» Historical (non-romance)

The Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor Vampire Slayer {#Book Trailer}

The Book Faery — Thu, 10 May 2012 05:57:40 +0000

The Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor Vampire Slayer came out back in December 2010 but when I came across it today I knew I had to find myself a copy. I don’t believe I’ve read “this side” of Elizabeth Tudor AND I’m looking forward to reading it “as told by Lucy Weston”, who’s better known as the character in Bram Stoker’s Dracula who he turns into a vampire himself. After becoming part of the undead, she preyed upon children walking the streets at night.

If you’ve read it, what did you think about it? Good mix of history and the paranormal? Did you remain engaged from beginning to end not wanting to put the book down as if you might actually miss something?

Sovereign Power. Eternal Pleasure.

Revealed at last in this new vampire saga for the ages: the true, untold story of the “Virgin Queen” and her secret war against the Vampire King of England. . . .

On the eve of her coronation, Elizabeth Tudor is summoned to the tomb of her mother, Anne Boleyn, to learn the truth about her bloodline—and her destiny as a Slayer. Born to battle the bloodsucking fiends who ravage the night, and sworn to defend her beloved realm against all enemies, Elizabeth soon finds herself stalked by the most dangerous and seductive vampire of all.

He is Mordred, bastard son of King Arthur, who sold his soul to destroy his father. After centuries in hiding, he has arisen determined to claim the young Elizabeth as his Queen. Luring her into his world of eternal night, Mordred tempts Elizabeth with the promise of everlasting youth and beauty, and vows to protect her from all enemies. Together, they will rule over a golden age for vampires in which humans will exist only to be fed upon. Horrified by his intentions, Elizabeth embraces her powers as a Slayer even as she realizes that the greatest danger comes from her own secret desire to yield to Mordred . . . to bare her throat in ecstasy and allow the vampire king to drink deeply of her royal blood.

As told by Lucy Weston, the vampire prey immortalized in Bram Stoker’s Dracula, this spellbinding account will capture your heart and soul—forever.

Gallery Books, December 2010

Trade Paperback, 320 pages

ISBN-10: 143919033X

ISBN-13: 9781439190333

BUY THE BOOK… Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Books-A-Million | Powell’s Bookstore

The Secret History of Elizabeth Tudor Vampire… by cosproductions

Book summary taken from Simon & Schuster.

The Courtesan’s Lover {#Book Review}

The Book Faery — Tue, 08 May 2012 01:42:44 +0000

Francesca Felizzi knows she wields an immense power over men. Her patrons see only a carefree courtesan, and they pay handsomely for the privilege of her time. Francesca never saw him coming, the man who cracked her heart open and ruined her for the job. But he’s shown her what a gaudy facade she’s built, and she doesn’t know how to tear it down without taking her beloved daughters with her. The wrong move could plunge all of them into the sort of danger she has dreaded ever since she began her perilous work all those years ago.

An exquisite tale that explores the intricate nature of a mother’s heart. The Courtesan’s Lover draws you close and whispers in your ear. In the tradition of Sarah Dunant and Marina Fiorato, a compelling and vibrant tale from an up-and-coming fresh voice that readers will want to savor. – FROM AMAZON

Paperback: 528 pages
Publisher: Sourcebooks Landmark (May 1, 2012)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1402265883
ISBN-13: 978-1402265884

BUY THE BOOK… Amazon | Barnes & Noble

ABOUT THE AUTHOR… Gabrielle Kimm was born in the north of Scotland, the third of four daughters, but grew up in Sussex. During her late-teens and twenties, she studied and worked in Reading, London and Oxford but then moved back to Sussex, where she’s been ever since, living between the sea and the South Downs, where big skies meet open countryside and where, if you are a seafarer (which she’s not) the tides in the creeks bossily dictate what you can do when, on a daily basis.

She has a BA in English Language and Literature, from the University of Reading, a PGCE in English from the University of Oxford, and an MA in Creative Writing (Distinction) from the University of Chichester.

She’s married with two daughters (currently twelve and sixteen) and a grown-up stepson, and they share their lives with an elderly and charming Lakeland Terrier.

She first thought she might like to be a novelist when she was a child, and her mother bought her a copy of a book called ‘The Far Distant Oxus’, written by two schoolgirls: Katharine Hull and Pamela Whitlock. (The book was re-issued by Fidra Books last year.) She was entranced by it, and it began a longing in her to write her own novel. Being only twelve, and the two authors being fourteen and fifteen, she reckoned then that she had at least two years in which to fulfill her ambition! But as her first novel hits the shelves, some thirty six years later, perhaps in hindsight she has to admit that that assessment was just a little optimistic …

Her time is now divided between her family, her writing and teaching English at a local school. - Edited and taken from author’s website

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS…Gabrielle Kimm brings back one of her characters from The Last Duchess, Francesca Felizzi, the former mistress to the Duke of Ferrara. The Courtesan’s Lover can be read as a stand alone as Francesca is now a sought after Courtesan living a life of luxury and raising her two twin daughters. She has beauty, ambition, smarts, and power over men yet lacks real love until meeting a certain young man and soon after his father. She realizes she wants more and to have it must give up what she’s known. This realization and need to change brings anger to some she must reject which brings danger to her and her girls. Will she and her girls survive the dangers and will she finally have genuine love returned? I recommend you to follow along the pages to discover what Francesca discovers in the end. For those afraid of what they’ll encounter among the pages because of the title, do not fear, it’s only enough to help you understand the lifestyle but not enough to have you blushing too hard. Kimm does an excellent job with giving you just enough.

READ THE EXCERPT

One

The dress I’m going to wear to meet my new Spanish patron has just been delivered-and it is simply gorgeous. I hold the skirts up against me and gaze at myself in the glass. It’s truly one of Bianca’s best. She chose the brocade for me-crimson and gold, straight in from Venice, she said, and she has given the dress the most glorious deep-red underskirt. At least nine yards of fabric in each piece, apparently. It feels thick and heavy and smooth and sumptuous, and it smells of warm spices.

I think I’m looking forward to this evening.

Crossing to my chamber door in my shift, with the skirts bundled in my arms, I call down to my manservant. “Modesto, can you come up and help me put all this on? Cristo said he’d be here before the Angelus strikes, to take me to meet this…what’s his name? Vasquez.”

His voice sounds from the kitchen. “I’m just preparing your lime.”

I had almost forgotten. “Thank you, caro. I’ll come down and get it,” I call back. I lay the heavy skirts carefully across my bed.
Standing at the big table in the kitchen, Modesto has a knife in one hand and a lime in the other. I watch as he inserts the point of the knife just under its skin, about a third of the way down. He scores right around the fruit, then slicing through the rest of the flesh, he separates the two sections. He squeezes most of the juice from the smaller half into a bowl and finally flicks out a couple of stray pips with the tip of the knife. “There you are, Signora,” he says, handing me the little cup he has made and sucking the lime juice from his fingers. “That should do. Go and put that in.”

I run back upstairs to my bedchamber, pull my shift up and out of the way, and, with practiced ease, tuck the lime-skin up inside my body. Modesto seems to know just the most comfortable shape to cut it-I can hardly feel that it’s there.

I hear his footsteps on the stairs, and then he knocks at my chamber door. “You done, Signora?” he says from outside.

“I am,” I say, shaking my shift back down over my legs again. “You can come in. It’s all done. Everything in place. No unwanted offspring. Hopefully.” I smile at him. “Thank you, caro.”

“Come on then, let’s get you ready, Signora. Bum first,” he says, picking up a crescent-shaped, stuffed linen roll. I obediently put my arms up and, standing so close in front of me that I can feel his breath on my cheek, Modesto reaches around my waist and lays the roll in place on my hips, shifting it so it sits where it should, projecting out behind to give me a suitably voluptuous arse. He ties the ribbons neatly in front.
Over my head then go the underskirt and the beautiful brocade overskirt, trailing on the ground round my feet and looking exquisite. I reach for my bodice and hand it to him. “Can you lace me in?”

“Turn around then, Signora,” he says, “and arms up again.”

The bodice is already loose-laced, and the sleeves have been attached. Modesto lifts it up over my arms and head and pulls it down. I wriggle it into place, putting my fingers down inside the top edge to shift my breasts into a more comfortable position. I want them sitting up as high as possible for this dress-and for this occasion. Modesto pulls the laces in tightly and fastens them in a secure bow. My chemise has crumpled inside all the boning-the lawn is so fine that that happens easily-and the folds feel irritating. “Can you pull my shift down for me, caro?” I ask him. “It’s all rucked up.” He obliges, crouching down in front of me, lifting my hem and reaching up into the impossible folds of the skirts, searching for and finding the bottom edge of my chemise. His fingers brush against my thighs. He tugs gently downward, and I can feel the rucks unfolding.

I straighten the V-shaped front of the stomacher and pat it flat, and we are almost there.
Looking down at my chest, and then across at my reflection in my huge glass, I bite down a smile. I asked Bianca to cut this one low-and she has taken me at my word. The neckline is wide-out to the points of my shoulders on each side. It’s been cut deep, and she has lace trimmed it. In fact, it’s only the lace that is covering my nipples. They are virtually on display. I let out a soft breath and touch them with the tips of my fingers.

“He should be suitably impressed, Signora,” says Modesto, smirking slightly.

“Is it too much, do you think, caro?”
“Absolutely not-you look wonderful.” He pauses. “Let’s do your hair.”

Between us we concoct a web of complicated braids, leaving a fair amount of hair down, and then I wind a string of red Murano glass beads through the web. Garnet ear-drops and a heavy gold ring on my little finger, and I think my preparations are complete.
“Stand back, then, and let’s see,” Modesto says.

I stand back and preen, as Modesto frowns in appraisal, his thumbnail caught between his teeth. He stares for a full minute, as I turn this way and that, pushing my chest out and arching my back, arms held out sideways like a dancer, so he can have a full and uninterrupted view of the package I intend to present to my new patron in an hour or so’s time.

Finally, he draws in a long breath and says gravely, “Well, if this doesn’t impress him, he’s either blind or stupid, or would rather be fiddling with some grubby little bardassa’s ill-fitting codpiece.” He smiles at me, and his black eyes crinkle. “You look like a queen, Signora. Go and sit down in your chair and keep yourself clean, and I’ll fetch you some grapes.”
“Thank you.” A thought occurs to me as Modesto turns to leave the room. “Caro, could you run round to the other house after we’ve gone and let Ilaria and the twins know that I won’t be back till the morning? I believe they think I’m coming home tonight.”

