. But her belongings had been confiscated at arrest.
Helaine looked upward through the thin slit of window near the ceiling. They were still in Paris. The sour smell from the city street and the sounds of cars and footsteps despite the curfew were familiar, if not comforting. How long they would stay here, she did not know. Helaine was torn. She did not want to remain in this empty room forever. Yet she also dreaded leaving, for wherever they were going would surely be worse.
Finally, the door had opened. “Sortir!” a voice ordered them out in native French, reminding Helaine that the policemen, who had brought them here and who were keeping them captive, were not Germans, but their own people.
Helaine had filed into the dimly lit corridor with the others. They exited the police station and stepped outside onto the pavement. At the sight of the familiar buildings and the street leading away from the station, Helaine momentarily considered fleeing. She had no idea, though, where she would go. She imagined running to her childhood home, debated whether her estranged mother would take her in or turn her away. But the women were heavily guarded and there was no real possibility of escape. Instead, Helaine breathed the fresh air in great gulps, sensing that she might not be in the open again for quite some time.
The women were herded up a ramp toward an awaiting truck. Helaine recoiled. They were being placed in the back part of the vehicle where goods should have been carried, not people. Helaine wanted to protest but did not dare. Smells of stale grain and rotting meat, the truck’s previous cargo, assaulted her nose, mixing with her own stench in the warm air. It had been three days since she had bathed or changed and her dress was wrinkled and filthy, her once-luminous black curls dull and matted against her head.
When the women were all inside the truck, the back hatch shut with an ominous click. “Where are they taking us?” someone whispered. Silence. No one knew and they were all too afraid to venture a guess. They had heard the stories of the trains headed east to awful places from which no one ever returned. Helaine wondered how long the journey would be.
As they bumped along the Paris streets, Helaine’s bones, already sore from sleeping on the hard prison cell floor, cried out in pain. Her mouth was dry and her stomach empty. She wanted water and a meal, a hot bath. She wanted home.
If home was a place that even existed anymore. Helaine’s husband, Gabriel, was missing in Germany, his fate unknown. She had scarcely spoken with her parents since before the war. And Helaine herself had been taken without notice. Nobody knew that she had been arrested or had any idea where she had gone. It was as if she simply no longer existed.
To distract herself, Helaine tried to picture the route they were taking outside the windowless truck, down the boulevards she had just days earlier walked freely, past the cafés and shops. The familiar locations should have been some small comfort. But this might well be the last time she ever came this way, Helaine realized, and the thought only worsened her despair.
Several minutes later, the truck stopped with a screech. They were at a train station, Helaine guessed. The back hatch to the truck opened and the women peered out into pitch blackness. “Raus!” a voice commanded. That they were under the watch of Germans now seemed to confirm Helaine’s worst fears about where they were headed. “Schnell!” Someone let out a cry, a mix of the anguish and uncertainty they all felt.
The women clambered from the truck and Helaine stumbled, banging her knee and yelping. “Quiet,” a woman’s voice beside her cautioned fearfully. A hand reached out and helped her down the ramp with an unexpectedly gentle touch.
Outside the truck it was the tiniest bit lighter, and Helaine was just able to make out some sort of loading dock. The group moved forward into a large building.
Now Helaine found herself in complete darkness once more. This was how she had come to be in an unfamiliar building, shuffling forward blindly with a group of women she did not know, uncertain of where they were going or the fate that might befall them. She could see nothing, only feel the fear and confusion in the air around her. They seemed to be in some sort of corridor, pressed even more closely together than they had been. Helaine put her hand on the shoulder of the woman in front of her, trying hard not to fall again.
They were herded roughly through a doorway, into a room that was also unlit. No one moved or spoke. Helaine had heard rumors of mass executions, groups of people gassed or simply shot. The Germans might do that to them now. Her skin prickled. She thought of those she loved most, Gabriel and, despite everything that had happened, her parents. Helaine wanted their faces, not fear, to be her final thought.
Bright lights turned on suddenly, illuminating the space around them. “Mon Dieu!” someone behind her exclaimed softly. Helaine blinked her eyes, scarcely daring to believe what she saw. They were not in a camp or a prison at all. Instead, they were standing in the main showroom of what had once been one of the grandest department stores in Paris.
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A confidence scheme, when properly executed, will follow five movements in close and inviolable order:
I. The Mark.
Wherein a fresh quarry is perceived and made the object of the closest possible study.
