“Far out in the ocean the water is as blue as the petals of the loveliest cornflower, and as clear as the purest glass.”
So begins Hans Christian Andersen’s beloved fairy tale, “The Little Mermaid.” Published in 1837, the original story is far darker and sadder than later, popular versions such as Disney’s 1989 animated film. There are no talking crabs or ditzy seagulls. And there is definitely no happy ending. A quiet, thoughtful and curious young mermaid longs to explore the world above the waves—and gives her heart to a prince who, sadly, does not want it. There’s no wedding for her, no feast. Just a brokenhearted girl turning to sea foam on the waves at dusk. The tale is filled with imagery both dark and bleak. The mermaid, desperate to leave the sea behind, allows a treacherous sea-witch to cut out her tongue, willingly exchanging it for a pair of dainty, though incredibly painful, feet.
Dark, and sad. Beautiful, too.
” . . . you can’t have darkness without some light, too . . .”
I had been thinking about writing a retelling of it for quite some time. Back in 2015, I began by writing these words on the first page of a crisp, new notebook: “It will be a dark, salty tale about sea-magic, loss, unrequited love, family, betrayal, self-discovery, and revenge.” Of course, you can’t have darkness without some light, too, and it soon became clear that I needed another tale to work into the story. Something sparkly and romantic. Something with enough softness, warmth and wonder to balance out the strange, haunting bitterness of “The Little Mermaid.” That tale, I decided, was “Cinderella.”
Although there are thousands of variants of this story from cultures all over the world, I focused on the French iteration penned by Charles Perrault in 1697. It’s the most recognizable version, and was the first to include the pumpkin, fairy godmother and those mesmerizing glass slippers.
Closer analysis of the two tales revealed interesting connections. Both Cinderella and the little mermaid have a wealthy or powerful father; sisters (the mermaid’s are far kinder); are motherless and feel trapped; seek help from an aged, wisewoman figure (like the sisters, the sea-witch and the fairy godmother are quite different); and fall for a prince. Both tales also focus on shoes or feet. Mermaids are liminal creatures, half one shape and half the other. In many folktales, they are shape-shifters, able to change their tails into legs on a whim. Cinderella, too, is a shape-shifter, appearing in different forms, hiding her true identity from the people around her.
These similarities (and differences) seemed strong enough to become the foundation of an entirely new story. One that was enchanting and romantic, and dark and sad. Maybe, just maybe, it would be a little terrifying, too—not unlike mermaids themselves.
Perrault’s “Cinderella,” being French, led me to set the story on the shores of Brittany in the mid-18th century, a time when the fabulously wealthy ship owners and dashing corsairs of Saint-Malo dominated the seas, decadent balls lasted till the early hours of the morning, ladies’ shoes were dainty and their gowns—ridiculously wide and sweeping out from their hips—changed their shapes dramatically from the waist down. England and France were at each other’s throats (again), science had not yet ousted superstition and the people of Brittany still visited sacred springs and standing stones. They left bread out for the faeries. And they believed in magic.
It seemed the perfect backdrop for the tale—a seaside “kingdom,” an “aristocracy” of shipowners, a king-like merchant and his daughters. Sea-witches roamed the shore and sailed in witch-boats, and smugglers plied their trade across the English Channel, each of them living according to the will of the sea. The sea that—I’m sure Hans Christian Andersen would agree—was as blue as the petals of the bluest cornflower and as sparkly as a slipper made of the purest glass.
Photo of Kell Woods by Follow The Sun Photography.
Upon a Starlit Tide, the author’s gorgeous historical fantasy, is a dreamy blend of “The Little Mermaid” and “Cinderella.”
Kell Woods’ second historical fantasy, Upon a Starlit Tide, is clearly inspired by classic stories such as “The Little Mermaid,” “Cinderella” and “Bluebeard”—but similar tropes is where the resemblance ends, as Woods has molded these elements into an original fairy tale all her own.