He nods a brusque assent.
I’m so glad I didn’t know about limes before I had the girls. I don’t know what I would do without them.

***
I have a cloth over my lap as I eat my grapes, and Modesto has given me a bowl into which I have been told to spit the pips. Cristoforo-the Conte di Benevento, Capitano di Cavallo in the King’s Regiment-is a little late, and while I am waiting, I am entertaining myself by holding the bowl out at arm’s length and trying to spit my pips from increasing distances to test the accuracy of my aim. Cristoforo knocks and enters my chamber just as I am leaning forward and holding the bowl out at full stretch. I have just let fly with one of my pips, and it has just plipped into the bowl, when his face appears around the door. My smile of satisfaction vanishes at his obvious amusement.

“So, this is what the more eminent courtesans do when they’re alone, is it?” he says, grinning.

“Don’t make fun of me!”

“I wouldn’t dare!”

I pretend to scowl. “I was bored and you were late.”
Cristoforo bows low in apology, and I stand up, letting my cloth drop to the floor. His gaze rakes me from head to foot and, much to my satisfaction, it is clear that he approves of what he sees. “You look particularly lovely, if you will allow me to say so,” he says. “My Spanish friend is going to be…overwhelmed, I think.”

“And shall you be jealous of his spending time in my company while you’re away, readying yourself for battle, Cristo?” I say, looking at him. Stocky, crop-haired, heavily muscled, he is struggling to keep his face straight.
“Of course. I shall be devastated-how could I not be?” He puts on a stricken expression, but beneath this, the smile he seems unable to prevent is open and happy, and I don’t believe him for a moment: I doubt he’ll pine for me when he is away. I understand that he will be preoccupied-of course he will, he’s an important soldier-and I know that he is introducing me to this man, Vasquez, out of concern for my well-being while he’s away, but his lack of involvement feels almost insulting. He has, after all, been one of my most regular patrons since I first arrived in Napoli.

“So, are you ready, cara? Shall we go?” he says.

I nod, and together we go down to my front door. Modesto watches us leave the house.

Despite Vasquez’s apartment being well within walking distance, Cristo has come to collect me in a little covered carriage. Inside, it’s very small and smells of warm leather, and my skirts fill the space between the two red velvet bench seats; they billow up in front of me, puffing up much higher than my knees. No floor space can be seen at all, and when Cristo climbs in from the other side and sits down on the seat opposite, he has to push the brocade out of the way to make room for his legs. He taps the roof of the carriage with the hilt of his sword and, with a rumbling lurch and a scrunch of pebbles, we are off.
“Now, listen again,” he says. “I want to make sure you remember exactly what’s going to happen. This needs to go well.”

Feeling a little frisson of excitement-I’ve always enjoyed the moment of introduction to a new patron-I lean forward to hear what he has to say.

“Maestre Vasquez can’t wait to meet you,” Cristo says. “He’s had a meal prepared for the two of you, I believe, so I hope you have an appetite. His is prodigious.”

“I haven’t eaten anything other than a small bunch of grapes since this morning.” I’m starving, if the truth be told.

“Modesto and I have sorted out the financial side of the affair-”
“Yes, he told me.”

“And you’ll be pleased to hear that your new friend will be paying handsomely! More than I do, at any rate. So you’ll be financially secure while I’m away, at least. All you have to worry about now is looking beautiful and doing what you do best.”

I smile at him, pleased at his confidence in me. But I am still a little hurt that he seems so happy to be handing me over to another man.

“When we arrive, I’ll leave you in the care of Maestre Vasquez’s servants, who will help you set up the surprise. They’ve been paid well to keep the details from their master, and they’ll make sure everything runs smoothly.”

And Cristo runs through the exact details of what I am to do, one more time.

***

Cristoforo raises a hand in a final farewell salute as the door closes, leaving me inside with the Maestre’s servants. This is not the front door to the big house in the Via dei Tribunali, but an unimpressive side door that we only reached by stumbling down a cobbled alleyway so narrow that I had to hold my skirts bundled up in front of me, to stop them brushing against the walls and getting stained.

Inside, even in these servants’ quarters, this house is opulent. Cristo was right-my new patron is clearly wealthy. The three young men who are to prepare the “surprise” hustle me down a long covered walkway, one behind me, one on either side, pressing in close, moving fast. They are dressed in old-fashioned, stiff black fustian doublets with starched ruffs, and they all seem intrigued and excited by their task. They are grinning and chattering to each other in Spanish. All three keep glancing around them. It feels clandestine and furtive. I smother a laugh.

“Quick, this way, Señora!” the tallest of the three whispers, in heavily accented Italian this time, pointing to an iron-studded door to our right. He reaches in front of me and opens the door, whereupon, feeling these men’s hands on my shoulders and in the small of my back, I am shuffled through and out of sight. The men close and latch the door, then whistle out their relief at having succeeded in their covert operation so far.

Just inside this door is a spiral staircase-wooden, narrow, winding up and out of sight. My new friends urge me to begin climbing, and with one man in front and two behind, I have little choice in the matter. We soon reach another door, which proves to lead into a beautiful upstairs room: huge and bright, with four great floor-to-ceiling windows, through which the evening sun is blazing in thick, downward-sloping diagonal shafts of yellow light.
At the far end of the room, a table has been laid for two; it is positively glittering with glass and silver, and I can see a spray of some brightly colored flowers in a bowl in the middle. Several dishes, covered by gleaming silver domes, have been placed on a nearby credenza.

I wonder what we shall be eating.
Between each of the windows, facing into the room, stands an ornately carved, cross-framed chair, upholstered in gold-colored silk. And at this end of the room, just near where we are standing, fiercely lit by the sun, is an enormous lettiera-a monumental bed. The carving on this great monster matches that of the chairs, and the hangings are of the same silk. It is as though the bed has been swathed in sunshine.

One of the three servants darts forward now and draws back the bed-hangings. The bed within is made up, with the sheets neatly folded back on one side, away from one of several plump pillows. The latent sense of invitation is irresistible.

I feel my hand being taken. The tallest of the servants, who seems to be the only Italian speaker, is pulling me toward the bed, saying, “Señora, my master arrive very soon. But he not expecting you for another hour. We must get you ready for surprise him.”
I nod. The servant pulls from a pocket in his breeches a roll of a deep red satin ribbon as wide across as the span of my spread hand. This he flicks out to lie widthways across the bed. Then, from under the bed, he drags a bolt of fabric; pulling the whole length of it off its roll by the armful, he flaps it all out, like shaking out a freshly laundered sheet, across the bed on top of the ribbon. This fabric is sheer and golden, almost transparent, and it shimmers in the low light from the window. It’s absolutely beautiful. It is far wider than the bed, though: I watch as the servant leans across and carefully doubles it over, making it two thicknesses deep.

***

“We could deliver you to Vasquez in a carpet, like Cleopatra,” Cristo had suggested.
He seemed excited by the idea, but I demurred. “That’s a horrible idea, Cristo,” I said. “It would probably ruin the dress, which cost a fortune. Any carpet you might be able to find will probably be filthy,and I’ll end up covered in dust and cobwebs and smelling of old wool. Not very attractive. It may have been all very well in ancient Rome, or Egypt or wherever it was, but I don’t fancy it in the slightest, here in Napoli.”

Cristo saw my point in the end, and so we discussed for some time how we might adapt Cleopatra’s plan to suit the occasion. He was wedded to his idea of concealment and would not be moved from it. “People like unwrapping gifts,” he said.

***

“Quick!” the servant says. “Get up here!” He and the other two men help me to seat myself as near to the middle of the bed as we can manage, without creasing my clothes, rumpling the golden fabric, or disturbing the straightness of the ribbon. They almost lift me, in fact. I lie down, both ribbon and gauze stretching out flat on either side of me.

“Ready, Señora?” my new friend asks. His tone is deferential, but his eyes are dancing. He licks his lips, twitching down a smile.

I nod again. “Quite ready, thank you. Just don’t wrap it too tightly. It must be left loose: this dress will be ruined if it’s crushed.” I fold my arms across my chest.
“Maestre Vasquez will be here in moments, Señora,” he assures me, leaning across me and taking the far ends of the sheer length of doubled-over fabric. He lifts it back toward himself, letting it fall so it completely covers me from head to foot. He gently tucks it in under me. Then he takes the other side and folds this back over the first layer, tucking that in on my other side, until all the ends are (so I imagine-I can now see almost nothing) out of sight, and I am neatly wrapped like a big parcel inside four layers of cypress gauze. The last thing I feel is the servant’s hands tying the ribbon around the level of my belly. Not one part of me remains visible: not a wisp of hair, not even the tip of one shoe.

I feel somewhat confined and discover I cannot really move my arms properly, but I suppose it is still more comfortable and sweet-smelling than a carpet would have been.

“Are you quite comfortable, Señora?” my friend asks.

“Quite, thank you,” I reply politely. My words sound oddly muffled.

“We go downstairs, now, and tell Maestre something important is deliver to the upstairs chamber-as soon as he home. He not be long. You wait.”
I hear footsteps, the click of the door closing, and finally a soft and sunlit silence.

As I have been instructed, I wait.

And wait.

And wait.
All I can hear is my own breath, inside my silk cocoon, and the rustling of my skirts as I shift position a fraction.

What will he be like, this Vasquez? Cristoforo has assured me of his wealth, his eminent standing as a senior official in the occupying army, and of his desire for my company. But what sort of man is he? I wonder if I shall enjoy what is about to happen. Will he be gifted in the arts of the bedchamber? Might he even be someone who will turn out to be more to me than a paying patron? Perhaps, in time to come, I shall look back fondly on this evening as the moment something extraordinary began. But then, of course, the converse is just as possible: tonight’s tryst could as easily turn out to be that fateful encounter that every courtesan secretly dreads. Because such fateful encounters do happen. It happened to me all those years ago, after all, did it not? I was lucky to survive that night.

I might not be so fortunate another time.

My scar tweaks as I remember.

But…Cristo made it all sound so enticing the other day.

***
“You tell me you need a new patron-well, what would you say to a Spaniard?” he said.

“A Spaniard? An Inquisitor?”
Cristo laughed. “No, no, no-nothing like that-can’t imagine any of them spending a single scudo on such sinful and wicked activities as a liaison with a courtesan-even one as beautiful as you, Francesca. No, this man’s a tremendously wealthy Maestre de Campo in the Spanish Army. I’ve been working with him for months. Now, I could be wrong, but from what I’ve heard him say, I am given to understand that he’s becoming increasingly desperate for the attentions of a beautiful woman. He rarely goes an hour without mentioning the fact, as it happens.”