II. The Intrusion.
Wherein the quarry’s outer layers must be pierced, his world peeled open…
III. The Ballyhoo.
Where a golden opportunity shall greatly tempt and dazzle the quarry…
IV. The Knot.
Wherein the quarry is encircled by his new friends, and naysayers are sent gently on their way…
V. All In.
Where all commitments are secured, and the business is happily—and irrevocably—concluded.
A coda: there may be many counterstrikes along the way, for such is the nature of the game; it contains so many sides, so many endless possibilities…
Rulebook—1799.
Day One
The Mark
1
Quinn
Five days earlier
Here was how it began. Four miles east of Berkeley Square, a few turns from Fashion Street and several doors down from the synagogue, stood a humble old house in Spitalfields. Four floors high, four bays across. Rose-colored shutters, a green trim to the door. A basement kitchen hidden from the street, and a colony of house sparrows nesting in the eaves, feasting on bread crusts and milk pudding scrapings.
On the first floor, behind peeling sash windows, stood Quinn Le Blanc.
She changed her gloves. She had a fine selection at her disposal, per her exalted rank in this neighborhood—chevrette kid, mousquetaire, pleated gloves for daytime, ridged ones for riding, silk-lined, fur-edged. All shades, too—dark, tan, brandy, black, mauve. No suede, of course. And no lace: nothing that could snag. The purpose of the glove was the preservation of the skin. Not from the sun, not from the cold.
From people.
She pulled on the French kid—cream-colored with green buttons—flexed her fingers, tested the grip. For she was the reigning Queen of Fives, the present mistress of this house; the details were everything.
“Mr. Silk?” she called from the gaming room. “Have you bolted the rear doors?”
His voice came back, querulous, from the stairs. “Naturally I have.” Then the echo of his boots as he clumped away.
The gaming room breathed around her. It was hot, for they kept a good strong fire burning year-round, braving incineration. But now she threw cold water on the grate, making the embers hiss and smoke. She closed the drapes, which smelled as they always did: a tinge of tobacco and the sour tint of mildew. Something else, too: a touch of cognac, or absinthe—one of the prior queens had enjoyed her spirits.
Quinn examined the room, wondering if she should lock away any valuables for the week. Of course, she had no fears of not returning on schedule, in triumph, per her plan—but still, she was venturing into new and dangerous waters. Some prudence could serve her well. The shelves were crammed with objects: hatboxes, shoeboxes, vinegars, perfume bottles, merino cloths, linen wrappings. But then she decided against it; she despised wasting time. The most incriminating, valuable things were all stored downstairs, in the bureau.
The bureau contained every idea the household ever had, the schemes designed and played by generations of queens. It stood behind doors reinforced with iron bolts, windows that were bricked up and impassable. It was safe enough, for now.
“Quinn?” Silk’s voice floated up the stairs. “We must be punctual.”
“We will be,” she called back with confidence.
Confidence was all they had going for them at the Château these days.
The Château. It was a pompous name for a humble old house. But that was the point, wasn’t it? It gave the place a sense of importance in a neighborhood that great folk merely despised. There were tailors and boot finishers living on one side, cigar makers and scholars on the other, and a very notorious doss-house at the end of the road. Quinn had lived in it nearly all her life, alongside Mr. Silk.
Quinn descended the creaking staircase, flicking dust from the framed portraits lined along the wall. They depicted the Château’s prior queens, first in oils, later in daguerreotype, with Quinn’s own picture placed at the foot of the stairs. Hers was a carte de visite mounted in a gilt frame, adorned with red velvet curtains. In it, Quinn wore a thick veil, just like her predecessors. She carried a single game card in one hand, and she was dressed in her inaugural disguise—playing the very splendid “Mrs. Valentine,” decked in emerald green velvet, ready to defraud the corrupt owners of the nearby Fairfield Works. She was just eighteen, and had already secured the confidence of the Château’s other players—and she was ready to rule.
That was eight years ago.
Quinn rubbed the smeared glass with her cuff. The house needed a good spring clean. She’d given up the housekeeper months ago; even a scullery maid was too great an expense now. Glancing through the rear window, she caught her usual view of the neighborhood—rags flapping on distant lines, air hazed with smoke. The houses opposite winked back at her, all nets and blinds, their disjointed gardens tangled and wild. She fastened the shutters, checking the bolts.
Silk was waiting by the front door. “Ready?” He was wearing a bulky waistcoat, his cravat ruffled right up to his chin. His bald head shone in the weak light.
Quinn studied him, amused. “What have you stuffed yourself with?”
“Strips of steel, if you must know.”
“In your jacket?”