Lucinde Léon, one of three daughters of famed and revered Breton merchant Jean-Baptiste Léon, has always felt an inexplicable pull towards the ocean, one that her father encourages. Luce is used to doing things unconventionally: She spends her time at a sea cave watched over by a groac’h (a water fairy who stands in for the sea-witch from “The Little Mermaid”) and harbors strong emotions for her smuggler friend Samuel, a tattooed English sailor whom she’s convinced to teach her how to sail. As a naval war between the French and English rages on and Luce and her sisters are due to be married off to claim their places in society, her rose-colored views of their home, picturesque Saint-Malo, are being put to the test. She must make some difficult decisions about who to love, who to trust and who to protect—especially after saving a handsome, near-drowned sailor, Morgan de Chatelaine, unearths more mysteries than ever.
Upon a Starlit Tide creatively fuses elements of beloved tales to construct a wholly new world to immerse readers in. Gone is the typical fairy godmother, who is here replaced by a friendly lutine (a type of flower hobgoblin). Likewise, the groac’h has more secrets to her than meets the eye, overturning the typically villainous narrative. As with her previous novel, After the Forest, Woods celebrates femininity, heroines giving into their wild nature and femmes taking agency of their own lives to pursue their happily ever after. Readers will root for Luce whether she is in the throes of a love triangle between Samuel and Morgan, or in the throes of the unpredictable, tempestuous sea. Woods also provides countless wonderful descriptions of the fae, which lends an ethereal nature to Saint-Malo and makes the sad reality of the fairy folk’s exodus from Brittany (due to humans stealing their magic, their livelihood and their homes) hit all the harder.
With beautifully flowing prose and countless twists, Woods concocts a tale of love, betrayal and revenge that will drag unsuspecting readers along with its currents. One may recognize elements that feel fitting for a traditional fairy tale—a parent’s hidden secrets, a dashing stranger who seems too good to be true. And in Luce herself, they may also recognize a part of themselves that yearns to be set free to explore the world, following their heart’s desire, unfettered by society’s requirements and expectations.
With beautifully flowing prose and countless twists, Kell Woods’ Upon a Starlit Tide combines “The Little Mermaid” and “Cinderella” to enchanting effect.
Tess is an engineer. A good swimmer. A young woman with a life in California, sunshine and Silicon Valley. When she’s asked to return to her home island of Stenland, a “small rock between Scotland and the Arctic,” for her childhood best friend Linnea’s wedding, she assumes it will be no more than a blip in her schedule. A couple of days of PTO.
But as A Curse for the Homesick unspools, it’s obvious Tess has unresolved history with Stenland. Years ago, she left behind her great love, Soren, among the Stennish caves and sheep pastures. Soren, with whom she’d felt the most like herself, to whom she’d devoted her most formative years. Soren, who before everything else, was a reminder of why she needed to leave. In a swish of magic reminiscent of Maggie Stiefvater’s The Scorpio Races, the island of Stenland is cursed. Every so often, and without warning, a few Stennish women are marked with three black lines across their foreheads, becoming “skelds.” For the month the lines remain, anyone who makes eye contact with a skeld will turn to stone. Soren and Tess have been inextricably bound since their elementary school days, when Tess’ mother turned Soren’s parents to stone during her skeld season. Growing up in the dark shadow of the curse, of how it killed, Tess was adamant to never be a skeld, to never stay. When she fell for Soren, who loves Stenland, she knew it was star-crossed.
But once she’s back on the island for Linnea’s wedding, Tess and Soren meet again. A Curse for the Homesick is above all a second-chance romance, and author Laura Brooke Robson does a phenomenal job mixing flashbacks with scenes in the present, following Tess’ journey from a young girl into adulthood. We see her with Soren, but also with her dear friends Linnea and Kitty. We watch her navigate what it means to grow up, to grow into or out of a place, to choose between escaping and accepting a complicated past. Robson writes with simple elegance, and her book is not only a devoted character study, it is a love letter to her gorgeous fictional setting of Stenland: the wind, the cairns, the old towers; the ice cream spot and Hedda’s, the only coffee shop; the concrete swimming pool and the claustrophobia of a small town. This grounded, moving novel is a perfect rainy day read and an ode to what it is to be human—to desire and gain, to desire and lose, to find again.
Laura Brooke Robson’s debut fantasy romance is both second-chance love story and devoted character study, all written with simple elegance.
Every daughter contains a part of her mother. An imprint buries deep down, binding the two together, indelible. For Margot, the young protagonist of Lucy Rose’s dreamlike, visceral horror novel The Lamb, the connection with Mama is bloodsoaked, painful and unrelenting. Can a child ever sever herself from her mother?