I smiled, and Cristo grinned at me. “He’s as rich as Croesus,” he said. I glanced over to where Modesto was standing by the door to my chamber, but my manservant’s face was unreadable.

“He’s young,” Cristo went on, “younger than me, a good soldier-not the brightest, perhaps, but clever enough to have been promoted several times. He’s a bit particular, I suppose you could say. Others might say pedantic, but-”

“I really meant, shall I find him attractive?”
Cristo laughed. “That’s not for me to say, really, is it, cara? Come with me the day after tomorrow, though, and I’ll present you to him-with a suitably ostentatious flourish, I think-and then you can decide for yourself what you think of our young Miguel Vasquez.”

I wanted to know what Modesto thought of this idea before I agreed to anything.

“I think you should do it,” he said after a moment’s pause. “What with the death of the Conte di Vecchio, and now the news that the Signore here is leaving the city”-he nodded toward Cristo, then turned back to me-”you have to think of your financial position. With the likes of Emilia Rosa and that simpering little bitch Alessandra Malacoda rising to such dizzying heights in the city, you’re going to have to make sure you keep pace. Old and decrepit he might well have been, but the Conte di Vecchio had status in Napoli, and his patronage was a godsend last year.”

I looked at my feet and pushed the toe of my shoe down into a knot hole in the floor. He was right, I knew, but, wanting to justify myself, I said, “But I have other patrons. There’s Filippo…”

Modesto rolled his eyes.

Irritated, I added, “And I took on Signor di Cicciano a few weeks ago.”

Cristo’s eyebrows lifted. “That young reprobate? I’ve heard of him. You should be careful, Francesca-I’m surprised you’re still in one piece, from what people have said. I’m serious, you must take care.”

The same thought had occurred to me, on a couple of occasions in the company of this new patron. Michele di Cicciano can be very wild. Perhaps Modesto had a point, I thought. I need someone steady. Rich and steady. At least while Cristo is away.
***

A door bangs somewhere below me. Somebody shouts, and then several male voices rumble incomprehensibly. Heavy footsteps thud on a staircase. My pulse quickens. Perhaps this is him. Oh, dear. Cristo said he had a “prodigious appetite”… What if he is enormous? Shall I end this evening completely flattened? I fiddle my lips between my teeth to redden them, then lick them. I try to lift my arm to pinch color into my cheeks, but the servant has tied the ribbon too tightly, and I can’t reach my face without spoiling the lie of the cloth.

No one comes into the room, however, and within seconds, the sounds from below fade away. My thoughts begin to wander again.

***

The poor Conte di Vecchio. I feel horribly responsible for his death. I told Cristo about it-I said I’d killed him. Oh, I know I didn’t actually do it, but I still feel so guilty about it that it seems to me sometimes that I did. I should never have agreed to see Vicino da Argenta that day, vile man that he is. It was stupid of me. Modesto has always told me I should keep away from him. And if Argenta hadn’t been with me that afternoon, the Conte di Vecchio would still be alive, Modesto would be happy with the money I’m earning, and I wouldn’t be lying here like an oversized birthday present, unable to move, almost entirely ignorant about the man I am to bed.

Cristo was shocked when I told him about the Conte di Vecchio. He had known the old man was dead but not how it had happened.
“I hadn’t seen him for two or three weeks,” I said. “He’d been on a trip, I think.” I pictured the old man-Giovanni Battista, the elderly Conte di Vecchio: stooped, stiff and slow in his movements, the wreck of a once debonair adventurer. Lovemaking had cost him dearly every time, I think, but he had enjoyed it-on the days when he was able to manage it-and on those occasions when his bones had ached too fiercely to permit him to rut, he had just liked sitting in my bed with me and listening to me recite poetry or reading to him from my diaries. He was a dear old thing; he was the means of my establishment here in Napoli, and I am genuinely sorry he’s gone. And not just because of the money, either.

“Go on,” Cristoforo said.

“Well, as I say, he’d been away for ages. So had you.”

“It’s an annoying habit of the army, to request one to work from time to time.”
I ignored his sarcasm. “So, seeing as all my favorites had declined to come and see me, I had to resort to scraping the bottom of the barrel.” I paused. “Vicino da Argenta.”

Cristoforo did not need to comment. The expression of disgust on his face was eloquent.

I gave him a wry smile. “I know-the man’s repulsive.”
“Then why?”

Shame glowed warm in my cheeks as I admitted it. “Because I needed the money.”

Cristoforo shook his head and made a soft “tut” of disbelief with his tongue. The heat in my face flared now with irritation. “Don’t look at me like that!” I said. “I have a living to make just as you do. I have two houses to manage and my children to care for. If the men I prefer choose not to come and see me, I have to make do with the ones I would rather avoid.”

He inclined his head in reluctant acceptance of this.

“Anyway,” I said. “Vicino had come here early on the evening that Giovanni Battista died. He was drunk-which was hardly a surprise-and he was being particularly boring. I had no wish to engage him in conversation, and he seemed incapable of actually doing anything very exciting, so I decided that the best way to deal with the situation was probably just to make sure he couldn’t expect me to talk to him.”

Cristoforo raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“My mother always told me it was ill-mannered to speak with your mouth full.”

Cristo tipped back his head and barked out a laugh. I continued my tale. “And then, the door to my chamber-this chamber-bangs open. Thinking it’s Modesto, I take no notice, and just carry on with what I’m doing-Vicino’s too drunk to care about the interruption-but it isn’t Modesto. It’s Giovanni Battista.”

I had glanced over my shoulder from where I was crouched on the floor in front of Argenta. The expression on his poor face-it’s still haunting me. He looked utterly devastated. He said nothing, just stared at me for several seconds, and then blundered blindly out of the door. I made to follow him, but as soon as I started to stand, bloody Vicino caught my wrist and tried to hold me back, and by the time I had pulled myself from his grasp, the front door had slammed and the Conte di Vecchio had gone.

I explained all this to Cristo, and then finished my story by saying, “Modesto told me how the poor man had staggered off up the street, and then collapsed when he reached the piazza. Several people-including Modesto-tried to help, but it was no good. He was dead in minutes.”

Cristoforo rubbed a hand around his unshaven jaw and puffed out a disbelieving sigh. “Poor old man.”
***

A dove clatter-flaps past the window, startling me out of my reverie. It’s warm here, and the sun is lying across the gauze over my face. I wriggle a little, feeling a prickling tingle in one of my feet.

He has to be here soon.

And then the door opens, banging back against the wall and making me jump.
Oh, Dio! I hope it’s him: I shall feel decidedly foolish, trussed up here like a goose prepared for the table, if it’s anybody else. Several sets of footsteps clack into the room, and I hear men’s voices, speaking in Spanish. One of them is my servant friend from before, I think, but the others are unfamiliar. Their indecipherable conversation rumbles for a moment, and then an order is barked out, the various footsteps retreat, and the door clicks shut.

Somebody strides across the room. I hold my breath. The newcomer pauses, and then I hear soft male laughter, which ends with a cough. A voice says in Italian, “Oh, yes! Juan was quite right-this delivery is indeed ‘significant.’ Well, well, well, I wonder what it can possibly be. Whatever it is, it must be investigated immediately.” This voice, like the servant’s, is breathy and heavily accented, though this man speaks more softly, and his grammar is accurate.

A faint tug near my middle pulls me slightly to one side: he’s undoing the ribbon. Taking his time, he peels back the fabric, bit by bit, leaning over me to untuck the various layers of gauze. I can hear his breath, soft in his nose. Then, after several seconds, blinking in the light, I am finally able to see who has released me from my wrappings: at first he is silhouetted against the window, but then he moves to one side into the shadow of the damask-hung bedpost, and I can make him out more clearly.
Maestre Vasquez-I presume this to be him-must be some thirty years old; he is neat and slightly built, with short dark hair and a tidy beard. Like a mythological faun, he has pointed tips to his ears. On meeting my gaze, his smile broadens, he runs his tongue over his lips, and holding out a hand, he gestures to me to sit up.

“Señora Felizzi? I was not expecting to see you so soon. Or for you to arrive quite so covertly.”

“Signor Vasquez.” I swing my legs around and stand, smoothing out my skirts with my hands. Then, my gaze on his, I drop down into a curtsy, but my would-be patron takes my hand and pulls me back to standing. We are much the same height. He releases my hand, and, stretching out to touch the neckline of my dress, he feels his way softly down from my shoulder, fingering the lace as he goes. His hand moves across the horizontal, then pauses, his eyes widening as he reaches the first of my all-but-exposed nipples. “Are you hungry?” he says, pinching it for a brief second.
I run my tongue over my lips and smile assent.

“I have had food prepared for us. Come and eat.”
Vasquez lifts the covered platters over onto the table. He seats me in one of the two chairs, pulling the other round so he is sitting close to me. Filling our glasses with a tawny-colored wine, he then lifts off the domes. Olives. Some sort of tiny bird’s eggs, nestling in a bed of shredded leaves and little flowers. And oysters. Shucked and gleaming and dressed with lemon slices.

Picking up an olive in his fingers, he offers it to me, obviously expecting to put it directly into my mouth. “Señora?” he asks.

I smile and open my mouth a little. His fingers rest on my lips for a brief second. I turn the fruit over with my tongue, enjoying the briny sharpness, and, having removed the flesh, I push the stone forward so it protrudes from between my teeth. My new friend grins and takes it from me.

“More?” he asks.
I nod.

He repeats the process. Twice.

I reach forward then and pick up an oyster, holding it up for him to eat. He tilts his head back, and, touching his lip with the edge of the shell, I slide the oyster into his mouth. He flicks his head to throw it to the back of his throat and swallows it. As he sits forward again, a thin line of liquor runs down his chin into his beard, and I lean toward him and run the tip of my tongue up the track of the juice, holding the side of his face with my fingers. He smells of brine and incense and garlic.

Letting out a long, slow breath that shivers as it leaves his mouth, he says, “Oh, you are going to be worth every scudo! Benevento sang your praises to the heavens, but I think now that he failed to do you justice.”
“I always hope to please.”

“Your hopes are being fulfilled as we speak, believe me,” he says, picking up another oyster. He raises his eyebrows questioningly. I nod, and he slithers it into my mouth. Its sea-smelling bulk is thick in my throat for an instant and then it’s gone. Vasquez leans forward and runs his tongue along the edge of my lip.