“Yes.”
“For what reason?”
“My own protection. What else?”
Quinn raised a brow. “You’re developing a complex.”
“We’re living in a violent age, Le Blanc. A terribly violent age.”
Silk was forever clipping newspaper articles about foreign agitators, bombs being left in fruit baskets on station platforms.
“Stay close to me, then,” Quinn said, hauling open the front door, squinting in the light.
Net curtains twitched across the road. This was a quiet anonymous street, and the location of the Château was a closely guarded secret, even among their kind. But the neighbors kept their eyes on the Château. Nobody questioned its true ownership: the deeds had been adulterated too many times, sliced out of all official registers. In the 1790s, it was inhabited by an elusive Mrs. B—(real name unknown). Some said she’d been a disgraced bluestocking, or an actress, or perhaps a Frenchwoman on the run—a noble comtesse in disguise! She caught the neighborhood’s imagination; they refashioned her in their minds. B—became “Blank,” which in time became “Le Blanc.” Her house was nicknamed le Château. Smoke rose from the chimneys; queer characters came and went; the lights burned at all hours. Some said Madame Le Blanc had started a school. Others claimed it was a brothel.
In fact, it was neither.
It was something much cleverer.
The Queen of Fives. They breathed the title with reverence on the docks, down the coastline. A lady with a hundred faces, a thousand voices, a million lives. She might spin into yours if you didn’t watch out… She played a glittering game: lifting a man’s fortune with five moves, in five days, before disappearing without a trace.
The sun was inching higher, turning the sky a hard mazarine blue. “Nice day for it,” Quinn said, squeezing Silk’s arm.
Silk peered upward. “I think not.” He’d checked his barometer before breakfast. “There’s a storm coming.”
Quinn could feel it, the rippling pleasure down her spine. “Better and better,” she replied. “Now, come along.”
They made an unassuming pair when they were out in public. An older gentleman in a dark and bulky overcoat, with a very sleek top hat. A youngish woman in dyed green furs, with a high collar and a sharp-tilted toque. He with his eyes down, minding his step. She with her face veiled, gloves gripped round an elegant cane. Always listening, watching, rolling dice in their minds.
Silk and Quinn had a single clear objective for the day. Audacious, impossible, outrageous—but clear. He showed her his appointment book: Three p.m.—Arrive in ballroom, Buckingham Palace, en déguisé.
“In disguise? Doesn’t that go without saying?”
“You tell me. Has your costume been delivered?”
“Not yet. But we have a more serious impediment.”
“Oh?” he asked her.
“I’ve still not received my invitation card to the palace.”
They turned into Fournier Street. Silk tutted. “I’ve dealt with that. Our old friend at the Athenaeum Club will oblige you.”
“You’re quite sure? We’ve never cut it so fine before.”
“Well, you might need to prod him a little.”
“Just a little?”
“The very littlest bit, Quinn.”
Unnecessary violence was not part of their method. But persuasion—well, that was essential. Let’s call a spade a spade: the Château was a fraud house, a cunning firm, a swindler’s palace ruled by a queen. It made its business by cheating great men out of their fortunes. In the bureau stood the Rulebook, its marbled endpapers inscribed with each queen’s initials, setting the conditions of their games.
And this week the Queen of Fives would execute the most dangerous game of her reign.
Quinn paused outside the Ten Bells. “Very well. We can’t afford any slips. I’ll go to the Athenaeum now. Anything else?”
Silk shook his head. “Rien ne va plus.” No more bets.
They gripped hands. He gave her his usual look: a fond gaze, then a frown. “Play on, Le Blanc.”
She grinned at him in return. “Same to you, old friend.”
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I sat shivering on a low stool in our farmhouse kitchen. The frosty air stung my cheeks and chilled my hands and feet until they hurt. To warm up, I rubbed my arms and legs. Though it never snowed in southern China, this winter in the sixth year of Emperor Guangxu’s reign felt brutally cold. Normally, I would still be curled beneath our patched quilt, but my aa noeng had woken me at first light.
“We are going on an adventure today,” she announced, turning to me with a basin of boiling water. For the first time in months, her thin, pale face broke into a smile. But it wasn’t a proper sparkling smile, like the ones she used to shower on me before my aa de died. This smile looked stiff, and her eyes remained dull.