Mama and Margot have lived in the woods ever since Margot can remember. Apart from the occasional lost soul looking for shelter, they are alone. Mama calls the lost people “strays,” with a certain amount of affection. She eagerly settles them in the house, feeds them and serves them wine. It’s not until it’s too late that the hemlock in the drink takes deadly effect. Then, Mama and Margot can feed. Sometimes they have a lot to eat, and sometimes they go hungry. When times are bad, Mama is inconsolable, violent and harsh. Margot covers the bruises with her coat as she rides the bus to school. However, when a new stray named Eden comes to the woods, an entranced Mama welcomes her into the family. Margot feels a change come over the house with Eden’s presence, something she’s not sure if she likes. She must decide what sort of future she wants, but will it mean leaving Mama, Eden and the gruesome truth of their lives far behind? It may be the only chance she’s got for something new.
Rose’s use of Margot’s first-person perspective in The Lamb allows for full authorial control over the shifting tones and feelings within the cabin. Much of the story happens in only a handful of locations, imbuing the plot with a sense of claustrophobia. Margot can’t escape the horrors of the house, how strays are harvested and eaten as the cycle continues. These happenings are at once terrifying and perfectly ordinary, the only thing she’s ever known. This is the genius of Rose’s folktale: She blurs the lines between hunger and gluttony, human and animal, love and revulsion. It’s hypnotic, grotesque and beautiful all at once.
Rose’s writing confidently carries the reader through some seriously disturbing moments, with blood and more staining nearly every chapter. Coming-of-age shouldn’t be this bloody, should it? Maybe it’s the only way—feeding on what came before, new and full at last.
Lucy Rose’s horror-folktale hybrid, The Lamb, is hypnotic, grotesque and beautiful all at once.
Dryadologist Emily Wilde employs research methods that may occasionally make her colleagues shake their heads. That doesn’t seem likely to change now that she’s engaged to a faerie prince and responsible for the overthrow of his stepmother, the former queen. All that’s left is for Wendell Bambleby, Emily’s former academic rival and newly betrothed, to take the throne. But Wendell’s stepmother is not so willing to give up her hold on life or the realm. As Wendell and Emily adjust to their new roles, they must contend with a growing malignancy in the land of Silva Lupi, one that threatens to corrupt its landscape and destroy its residents. But faerie is ever ruled by the conventions of fairy tales, and Emily knows that if she can just find the right story, she’ll also find the way to cure the rot. Her only fear is that the story—like so many of its kind—won’t give her the happy ending she wants.
As with previous installments in Heather Fawcett’s bestselling series, Emily Wilde’s Compendium of Lost Tales is charming in both its presentation and its main character. Presented as a mildly edited version of the titular professor’s personal notes—complete with the occasional dry citations and footnotes—the novel captures its narrator’s eccentric love of faerie and perpetual difficulty in understanding the rest of the world. But where the Emily of Emily Wilde’s Encyclopedia of Faeries was closed-off and curmudgeonly at best, the Emily we meet in her latest adventure has somewhat softened. Although she usually remains more interested in research than her fellow humans, and still struggles to understand other people’s unreasonableness, the once hermit-like Emily now has a small group of comrades who she loves and who love and accept her in return. Her eccentricities, once a force that drove others away, are now the assets she uses to show her affection. Full of heart and wonder, Emily Wilde’s Compendium of Lost Tales is a conclusion fitting for its heroine: thoughtful, fantastical and dotted with thoroughly informative footnotes.
Full of heart and wonder, Emily Wilde’s Compendium of Lost Tales is a conclusion fitting for its heroine: thoughtful, fantastical and dotted with thoroughly informative footnotes.
What are your bookstore rituals? For example, where do you go first in a store? As a coffee addict, I’ll definitely stop by any coffee bar first. Then I like to sip and wander the new releases and sale tables. I’ll wind up seeing books written by my friends and internally (hopefully) I’ll say hello. I’ll always check graphic novels for my kids. But no trip is complete without shopping the journals section.
Tell us about your favorite library from when you were a child. My father managed the Brooklyn Public Library, so the central branch is my perennial favorite. However, I also loved the Staten Island Public Library and I still remember that old book smell.