I open my mouth a fraction.

And that, it seems, is invitation enough for him. He stands, takes my hand, and flicks his head toward the great gold-draped edifice on the far side of the chamber. “Come with me, now, Señora,” he says softly.

And, tracing around inside the curve of his palm with my fingertips as we walk, I follow him across the room.

A book was provided in exchange for an honest review.

Garden of Madness {#Book Review}

The Book Faery — Tue, 01 May 2012 07:19:43 +0000

The Untold Story of King Nebuchadnezzar’s Daughter.

For seven years the Babylonian princess Tiamat has waited for the mad king Nebuchadnezzar to return to his family and to his kingdom. Driven from his throne to live as a beast, he prowls his luxurious Hanging Gardens, secreted away from the world.

Since her treaty marriage at a young age, Tia has lived an opulent but oppressive life in the palace. But her husband has since died and she relishes her newfound independence. When a nobleman is found murdered in the palace, Tia must discover who is responsible for the macabre death, even if her own is freedom threatened.

As the queen plans to wed Tia to yet another prince, the powerful mage Shadir plots to expose the family’s secret and set his own man on the throne. Tia enlists the help of a reluctant Jewish captive, her late husband’s brother Pedaiah, who challenges her notions of the gods even as he opens her heart to both truth and love.

Paperback: 400 pages
Publisher: Thomas Nelson; 1 edition (May 1, 2012)
ISBN-10: 140168680X
ISBN-13: 978-1401686802

BUY THE BOOK… Amazon | Christianbook | Barnes & Noble

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…Tracy started her first novel at the age of eight and has been hooked on writing ever since. After earning a B.A. in English Literature at Rowan University, she spent ten years writing drama presentations for church ministry before beginning to write fiction. A lifelong interest in history and mythology has led Tracy to extensive research into ancient Greece, Egypt, Rome and Persia, and shaped her desire to shine the light of the gospel into the cultures of the past.

She has traveled through Greece, Turkey, Egypt, Israel, Jordan and Italy, researching her novels and falling into adventures.

Visit the author’s website.

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS…A little slow at first but excellent once I got over some confusion and had to re-read parts. Lots of secrets within the palace are exposed as Tiamat learns more about her father, the King and about God. I really liked princess Tiamat and doubt any wouldn’t. She was so open, honest, kind-hearted, simplistic, and truly genuine. Even the reading group questions at the end were good to read through and think about afterwards. For those who enjoy reading Christian historical fiction, I’m sure you will enjoy reading about the Tiamat.

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old…or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

AND NOW…THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Prologue

Babylon, 570 BC

My name is Nebuchadnezzar. Let the nations hear it!

I am ruler of Babylon, greatest empire on earth. Here in its capital city, I am like a god.

Tonight, as the sun falls to its death in the western desert, I walk along the balconies I have built, overlooking the city I have built, and know there is none like me.

I inhale the twilight air and catch the scent of a dozen sacrifices. Across the city, the smoke and flames lift from Etemenanki, the House of the Platform of Heaven and Earth. The priests sacrifice tonight in honor of Tiamat, for tomorrow she will be wed. Though I have questioned the wisdom of a marriage with the captive Judaeans, tomorrow will not be a day for questions. It will be a day of celebration, such as befits a princess.

Tiamat comes to me now on the balcony, those dark eyes wide with entreaty. “Please, Father.”

I encircle her shoulders in a warm embrace and turn her to the city.

“There, Tia. There is our glorious Babylon. Do you not wish to serve her?”

She leans her head against my chest, her voice thick. “Yes, of course. But I do not wish to marry.”

I pat her shoulder, kiss the top of her head. My sweet Tia. Who would have foretold that she would become such a part me?

“Have no fear, dear one. Nothing shall change. Husband or not, I shall always love you. Always protect you.”

She clutches me, a desperate grip around my waist.

I release her arms and look into her eyes. “Go now. Your mother will be searching for you. Tomorrow will be a grand day, for you are the daughter of the greatest king Babylon has ever seen.”

I use my thumb to rub a tear from her eye, give her a gentle push, and she is gone with a last look of grief that breaks my heart.

The greatest king Babylon has ever seen. The words echo like raindrops plunking on stones. I try to ignore a tickling at the back of my thoughts. Something Belteshazzar told me, many months ago. A dream.

I shake my head, willing my mind to be free of the memory. My longtime Jewish advisor, part of my kingdom since we were both youths, often troubles me with his advice. I keep him close because he has become a friend. I keep him close because he is too often right.

But I do not want to think of Belteshazzar. Tonight is for me alone. For my pleasure, as I gaze across all that I have built, all that I have accomplished. This great Babylon, this royal residence with its Gardens to rival those created by the gods. Built by my mighty power. For the glory of my majesty. I grip the balcony wall, inhale the smoky sweetness again, and smile. It is good.

I hear a voice and think perhaps Belteshazzar has found me after all, for the words sound like something he would say, and yet the voice . . . The voice is of another.

“There is a decree gone out for you, Nebuchadnezzar. Your kingship has been stripped from you.”

I turn to the traitorous words, but no one is there. And yet the voice continues, rumbling in my own chest, echoing in my head.

“You will be driven from men to dwell with beasts. You will eat the herbs of oxen and seven times will pass over you, until you know that the Most High is ruler in the kingdom of men. To whom He wills power, He gives power.”

The tickling is there again, in my mind. I roll my shoulders to ease the discomfort, but it grows. It grows to a scratching, a clawing at the inside of my head, until I fear I shall bleed within.

The fear swells in me and I am frantic now. I rub my eyes, swat my ears, and still the scratching and scraping goes on, digging away at my memories, at my sense of self, of who I am and what I have done, and I stare at the sky above and the stones below and bend my waist and fall upon the ground where it is better, better to be on the ground, and I want only to find food, food, food. And a two-legged one comes and makes noises with her mouth and clutches at me but I understand none of it and even this knowledge that I do not understand is slipping, slipping from me as the sun slips into the desert.

And in the darkness, I am no more.

Chapter 1

Seven years later

The night her husband died, Tia ran with abandon.

The city wall, wide enough for chariots to race upon its baked bricks, absorbed the slap of her bare feet and cooled her skin. She flew past the Ishtar Gate as though chased by demons, knowing the night guard in his stone tower would be watching. Leering. Tia ignored his attention.

Tonight, this night, she wanted only to run.

A lone trickle of sweat chased down her backbone. The desert chill soaked into her bones and somewhere in the vast sands beyond the city walls, a jackal shrieked over its kill. Her exhalation clouded the air and the quiet huffs of her breath kept time with her feet.

Breathe, slap, slap, slap.

They would be waiting. Expecting her. A tremor disturbed her rhythm. Her tears for Shealtiel were long spent, stolen by the desert air before they fell.

Flames surged from the Tower and snagged her attention. Priests and their nightly sacrifices, promising to ensure the health of the city. For all of Babylon’s riches, the districts encircled by the double city walls smelled of poverty, disease, and hopelessness. But the palace was an oasis in a desert.

She would not run the entire three bêru around the city. Not tonight. Only to the Marduk Gate and back to the Southern Palace, where her mother would be glaring her displeasure at both her absence and her choice of pastime. Tia had spent long days at Shealtiel’s bedside, waiting for the end. Could her mother not wait an hour?

Too soon, the Marduk Gate loomed and Tia slowed. The guard leaned over the waist-high crenellation, thrust a torch above his head, and hailed the trespasser.

“Only Tiamat.” She panted and lifted a hand. “Running.”

He shrugged and shook his head, then turned back to his post, as though a princess running the city wall at night in the trousers of a Persian were a curiosity, nothing more. Perhaps he’d already seen her run. More likely, her reputation ran ahead of her. The night hid her flush of shame.

But she could delay no longer. The guilt had solidified, a stone in her belly she could not ignore.

She pivoted, sucked in a deep breath, and shot forward, legs and arms pounding for home.

Home. Do I still call it such? When all that was precious had been taken? Married at fourteen. A widow by twenty-one. And every year a lie.

“I shall always love you, always protect you.”

He had spoken the words on the night he had been lost to her. And where was love? Where was protection? Not with Shealtiel.

The night sky deepened above her head, and a crescent moon hung crooked against the blackness. Sataran and Aya rose in the east, overlapping in false union.

“The brightest light in your lifetime’s sky,” an elderly mage had said of the merged stars. The scholar’s lessons on the workings of the cosmos interested her, and she paid attention. As a princess already married for treaty, she was fortunate to retain tutors.

Ahead, the Ishtar Gate’s blue-glazed mosaics, splashed with yellow lions, surged against the purpling sky, and to its left, the false wooded mountain built atop the palace for her mother, Amytis, equaled its height. Tia chose the east wall of the gate for a focal point and ignored the Gardens. Tonight the palace had already seen death. She needn’t also dwell on madness.

Breathe, slap, slap, slap. Chest on fire, almost there.

She reached the palace’s northeast corner, where it nearly brushed the city wall, slowed to a stop, and bent at the waist. Hands braced against her knees, she sucked in cold air. Her heartbeat quieted.

When she turned back toward the palace, she saw what her mother had done.

A distance of one kanû separated the wide inner city wall from the lip of the palace roof, slightly lower. Tia kept a length of cedar wood there on the roof, a plank narrow enough to discourage most, and braced it across the chasm for her nightly runs. When she returned, she would pull it back to the roof, where anyone who might venture past the guards on the wall would not gain access. Only during her run did this plank bridge the gap, awaiting her return.

Amytis had removed it.

Something like heat lightning snapped across Tia’s vision and left a bitter, metallic taste in her mouth. Her mother thought to teach her a lesson. Punish her for her manifold breaches of etiquette by forcing her to take the long way down, humiliate herself to the sentinel guard.

She would not succeed.

With a practiced eye, Tia measured the distance from the ledge to the palace roof. She would have the advantage of going from a higher to a lower level. A controlled fall, really. Nothing more.

But she made the mistake of looking over, to the street level far below. Her senses spun and she gripped the wall.

She scrambled onto the ledge, wide enough to take the stance needed for a long jump, and bent into position, one leg extended behind. The palace rooftop garden held only a small temple in its center, lit with three torches. Nothing to break her fall, or her legs, when she hit. She counted, steadying mind and body.

The wind caught her hair, loosened during her run, and blew it across her eyes. She flicked her head to sweep it away, rocked twice on the balls of her feet, and leaped.