“I’m taking you to Canton City,” she continued. “Farmer Tang will give us a ride on his cart.” She poured cold water into the basin. I squealed, clapping with delight. I had never been to Canton City, but I had heard all about it from traveling storytellers. Peddlers prowled the streets, selling sugared plums, sweet buns and roasted chestnuts. My belly grumbled at the thought of them, reminding me that I had not eaten since yesterday’s bowl of watery congee. The storytellers also boasted of traveling acrobats, men who swallowed live snakes, and puppet shows.
“Is Little Brother coming too?” I asked.
“He is too young,” she said. “I’ve sent him to our neighbor for the day. This is a mother-and-daughter trip.”
“Why are we going?” “Little girls should not ask questions,” she chided. “Good girls keep quiet, follow rules and obey grown-ups.” Her tone was mild, but her face sagged with misery, frightening me into silence.
She knelt in front of me, cradling my golden lilies in her palms. “Do you remember why I started binding your feet when you were only four?” she asked.
“Because…because…” I shook my head. With a heavy sigh she explained, “Other six-year-old girls in our village wouldn’t start foot-binding until now. Some farming families might even wait until their daughter is seven or eight, if they’re desperate for an extra worker around the house. But that is risky. Do you know why?”
I shook my head again. “The bones might already be too stiff to be shaped. I love you so much that I bound your feet two years ago, as though you’re a little lady, to make sure you get perfect golden lilies so you can be like Consort Yao Niang. Do you remember her story?”
“I do!” Eager to impress her, I merrily recited the bedtime tale she had often told me. “Once upon a time, before the Manchu invaded and when China was cut up into lots of little kingdoms, like a patchwork quilt, there lived an emperor called Li Yu. He loved to see new things. One day he asked his many, many wives to surprise him with a new dance. Everyone tried but no one was good enough except Yao Niang. She wrapped her feet into crescents and danced on her toes!”
“What else?” she quizzed.
I frowned.
She prompted, “The emperor was so impressed that he promoted her to Royal Imperial Consort—”
“Oh!” With a bounce I finished her sentence, “So no other wife could boss Yao Niang around except the empress. All the ladies of the court copied her and soon rich girls across the country started to do the same. Now all re-respectable girls have bound feet. And the most loving mothers make sure their daughters have perfect four-inch golden lilies.”
I expected the rest of my speedy answer would earn praise, especially since I had only stumbled on two characters, but Aa Noeng’s lips trembled. I reached out to hug her, but she shook her head as she straightened her back and smoothed her faded tunic-blouse, ou.
“Even the poorest boy might hope to pass the imperial exams and become a mandarin if he is clever and studious,” she said, “but a girl’s only chance for a better life is through her golden lilies. This is my priceless gift to you. No matter what happens, I want you always to remember how much I love you. You’re my precious pearl. Do you understand?”
“I love you this much too!” I swung my arms behind my back until my palms touched. But she didn’t return my smile.
“Why is it important to have perfect four-inch golden lilies?” she asked.
“To get a good marriage,” I chirped. “Matchmakers and mothers-in-law like tiny feet. Golden lilies are proof of a girl’s goodness.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Only girls with immense endurance and discipline can get perfect golden lilies. This is what mothersin-law from nice families want for their sons.” She squeezed my hands and asked, “Do you want to marry into a nice family when you grow up?”
“Yes.”
“How do you get four-inch golden lilies?” she asked.
“I must sit very still when you clean my feet and change my bandages.”
“What else?”
“I mustn’t complain when you tighten the bindings.”
“That’s true,” she replied slowly. “But…” After a long pause she said, “You are a big girl now. It’s time you learned to take care of your golden lilies yourself.”
“I’m still little!” I protested, alarmed by her grave tone.
“Watch carefully,” she instructed. She unraveled the binding and eased my left foot into the basin of warm water. She massaged away the dead skin on the sole and between my toes. Next she trimmed my toenails and wrapped my foot in a towel before sprinkling alum onto it.
“Be sure to use a generous amount of alum,” she said. “It wards off sweat and itch.”
She wound a length of clean, dark blue cotton around and around my foot. The pressure increased with each layer until my foot throbbed and my eyes ached with unshed tears. I had to use all my willpower not to groan. She continued to wrap the bindings, much more tightly than usual. I tried to pull my foot away. She gripped it harder. “Stay still,” she ordered.
“Aa Noeng,” I cried. “It hurts too much.”
“Hush,” she said. “One day these golden lilies will bring you a good marriage. You will wear silk and live in a house with tiled floors. Best of all, you will never go hungry again.”
My whimpering faded as she continued to talk about the tasty food that would fill my belly when I become a bride in a wellto-do family. Finally, she eased my foot into my best pair of indigo cotton shoes. She pushed the basin toward me.