The night air whooshed against her ears, and her legs cycled through the void as though she ran on air itself. The flimsy trousers whipped against her skin, and for one exhilarating moment Tia flew like an egret wheeling above the city and knew sweet freedom.

This was how it should always be. My life. My choice. I alone control my destiny.

She hit the stone roof grinning like a trick monkey, and it took five running steps to capture her balance.

Glorious.

Across the rooftop, a whisper of white fluttered. A swish of silk and a pinched expression disappeared through the opening to the stairs. Amytis had been waiting to see her stranded on the city wall and Tia had soured her pleasure. The moment of victory faded, and Tia straightened her hair, smoothed her clothing.

“Your skill is improving.” The eerie voice drifted to Tia across the dark roof and she flinched. A chill rippled through her skin.

Shadir stood at the far end of the roof wall, where the platform ended and the palace wall rose higher to support the Gardens. His attention was pinned to the stars, and a scroll lay on the ledge before him, weighted with amulets.

“You startled me, Shadir. Lurking there in the shadows.”

The mage turned, slid his gaze the length of her in sharp appraisal. “It would seem I am not the only one who prefers the night.”

Long ago, Shadir had been one of her father’s chief advisors. Before—before the day of which they never spoke. Since that monstrous day, he held amorphous power over court and kingdom, power that few questioned and even fewer defied. His oiled hair hung in tight curls to his shoulders and the full beard and mustache concealed too much of his face, leaving hollow eyes that seemed to follow even when he did not turn his head.

Tia shifted on her feet and eyed the door. “It is cooler to run at night.”

The mage held himself unnaturally still. Did he even breathe?

As a child, Tia had believed Shadir could scan her thoughts like the night sky and read her secrets. Little relief had come with age. Another shudder ran its cold finger down her back.

Tia lowered her chin, all the obeisance she would give, and escaped the rooftop. Behind her, he spoke in a tone more hiss than speech. “The night holds many dangers.”

She shook off the unpleasant encounter. Better to ready herself for the unpleasantness she yet faced tonight.

Her husband’s family would have arrived by this time, but sweating like a soldier and dressed like a Persian, she was in no state to make an appearance in the death chamber. Instead, she went to her own rooms, where her two slave women, Omarsa and Gula, sat vigil as though they were the grieving widows. They both jumped when Tia entered and busied themselves with lighting more oil lamps and fetching bathwater.

In spite of her marriage to the eldest son of the captive Judaean king, Tia’s chambers were her own. She had gone to Shealtiel when it was required, and only then. The other nights she spent here among her own possessions—silk fabrics purchased from merchants who traveled east of Babylon, copper bowls hammered smooth by city jewelers, golden statues of the gods, rare carved woods from fertile lands in the west. A room of luxury. One that Shealtiel disdained and she adored. She was born a Babylonian princess. Let him have his austerity, his righteous self-denial. It had done him little good.

One of her women stripped her trousers, then unwound the damp sash that bound her lean upper body. Tia stood in the center of the bath chamber, its slight floor depression poked with drainage holes under her feet, and tried to be still as they doused her with tepid water and scrubbed with a scented paste of plant ash and animal fat until her skin stung.

When they had dressed her appropriately, her ladies escorted her through the palace corridors to the chamber where her husband of nearly seven years lay cold.

Seven years since she lost herself and her father on the same day. Neither of them had met death, but all the same, they were lost. Seven years of emptiness where shelter had been, of longing instead of love.

But much had ended today—Shealtiel’s long illness and Tia’s long imprisonment.

She paused outside the chamber door. Could she harden herself for the inevitable? The wails of women’s laments drifted under the door and wrapped around her heart, squeezing pity from her. A wave of sorrow, for the evil that took those who are loved, tightened her throat. But her grief was more for his family than herself. He had been harsh and unloving and narrow-minded, and now she was free. Tia would enter, give the family her respect, and escape to peace.

She nodded to one of her women, and Gula tapped the door twice and pushed it open.

Shealtiel’s body lay across a pallet, skin already graying. The chamber smelled of death and frankincense. Three women attended her husband—Shealtiel’s sister, his mother, and Tia’s own. His mother, Marta, sat in a chair close to the body. Her mourning clothes, donned over her large frame, were ashy and torn. She lifted her head briefly, saw that it was only Tia, and returned to her keening. Her shoulders rocked and her hands clutched at a knot of clothing, perhaps belonging to Shealtiel. His sister, Rachel, stood against the wall and gave her a shy smile, a smile that melded sorrow and admiration. She was younger than Tia by five years, still unmarried, a sweet girl.

“Good of you to join us, Tia.” Her mother’s eyes slitted and traveled the length of Tia’s robes. Tia expected some comment about her earlier dress, but Amytis held her tongue.

“I was . . . detained.” Their gazes clashed over Shealtiel’s body and Tia challenged her with a silent smile. The tension held for a moment, then Tia bent her head.

She was exquisite, Amytis. No amount of resentment on Tia’s part could blind her to this truth. Though Amytis had made it clear that Tia’s sisters held her affections, and though Tia had long ago given up calling her Mother in her heart, she could not deny that her charms still held sway in Babylon. From old men to children, Amytis was adored. Her lustrous hair fell to her waist, still black though she was nearly fifty, and her obsidian eyes over marble cheekbones were a favorite of the city’s best sculptors. Some said Tia favored her, but if she did, the likeness did nothing to stir a motherly affection.

Tia went to Shealtiel’s mother and whispered over her, “May the gods show kindness to you today, Marta. It is a difficult day for us all.” The woman’s grief broke Tia’s heart, and she placed a hand on Marta’s wide shoulder to share in it.

Marta sniffed and pulled away. “Do not call upon your false gods for me, girl.”

Amytis sucked in a breath, her lips taut.

Tia’s jaw tightened. “He was a good man, Marta. He will be missed.” Both of these statements Tia made without falsehood. Shealtiel was the most pious man she had ever known, fully committed to following the exacting requirements of his God.

Marta seemed to soften. She reached a plump hand to pat Tia’s own, still on her shoulder. “But how could the Holy One have taken him before he saw any children born?”

Tia stiffened and brought her hand to her side, forcing the fingers to relax. Marta rocked and moaned on, muttering about Tia’s inhospitable womb. Tia dared not point out that perhaps her son was to blame.

“But there is still a chance.” Marta looked to Amytis, then to Tia. “It is our way. When the husband dies without an heir, his brother—”

“No.”

The single word came from both her mother’s and her own lips as one. Marta blinked and looked between them.

“It is our way.” Marta glanced at Rachel against the wall, as though seeking an ally. “My second son Pedaiah is unmarried yet. Perhaps Tia could still bear a son for Shealtiel—”

“You have had your treaty marriage with Babylon.” Amytis drew herself up, accentuating her lean height. “There will not be another.”

Tia remained silent. Her mother and she, in agreement? Had Amytis watched her languish these seven years and regretted flinging her like day-old meat to the Judaean dogs? Did she also hope for a life with more purpose for Tia now that she had been released? Tia lifted a smile, ever hopeful that Amytis’s heart had somehow softened toward her youngest daughter.

“Jeconiah shall hear of your refusal!” Marta stood, her chin puckering.

Amytis huffed. “Take the news to your imprisoned husband, then. I shall not wait for his retribution.” She seemed to sense the unfairness of the moment and regret her calloused words. “Come, Tia. Let us leave these women to grieve.” She meant it kindly but it was yet another insult, the implication that Tia need not remain for any personal grief.

Tia followed Amytis from the chamber into the hall, her strong perfume trailing. Amytis spun on her, and her heavy red robe whirled and settled. Her nostrils flared and she spoke through clenched teeth.

“By all the gods, Tiamat! For how long will you make our family a mockery?”

***Special thanks to Ruthie Dean of Thomas Nelson for sending me a review copy.***

The Book of Lost Fragrances {#Book Review + Guest #Author: M.J. Rose}

The Book Faery — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 06:10:21 +0000

I’ve been fascinated with lost fragrances since long before I started writing The Book of Lost Fragrances… since I found a bottle of perfume on my great grandmother’s dresser that had belonged to her mother in Russia. Here is one of those lost fragrances that stirs the senses and the imagination… (researched and described with the help of the perfume writer Dimitrios Dimitriadis)

GUERLAIN – LAVANDE

Guerlain created this soliflore in the 1840s… over 170 years ago! It was reprised again in the 1920′s but was no longer produced beyond WWII. Anything but a ‘typical’ Lavender scent, Lavande has a complex backbone of shimmering citruses, lavender, tumbling florals, vetiver and darker, mossy accords. It is distinctly Guerlain in it’s approach as more of an ‘abstract’ of Lavander than a literal interpretation. Its deeply aromatic heart and exceptionally mossy base are unparalleled in modern perfumery, making it a regrettable loss to the annals of perfume history.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…M.J. Rose is the international best selling author of eleven novels and two non-fiction books on marketing. Her next novel THE BOOK OF LOST FRAGRANCES (Atria/S&S) will be published in March 2012. Her fiction and non-fiction has appeared in many magazines and reviews including Oprah Magazine. She has been featured in the New York Times, Newsweek, Time, USA Today and on the Today Show, and NPR radio. Rose graduated from Syracuse University, spent the ’80s in advertising, has a commercial in the Museum of Modern Art in NYC and since 2005 has run the first marketing company for authors - Authorbuzz.com. The television series PAST LIFE, was based on Rose’s novels in the Renincarnationist series. She is one of the founding board members of International Thriller Writers and runs the blog- Buzz, Balls & Hype. She is also the co-founder of Peroozal.com and BookTrib.com.

Rose lives in CT with her husband the musician and composer, Doug Scofield, and their very spoiled and often photographed dog, Winka.

For more information on M.J. Rose and her novels, please visit her WEBSITE. You can also find her on Facebook.

A sweeping and suspenseful tale of secrets, intrigue, and lovers separated by time, all connected through the mystical qualities of a perfume created in the days of Cleopatra–and lost for 2,000 years.

Jac L’Etoile has always been haunted by the past, her memories infused with the exotic scents that she grew up surrounded by as the heir to a storied French perfume company. In order to flee the pain of those remembrances–and of her mother’s suicide–she moved to America. Now, fourteen years later she and her brother have inherited the company along with it’s financial problems. But when Robbie hints at an earth-shattering discovery in the family archives and then suddenly goes missing–leaving a dead body in his wake–Jac is plunged into a world she thought she’d left behind.

Back in Paris to investigate her brother’s disappearance, Jac becomes haunted by the legend the House of L’Etoile has been espousing since 1799. Is there a scent that can unlock the mystery of reincarnation – or is it just another dream infused perfume?

The Book of Lost Fragrances fuses history, passion, and suspense, moving from Cleopatra’s Egypt and the terrors of revolutionary France to Tibet’s battle with China and the glamour of modern-day Paris. Jac’s quest for the ancient perfume someone is willing to kill for becomes the key to understanding her own troubled past.

Hardcover: 384 pages

Publisher: Atria Books (March 13, 2012)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1451621302

ISBN-13: 978-1451621303

PRE-ORDER NOW for March 23rd release:

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS…First, GORGEOUS cover. I read the digital format but seriously I need to get this book in hardback for 2 reasons. One, GORGEOUS cover…yes I’m saying it again. Can’t help it, I judge books by their covers at first glance, and Rose had me at first glance prior to reading the book summary. Second, it’s a book I could definitely see me reading again.

I was transported between places and times, chapter to chapter, filled with history in the ancient ways, legends, beliefs on past lives and reincarnation, relationship interactions, thriller, and mystery. It was a little much, all the transporting. I think if it only switched between the past and the present of 2 people or 2 couples, it’d be easier to stay connected. The beginning chapters were a tad slow for me, but once danger arrived, the running shoes were on and we were running hard! I’m a huge fan of thriller, history and legends so I really enjoyed this book and can definitely see myself reading this again. If you’re looking for a book that’s filled with history, love, thriller, and mystery- get this book and read it.

I received an e-copy in exchange for an honest review as part of Historical Fiction Virtual Book Tours.

His Last Duchess {#Book Review}

The Book Faery — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 02:10:20 +0000

That’s my last duchess painted on the wall…

Seduced by the hot sun and blinding passions of Renaissance Italy, sixteen-year-old Lucrezia de’ Medici sees a gilded life stretching ahead. Her wealthy new husband handpicked her to be his bride, and his great castle in Ferrara will be her playground. But Alfonso d’Este, Duke of Ferrara quickly proves to be just as dangerous and mysterious as he is dark and handsome, and the stone walls of the castle seem to trap Lucrezia like a prison.

Only the duke’s lover Francesca seems able to tame his increasing fury, as his desperate need to produce an heir drives him deep into precarious obsession. With her head full of heartbroken dreams, Lucrezia flees from him down a dangerous path that may cost her everything.

Step into the elegant world of the Robert Browning poem “My Last Duchess,” as imagined by Gabrielle Kimm, where she brings to life the passions and people of sixteenth-century Tuscany and Ferrara. It is a chilling story of forbidden love and dark decadence that will haunt you.

Paperback: 416 pages
Publisher: Sourcebooks Landmark; Original edition (October 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1402261519
ISBN-13: 978-1402261510

BUY THE BOOK...

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…Gabrielle Kimm is a graduate of the creative writing master’s program at the University of Chichester. She is writing her second novel, The Courtesan’s Lover, which features one of the characters of His Last Duchess as the heroine. www.gabriellekimm.co.uk

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS…Excellent historical fiction about Lucrezia di Medici and her husband Alfonso II, the Duke of Ferrara. Their marriage was twisted; more that HE was twisted and she loved another who she later left for. Kimm does an excellent job making the reader feel as if they themselves are there and writes the story in such a way that you keep turning the pages as fast as you can read. I definitely recommend this to those who enjoy a good historical fiction novel about someone in history.

My Book Rating:

I received a copy for review in exchange for an honest review from Sourcebooks.

The God’s Wife {#Book Review}

The Book Faery — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 13:56:23 +0000

The women of ancient Egypt were the freest of any civilization on earth, until the modern era. In several dynasties of ancient Egypt the God’s Wives of Amun stood tall, priestesses of wealth and power, who represented the pinnacle of female power in the Egyptian state. Many called The God’s Wife of Amun second only to the Pharaoh in dominance. THE GOD’S WIFE follows the adventures of a 16-year-old girl, Neferet, who is thrust into the role of The Gods Wife of Amun without proper training. Surrounded by political intrigue and ensnared by sexual stalking, Neferet navigates the temple, doing her duties, while keeping her family name pristine and not ending up like her predecessor—dead. Meanwhile, a modern-day Chicago dancer, Rebecca, is rehearsing for a role in an ancient Egyptian production and finds herself blacking out and experiencing realistic dreams about life in Egypt. It’s as if she’s coming in contact with Neferet’s world. Are the two parallel worlds on a collision course? They seem to be, for Neferet has just used an old spell to bring protection to her world, and Rebecca meets a mysterious Egyptian man who says he’ll whisk her away to Alexandria. Magic and realism mix for a powerful ending in THE GOD’S WIFE.

Paperback: 275 pages
Publisher: Fiction Std (August 9, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1936558149
ISBN-13: 978-1936558148

BUY THE BOOK…THE GOD’S WIFE is available as an e-book in any electronic format.

For Kindle go to Amazon.com.
For Nook go to Barnesandnoble.com.
For iPad, go to iTunes and shop in the iBookstore.
A paperback is also available at Amazon.com. There you can also order Lynn’s first novel, EXCITED LIGHT.

If you would like an autographed version of the paperback, please contact Lynn at this e-mail address: isisbastet (at) mac (dot) com.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…Lynn Voedisch is a fiction writer and journalist with many years experience working for newspapers and magazines, such as the Chicago Sun-Times, the Los Angeles Times, the Chicago Tribune, Dance magazine and many other publications. She also has worked as and editor and writer/critic for Technorati.com, an online news service. Her previously published novel, is EXCITED LIGHT (ASJA Press). Lynn is a member of the board of directors for the Society of Midland Authors. She lives three blocks from the border of Chicago with her husband and two cats. Her son recently graduated from law school and Lynn looks forward to having a lawyer in the family. Her hobbies are tennis and tai chi.

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS…I believe I have some mixed feelings about The God’s Wife. While I enjoyed the ancient Egyptian portion of the book but I could probably gain more if there had been more for that. I did find myself struggling to read when it came to Rebecca, the modern-day dancer and wanted to get back to Neferet’s story. Do I still recommend the book? Of course! While not all parts were for me, someone else might like that mix between the ancient story and the contemporary.

My Book Rating: 2 out of 4 stars

I received a copy of the book in exchange for an HONEST REVIEW with the Pump Up Your Book Tours.
All opinions stated above are my own.

Today’s B&N #FREE e-books {#Book #Spotlight}

The Book Faery — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 16:43:41 +0000

I love my Nook Color and I love getting free e-books for my Nook even more. So many free books to choose from! If you’d like to be a Nook Friend so we can borrow books between each other, feel free to add thebookfaeryreviews@gmail.com as a friend.

Please note that these were FREE as of TODAY. I can not guarantee that they will be free at a later time from this post. Hopefully you’ll get the chance to download them while they remain free.

Below are today’s latest free finds (click the covers to the download pages)…

SELF-HELP

BUSINESS / FINANCES

ADULT FICTION

CHILDREN’S FICTION

YOUNG ADULT FICTION

CLASSICS

MISCELLANEOUS

Found any new free ebooks lately?

I am a LinkShare affiliate. Some images contain a Linkshare which compensates me a little.

The Question of Theme: How to Project It {Guest #Author: Lynn Voedisch}

The Book Faery — Tue, 20 Sep 2011 20:03:33 +0000

One of the problems most serious authors face is trying to write a book with a theme that blends seamlessly with a plot so that readers get the deeper point of the book while still being entertained. It’s not always easy. If you write an entrancing plot with a minimal theme, here and there a reader will like to go no further than plot-deep into the material and thus, often misses the point of the book. Other times, the writer will makes such an effort to make the theme unavoidable that the reader will feel hit over the head, and a bit offended by the author’s effort.

So, the balance has to be a delicate one. The plot, as every writer knows, can be difficult enough. One must create a storyline that follows a dramatic arc that doesn’t crest too early, lest the writer lose the tension and build-up. There must be a revelatory ending that finishes the book (also known as the denouement), and it all should end on a slight beat of wisdom. Happy endings are not necessary, but something should be learned by the end of the book.

The theme can be woven in by various ways. In my book, “The God’s Wife,” a tale of ancient Egypt, I tell the story of a two women who share one split soul, but I don’t just come out and announce that fact. Instead, I alternate stories between the two women, and have them discover things about themselves that seem similar to the reader (both have overbearing and cold mothers, both have loving boyfriends but interfering would-be suitors, both are dancers, both lack confidence at times to tackle their jobs, etc.). I also throw in chapters where they consider the nature of the soul, and their own feelings of lack or emptiness. I tie it to the events that are happening around them, so these scenes don’t seem out of place. However, it should seem obvious (at least to me!) that the two women don’t feel whole and wonder what is missing in their lives.

Let me say that I’ve been thrilled with the acceptance and appreciation my novel has gotten from all quarters: reviews, personal comments, Amazon comments, Facebook comments, even discussions with two radio announcers who loved “The God’s Wife.” But there have been a few, just a few, who seemed to read the book for plot only and missed the whole split-soul theme entirely.

Was it my fault? I don’t know. As a writer, I can only saw I sweated to put in as many clues and commentary as possible to lead the reader to the right place. It’s only if the reader understands the spit-soul concept that the ending makes any sense! So, if it’s vital that I did my work correctly.

However, if I put any more street signs up saying, “beware, the two protagonists share a split soul,” I’d be beating the reader over the head and belittling his or her interpretive powers.

Is there a happy medium, or am I just worrying too much? After all, there’s always someone who doesn’t “get” my favorite movie or can’t sit through the music of my favorite composer, Mozart.

Let me know in the comments section if you have any ideas for getting readers to read beyond the plot.

- Lynn Voedisch

The women of ancient Egypt were the freest of any civilization on earth, until the modern era. In several dynasties of ancient Egypt the God’s Wives of Amun stood tall, priestesses of wealth and power, who represented the pinnacle of female power in the Egyptian state. Many called The God’s Wife of Amun second only to the Pharaoh in dominance. THE GOD’S WIFE follows the adventures of a 16-year-old girl, Neferet, who is thrust into the role of The Gods Wife of Amun without proper training. Surrounded by political intrigue and ensnared by sexual stalking, Neferet navigates the temple, doing her duties, while keeping her family name pristine and not ending up like her predecessor—dead. Meanwhile, a modern-day Chicago dancer, Rebecca, is rehearsing for a role in an ancient Egyptian production and finds herself blacking out and experiencing realistic dreams about life in Egypt. It’s as if she’s coming in contact with Neferet’s world. Are the two parallel worlds on a collision course? They seem to be, for Neferet has just used an old spell to bring protection to her world, and Rebecca meets a mysterious Egyptian man who says he’ll whisk her away to Alexandria. Magic and realism mix for a powerful ending in THE GOD’S WIFE.