“Now you must do the same for your right foot,” she said.
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From shy Austrian princess to vilified French queen.
“I am the venom in your veins…”
To this day, Marie Antoinette remains a very polarizing and controversial queen. Known for her extravagant fashion and luxurious lifestyle, she quickly became the hated symbol of aristocratic indulgence and depravity. The Revolutionists made her the scapegoat for all of their rage, which led her to the scaffold.
This poetry book captures Marie Antoinette’s journey from leaving Versailles in 1789 to navigating the Reign of Terror and her untimely demise in 1793. A journey compiled by despair and loss—but that ultimately forged the path for Marie Antoinette to showcase her bravery and resilience. Told in the point of view of the unfortunate Queen, you will experience the highs and lows of her years in captivity. From gilded queen to widow Capet—this book explores Marie Antoinette’s plight in a way that is both intimate and raw. Experience history like you never have before in these poems that read like confessions and leave a mark long after you’ve reached the end.
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A curse. A castle. Strange noises in the dark. What could possibly go wrong?
Thirteen authors explore the chilling theme of Gothic Literature with a modern twist. In this collection you will find fairytale retellings, folklore, and atmospheric settings bound to seduce as much as it unsettles.
Stories included:
Strega by Azzurra Nox
The Howling Places by L.E. Daniels
Moonlight Sonata by Grace R. Reynolds
Green Eyes by DW Milton
Kiss Me To Sleep by Pauline Yates
Ring of Blood, Ring of Ashes by Jasmine De La Paz
Please Serve Cold by Rachel Bolton
Thief of Dreams by Elana Gomel
The Secret of Thornwick Hall by Alyson Faye
Becoming The Deathless by Joni Chng
The Lady and the Viper by Kay Hanifen
Ladylike by TM Lunn
The Awakening of Prince Tristan by Marnie Azzarelli
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A haunted woman stalked by a serial killer confronts the horrors of fairy tales and the nightmares of real life in a breathtaking novel of psychological suspense by a Bram Stoker Award–winning author.
It started the night journalist Briar Thorne’s mother died in their rambling old mansion on Chicago’s South Side.
The nightmares of a woman in white pleading to come home, music switched on in locked rooms, and the panicked fear of being swallowed by the dark…Bri has almost convinced herself that these stirrings of dread are simply manifestations of grief and not the beyond-world of ghostly impossibilities her mother believed in. And more tangible terrors still lurk outside the decaying Victorian greystone.
A serial killer has claimed the lives of fifty-one women in the Chicago area. When Bri starts researching the murders, she meets a stranger who tells her there’s more to her sleepless nights than bad dreams—they hold the key to putting ghosts to rest and stopping a killer. But the killer has caught on and is closing in, and if Bri doesn’t answer the call of the dead soon, she’ll be walking among them.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
Briar Rose is devastated by her mother’s death. She can’t seem to focus on her work, nor can she sleep. The first few chapters are a slow fever dream of insomnia perpetuated by grief. But once we meet the serial killer and his intentions to capture and kill Briar so that he can add her to his collection of “beauties” the book really shifts to a faster gear.
I loved the intertwining of Chicago history with the fairytale of Sleeping Beauty. The prose was very dreamy-like and evocative, creating clear images in your mind, but also allowing you to feel Briar’s frequent dream sequences that interweave with the past and present. I really liked Isaac, a man she befriends on one of her walks that helps her use her dreams as a way to find out the truth about the past that can also help with the present, and help find out who the killer is. This isn’t your typical plot-driven thriller, but more a psychological supernatural character driven one. Pelayo masterfully weaves horror, fairytale, and true crime into this novel in ways that couldn’t be pulled off by a less skilled author.
The reader is quickly sucked into the mystery of trying to figure out who the killer is, why Briar has been seeing an older gentleman passing by her home for many years, and who exactly is Mary – the famous ghost known was the Vanishing Hitchhiker of Archer Avenue. There are moments when walking with Briar along the most haunted places in Chicago that the reader can’t help but feel more terror for the characters encountering live people on their trail than any ghosts – as Pelayo likes to remind us that very often it’s people who are the real monsters, and not the supernatural.
This is a must-read for those who love fairytale retellings with a modern, true-crime twist to it. If you have enjoyed Pelayo’s previous books, then you will love this one a lot, as she has truly mastered her literary brand of intertwining magical realism with the grittiness of true crime. Read this for a haunted, and unforgettable experience.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley & Thomas & Mercer for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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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.
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The Inkblotters 