Paperback: 275 pages

Publisher: Fiction Std (August 9, 2011)

Language: English

ISBN-10: 1936558149

ISBN-13: 978-1936558148

Mailbox Monday…07.25.11

The Book Faery — Mon, 25 Jul 2011 04:46:31 +0000

Mailbox Monday is where other bloggers write about the books they received the previous week. The Mailbox Monday is now going on a blog tour with the host for the month of July being A Sea of Books. Visit her blog to see what books made it her way and check out the others who are participating like me in the Monday Mailbox Meme.

The Rose Garden by Susanna Kearsley (Fantasy/Historical Romance) - Eva Ward is a modern woman thrown back three centuries to 1715 only to find that might be exactly where she belongs. There she finds true love with Daniel Butler, but the discord surrounding Hanoverian King George plunges the lovers into a world of intrigue, treason, and love.

Never Been Bit by Lydia Dare (Paranormal Historical Romance) - This is the third in a trilogy of vampire Regency romances, where the glittering world of English high society is a playground for the rich, titled, and undead.

Vampire Alec McQuarrie’s heart was broken long before it stopped beating. Now Alec’s after-life is an endless search for pleasure. Young witch Sorcha Ferguson has come to London in search of a man, beast-or even a blood sucker-of her very own…

Utterly Charming by Kristine Grayson (Fantasy Romance) - In this thoroughly unique and irresistible romantic romp from a talented new author, a struggling Seattle lawyer, desperate to keep her fledging law firm from going under, takes a case involving a strange but incredibly attractive man. Before she knows it, all of Nora’s wishes come true, along with the realization that her client is Prince Charming…the real Prince Charming. There’s just one problem: despite being a gorgeous hunk, he’s a 1,000 year old magician who still has to deal with a Sleeping Beauty and one wicked stepmother before he and Nora can have a future together.

Lord and Lady Spy by Shana Galen (Historical Romance) - Lord Adrian and Lady Bridget Smythe have the pictureperfect high society marriage. Little does the ton know that each is one of England’s most preeminent spies- with their secret identities guarded even from each other. But what are secret agents to do when the spying game is over and they suddenly discover a whole new spark in each other?

His Last Duchess by Gabrielle Kimm (Historical Fiction) - The chilling story of Lucrezia de Medici, duchess to Alfonso d’Este, His Last Duchess paints a portrait of a lonely young girl and her marriage to an inscrutable duke. Lucrezia longs for love, Alfonso desperately needs an heir, and in a true story of lust and dark decadence, the dramatic fireworks the marriage kindles threaten to destroy the duke’s entire inheritance-and Lucrezia’s future. His Last Duchess gorgeously brings to life the passions and people of sixteenth-century Tuscany and Ferrara.

Snow Flower and the Secret Fan {#Movie Trailer}

The Book Faery — Thu, 14 Jul 2011 04:58:10 +0000

Yes, you read it right, MOVIE trailer. Yes, I normally do BOOK trailers BUT this new movie IS based on a book about a powerful friendship between two women. A book I just loved by Lisa See. It is actually one of the FIRST book reviews (2008) I wrote with The Book Faery Reviews. I was even lucky to have Lisa See visit 2 years later (2010)as a guest author where she wrote about the bonds of sisterhood. Ironically around my sister’s birthday.

I’m REALLY looking forward to seeing this movie and I’m hoping that director, Wayne Wang (he directed Joy Luck Club), does a good job. Yes I know that most books are better than the movies and that there are few movie adaptations of books that come out good, but please let this be one of those excellent movies.

Mailbox Monday…07.11.11

The Book Faery — Mon, 11 Jul 2011 04:06:11 +0000

Perfect You by Holly Skelton (Children’s Fiction) Future Review & Author Guest Post @my children’s book blog BookSnatchers. - In this letter from God, children will discover He has blessed them with gifts and talents that make them unique and able to serve the world in a very special way! Could the gift of bravery make you a police officer or firefighter, or could your compassion help you to be a great doctor or teacher? The possibilities are endless!

Perfect You is a story for parents to share with their children to encourage them to discover their talents so that they can live a life of purpose and happiness. – FROM THE BOOK BACK

Cry to Heaven by Anne Rice (Adult Fiction) Latest hardback book purchase for my personal shelves. - Anne Rice demonstrates her power to enthrall the reader as she makes real for us the exalted and fearful life of an extraordinary society–the eighteenth-century world of the castrati, the male sopranos whose glorious voices, unmatched by any singers since their time, brought them the adulation of the royal courts and grand opera houses of Europe. This is a novel that charms, shocks, and moves us by its portrayal of passionate and fascinating lives, by its re-creation of a strange and exotic moment in history–and by the ways in which it considers, and adds resonance to, our deepest images of the masculine and the feminine. It is a mesmerizing feat of storytelling. – FROM B&N (I am an affiliate.)

The Book of Lost Things by John Connolly (Fantasy Fiction) Latest used book purchase for my personal shelves. - High in his attic bedroom, twelve-year-old David mourns the death of his mother. He is angry and alone, with only the books on his shelf for company. But those books have begun to whisper to him in the darkness, and as he takes refuge in his imagination, he finds that reality and fantasy have begun to meld. While his family falls apart around him, David is violently propelled into a land that is a strange reflection of his own world, populated by heroes and monsters, and ruled over by a faded king who keeps his secrets in a mysterious book… The Book of Lost Things.

An imaginative tribute to the journey we must all make through the loss of innocence into adulthood, John Connolly’s latest novel is a book for every adult who can recall the moment when childhood began to fade, and for every adult about to face that moment. The Book of Lost Things is a story of hope for all who have lost, and for all who have yet to lose. It is an exhilarating tale that reminds us of the enduring power of stories in our lives.

Altar of Bones by Philip Carter (Thriller Fiction) Latest hardback book purchase for my personal shelves. - “They didn’t have to kill him…He never drank from the altar of bones.”

Cryptic dying words from a murdered homeless woman in present day San Francisco unlock a decades-buried secret that changed history. Now a pair of ruthless assassins are sent to cut the few living “loose ends.” And a young, resourceful woman on the run encounters a determined man with his own connected past and vengeful agenda. Forced to partner for survival and answers, a fast-paced and deadly game of cat and mouse ensues, taking them across the globe from the winding streets of Paris to the faded palaces of Budapest to the frozen lakes of Mongolia…where destiny, passion, and further betrayal await them.

The Altar of Bones has it all: The Russian mob. KGB spies. Presidential assasination. A doomed Hollywood legend. Deathbed confessions. Corrosive power. Shattered families. Guardians of an ancient religious icon housing a secret others will kill to possess. The dark promise of immortality. And it delivers on its ambitious premise to leave you stunned and breathless at the end.

The Stolen Child by Keith Donohue (Fantasy Fiction) Latest hardback book purchase for my personal shelves. - Inspired by the WB Yeats poem that tempts a child from home to the waters and the wild, The Stolen Child is a modern fairy tale narrated by the child Henry Day and his double.On a summer night, Henry Day runs away from home and hides in a hollow tree. There he is taken by the changelings—an unaging tribe of wild children who live in darkness and in secret. They spirit him away, name him Aniday, and make him one of their own. Stuck forever as a child, Aniday grows in spirit, struggling to remember the life and family he left behind. He also seeks to understand and fit in this shadow land, as modern life encroaches upon both myth and nature.In his place, the changelings leave a double, a boy who steals Henry’s life in the world. This new Henry Day must adjust to a modern culture while hiding his true identity from the Day family. But he can’t hide his extraordinary talent for the piano (a skill the true Henry never displayed), and his dazzling performances prompt his father to suspect that the son he has raised is an imposter. As he ages the new Henry Day becomes haunted by vague but persistent memories of life in another time and place, of a German piano teacher and his prodigy. Of a time when he, too, had been a stolen child. Both Henry and Aniday obsessively search for who they once were before they changed places in the world.The Stolen Child is a classic tale of leaving childhood and the search for identity. With just the right mix of fantasy and realism, Keith Donohue has created a bedtime story for adults and a literary fable of remarkable depth and strange delights.

James Mace, Soldier of Rome: The Legionary {Guest #Author}

The Book Faery — Thu, 07 Jul 2011 03:57:42 +0000

My interest in Rome goes back to when I was about twelve. I’ve always had an interest in military history, and it was my Dad who first introduced me to Rome. In his well-read opinion, the Roman Legion was the most powerful fighting force the world has ever seen. My parents soon after introduced me to the Masterpiece Theater series, I, Claudius. Though it was not action-based, I fell in love with the characters and the history. I spent years reading anything on Rome I could get my hands on; making trips to the book stores when I had exhausted my parents’ library.

The story in The Legionary is alluded to in I, Claudius. We hear about the disaster in Teutoburger Wald, where three legions were betrayed and led into an ambush. The campaigns of retribution under Germanicus Caesar are kind of glossed over. We see Germanicus standing before the Emperor Augustus “in triumph”. In reality, Germanicus did not triumph over Arminius and the Germanic Alliance until two years after the death of Augustus. I always wanted to learn more about the campaigns of Germanicus Caesar and was determined to read all I could. Sadly, books on the subject outside of the original historical sources were nonexistent.

Fast-forward to winter 2004, when I found myself as an Army Staff Sergeant in Iraq. I decided that I wanted to write a book about the campaigns, only I wanted to focus on the individual soldiers in the ranks, rather than the Emperor and generals. I started doing my research, focusing on the primary sources, namely the Annals of Tacitus. My parents sent me some books while I was in Iraq; one of which was Adrian Goldsworthy’s In the Name of Rome. Goldsworthy is probably the most highly respected Roman historian of our era and his interpretation of the original sources is unparalleled. Lo and behold, there was an entire chapter in his book dedicated to the campaigns of Germanicus Caesar. This, combined with the primary sources he referenced, gave me what I needed from a historical perspective.

Amongst the other books I got sent was another Goldsworthy, The Complete Roman Army. It is a very nicely done coffee table book that is probably the most thorough ever compiled about life in the Imperial Legions. There was another great book on Roman medicine, as well as an old one that I had about daily life in Ancient Rome. By the time I came home from Iraq, I had a working draft in place.

For me, the research is the key. It truly upsets me when historical novelists will deliberately distort facts to support a preconceived personal agenda. I try to avoid this at all costs with my books. While the individual legionaries are fictitious characters, the major events are written as accurately as I am able. I feel this is an obligation of all writers of historical events. There is a bond of trust between the author and the reader, especially if the reader is not well versed in the historical period they are reading about. Regardless of whether or not a book is fictitious, they will take the events portrayed at face value and we as authors owe it to them to tell them the history as accurately as possible. Besides, I have found that the old adage “truth is stranger than fiction” to be very much the case.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…James Mace has served in the U.S. military since 1993 and has made the Roman Army a life study. He is a full-time soldier with the Idaho Army National Guard and a veteran of the Iraq War. He wrote numerous articles on bodybuilding and physical fitness before turning his attention to historical novels. He lives in Meridian, Idaho.

CONNECT WITH THE AUTHOR ONLINE… Website | Blog | Facebook | Twitter

Rome’s Vengeance In the year A.D. 9, three Roman Legions under Quintilius Varus were betrayed by the Germanic war chief, Arminius, and destroyed in the forest known as Teutoburger Wald. Six years later Rome is finally ready to unleash Her vengeance on the barbarians. The Emperor Tiberius has sent his adopted son, Germanicus Caesar, into Germania with an army of forty-thousand legionaries. The come not on a mission of conquest, but one of annihilation. With them is a young legionary named Artorius. For him the war is a personal vendetta; a chance to avenge his brother, who was killed in Teutoburger Wald. In Germania Arminius knows the Romans are coming. He realizes that the only way to fight the legions is through deceit, cunning, and plenty of well-placed brute force. In truth he is leery of Germanicus, knowing that he was trained to be a master of war by the Emperor himself. The entire Roman Empire held its collective breath as Germanicus and Arminius faced each other in what would become the most brutal and savage campaign the world had seen in a generation; a campaign that could only end in a holocaust of fire and blood.

BUY THE BOOK… Amazon Paperback | Amazon Kindle | Barnes & Noble Paperback

Paperback: 312 pages
Publisher: iUniverse; 2 edition (December 1, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 9781440100260
ISBN-13: 978-1440100260

Mailbox Monday…07.04.11

The Book Faery — Mon, 04 Jul 2011 04:00:29 +0000

The Countess by Rebecca Johns (historical fiction) – In 1611, Countess Erzsébet Báthory, a powerful Hungarian noblewoman, stood helpless as masons walled her inside her castle tower, dooming her to spend her final years in solitary confinement. Her crime—the gruesome murders of dozens of female servants, mostly young girls tortured to death for displeasing their ruthless mistress. Her opponents painted her as a bloodthirsty škrata—a witch—a portrayal that would expand to grotesque proportions through the centuries.

In this riveting dramatization of Erzsébet Báthory’s life, the countess tells her story in her own words, writing to her only son—a final reckoning from his mother in an attempt to reveal the truth behind her downfall. Countess Báthory describes her upbringing in one of the most powerful noble houses in Hungary, recounting in loving detail her devotion to her parents and siblings as well as the heartbreak of losing her father at a young age. She soon discovers the price of being a woman in sixteenth-century Hungary as her mother arranges her marriage to Ferenc Nádasdy, a union made with the cold calculation of a financial transaction. Young Erzsébet knows she has no choice but to accept this marriage even as she laments its loveless nature and ultimately turns to the illicit affections of another man.

Seemingly resigned to a marriage of convenience and a life of surreptitious pleasure, the countess surprises even herself as she ignites a marital spark with Ferenc through the most unromantic of acts: the violent punishment of an insolent female servant. The event shows Ferenc that his wife is no trophy but a strong, determined woman more than capable of managing their vast estates during Ferenc’s extensive military campaigns against the Turks. Her naked assertion of power accomplishes what her famed beauty could not: capturing the love of her husband.

The countess embraces this new role of loving wife and mother, doing everything she can to expand her husband’s power and secure her family’s future. But a darker side surfaces as Countess Báthory’s demand for virtue, obedience, and, above all, respect from her servants takes a sinister turn. What emerges is not only a disturbing, unflinching portrait of the deeds that gave Báthory the moniker “Blood Countess,” but an intimate look at the woman who became a monster. – FROM B&N

Kendra Kandlestar and the Box of Whispers by Lee Edward Fodi (youth fantasy fiction) – For over a thousand years, the Box of Whispers has guarded the most precious treasure in the Land of Een. But when the Box is suddenly stolen, young Kendra Kandlestar finds herself swept away on a magical adventure where doors speak in riddles, plants spit poisonous venom, and strange creatures lurk in every shadow. With only a handful of enchanted carrot seeds to help her, will Kendra be able to face these dangers and find the fabled chest? There’s only one way to find out: peer inside The Box of Whispers, and enter a world of magic, monsters and mystery…Kendra Kandlestar and the Box of Whispers is a perfect book for lovers of fantasy, aged 8 and up. The book features over 100 black and white illustrations by the author. – FROM AMAZON

Beach Lane by Sheryl Woods (contemporary fiction) – In the close-knit community of Chesapeake Shores, Maryland, Susie O’Brien and Mack Franklin’s “not dating” claim befuddles everyone, especially since the two spend every spare minute together. Susie’s thrilled when their friendship finally heats up. Then, just when happily-ever-after seems within reach, Mack loses the job he loves and Susie faces a devastating diagnosis.

But O’Briens always unite in a crisis. Even her cousin Jess, Susie’s rival for most of their lives, becomes her staunchest supporter—especially when Mack’s former lover comes to town. The stakes are higher than ever before, but Susie’s definitely up to the challenge…as long as Mack’s right there by her side. – FROM AMAZON

On My Shelves…07.01.11

The Book Faery — Fri, 01 Jul 2011 04:06:53 +0000

On My Shelves is a weekly post at The Book Faery Reviews which shares THREE books from our personal collection. These books could be favorites, books to be read as soon as possible for our own enjoyment, as well as books to be read soon for scheduled reviews.

Anyone who says they have only one life to live must not know how to read a book.
~Author Unknown

Number ONE. Have a Little Faith by Mitch Albom - Want to read.

In HAVE A LITTLE FAITH, Mitch Ablom offers a beautifully written story of a remarkable eight-year journey between two worlds – two men, two faiths, two communities – that will inspire readers everywhere. – FROM INSIDE BOOK JACKET

Number TWO. The Romanov Bride by Robert Alexander – Want to read.

As the Russia of Nicholas and Alexandra rushes toward catastrophe, the Grand Duchess Elisavyeta is ensconced in the lavish and magnificent Romanov court. In the same city, but worlds apart, Pavel is a simple village man in search of a better life. When his young wife, Shura, is shot and killed by tsarist soldiers during a political demonstration, Pavel dedicates his life to overthrowing the Romanovs. Pavel’s underground group assassinates Elisavyeta’s husband, the grand duke, changing her life forever.

Grief-stricken, the grand duchess gives up her wealth and becomes a nun dedicated to the poor people of Russia. When revolution finally sweeps in, Elisavyeta is the last Romanov captured, ripped from her abbey in the middle of the night and shuttled to Siberia. It is here, in a distant wood on a moonlit night, that Pavel is left to decide her fate. – FROM B&N

Number THREE. Remembered by Tamera Alexander - Want to read.

The threat of war—and a final request—send Véronique Girard from France to a distant and uninviting country. In the Colorado Territory, she searches for the man who has held her heart since childhood—her father. Pierre Girard left Paris for the Americas to seek his fortune in fur trading, vowing to send for his wife and daughter. But twenty-five years have passed and his vow remains unfulfilled. Sifting through shards of broken promises, Véronique embarks on a dangerous search for a man she scarcely remembers. His grief finally healed, Jack Brennan is moving on with life. After years of guiding families west, he is now working as a freighter to the mining towns surrounding Willow Springs. What he doesn’t count on is an unexpected traveling companion on his trips up into the mountains, and how one woman’s search will cause havoc with his plans . . . and his life. – FROM B&N

Vlad: The Last Confession, C.C. Humphreys {#Book #Giveaway}

The Book Faery — Tue, 28 Jun 2011 13:56:16 +0000

Dracula. A name of horror, depravity and the darkest sensuality. Yet the real Dracula was just as alluring, just as terrifying, his tale not one of a monster but of a man… and a contradiction.

His tale is told by those who knew him best. The only woman he ever loved…and whom he had to sacrifice. His closest comrade…and traitor. And his priest, betraying the secrets of the confessional to reveal the mind of the man history would forever remember as The Impaler. This is the story of the man behind the legend…as it has never been told before. – FROM AMAZON

Paperback: 416 pages

Publisher: Sourcebooks Landmark (May 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1402253516
ISBN-13: 978-1402253515

ABOUT THE AUTHOR…Chris Humphreys is a British actor, playwright and novelist. Born in Toronto, Canada, he was raised in Los Angeles, California until the age of seven and then grew up in the United Kingdom. For acting he is best known for his role in The Bill where he played PC Richard Turnham from 1989 to 1990. He has also been in Zorro, Coronation Street, Hawkeye, Dangerfield, Highlander: The Series, Goodnight Sweetheart, Wycliffe, Silent Witness, and The Core. He publishes historical adventure novels and young adult fantasy novels under the name C.C. Humphreys. The main character for his Jack Absolute series is based on the main character of the play The Rivals by Richard Brinsley Sheridan. – FROM AMAZON

FROM THE BOOK FAERY REVIEWS…We’re giving away ONE copy to a lucky commentor of this post thanks to Sourcebooks. This giveaway is a short one. It lasts only through June 30th (this coming Thursday!).

To enter this giveaway: Share with us what you always thought about Dracula.

EXTRA ENTRIES…

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GIVEAWAY NOTIFICATION: The selected commentor will be noted within the comments at the end of the giveaway, Monthly Newsletter that goes out to all e-mail subscribers (subscribers also receive an RSS email for days there is a post), and on our new Facebook Page. You must either subscribe to these comments, check out the Facebook page, or read at least the Sunday email in order to find out if you are the winner as we will no longer be sending out individual emails to winners.

Good Luck!

A copy of the book was provided for review & a giveaway from Sourcebooks. No money compensation was received.