While researching your books, has there ever been a librarian or bookseller who was especially helpful, or a surprising discovery among the stacks? Most of my research has shifted to quick Google questions due to time constraints, but booksellers have been instrumental in getting the word out about Five Broken Blades, and librarians have championed my career from the start.
Do you have a favorite bookstore or library from literature? A favorite fictional bookseller or librarian? My favorite library from literature is easily the one in The Starless Sea. If you’ve read it, you know why. I designed an amazing bookstore for The Jasmine Project. It was one of those times I spent weeks researching and thinking about it for approximately three sentences to land in the finished book, but I don’t regret it.
“There isn’t a bookstore or library I don’t want to see, honestly.”
Do you have a bucket list of bookstores and libraries you’d love to visit but haven’t yet? What’s on it? There isn’t a bookstore or library I don’t want to see, honestly. There are libraries and bookstores in France, China and Budapest, Hungary that look amazing. I just saw a bookstore in California with bookstore collies. I am nothing if not easily influenced by the cuteness of bookstore pets or read-to-me dogs in libraries.
What is the most memorable bookstore or library event you’ve participated in? Saratoga Springs Public Library in New York puts on a book festival each fall with panels all over town, and it’s one of my favorite events of the year. With every bookstore event I’ve done or even stock signings, I’m blown away by how the staff is always helpful, enthusiastic and kind, regardless of whether I’m signing three books or over 500.
What’s the last thing you checked out from your library or bought at your local bookstore? My last books from my library were graphic novels for my kids. They are voracious and tear through them in a day. For me, my last purchase was Heartless Hunter. I am lucky and was sent arcs of Rebel Witch, The Bane Witch and Meet Me at Blue Hour, and I can’t wait to read all of them.
How is your own personal library organized? Ugh, it is not. I’ve had rainbow shelves and alphabetical, but my collection is currently in stacks spread in various places around my house. I keep talking about built-in bookcases. This might’ve shamed me into getting that project underway.
Is the book always better than the movie? Why or why not? Actually, I don’t think it is. I can think of two off the top of my head where the creators of the series took the concept to better places. However, generally, yes, I think the book is better, solely because it’s so difficult to get all the internal thoughts and motivations of a character across in film.
Bookstore cats or bookstore dogs? Both! Bookstore raccoons and I’ll live there.
What is your ideal post-bookstore-browsing snack? Hmm. It would have to be something that didn’t dirty my fingers because I’d want to read. Maybe rice cakes (tteokbokki).
Photo of Mai Corland by Leila Evans.
The author of the Broken Blades fantasy series shares her favorite literary libraries and gets real about bookshelf organization—or a lack thereof.
I set pen to white paper and brainstormed around the circled word “MOTHER.” What were my word associations and allusions? The Queen of Coins. Marmee March and Cersei Lannister. Josephine Rabbit. The Capitoline wolf.
A she-wolf nursing infant twins is an unforgettable image. Strange, certainly. Unnatural, perhaps. It is the emblem of Rome itself, found on coins and football club jerseys, and has traversed the world as its empire once did—to Parisian parks and U.S. city squares. The mother wolf has become an established part of our communal iconography.
“Retelling is a trendy word, but these stories are more than a reimagining, they are also a resurrection.”
This trope persists in other mythologies, too. Atalanta raised by bear cubs. Enkidu. Mowgli and Tarzan. These feral children prevail as symbols of hope and survival. Of life, against all odds, finding a way. And yet, while our oral tradition and literature may love the babies, we think and talk and write much less about their mothers.
Most people with a grasp of European history know Romulus and Remus, but before there was a wolf, there was a woman, breaking herself in birth. Who was she? Why was she separated from her children? The answer is Rhea Silvia, princess turned pregnant priestess, who lost her babies because she lived in a time when nefarious powers governed what she could and couldn’t do with her body.
I scoured the primary sources for Rhea, finding the clearest narrative in book one of the Roman Antiquities by Dionysius of Halicarnassus. I thought I knew Rome because I was raised on sword and sandal epics, Ben-Hur and Spartacus. But Latium is something else entirely. It’s a confederation, a league of small cities under the loose rule of Alba Longa—a site that no longer exists. It may have been where the pope’s summer residence, Castel del Gandolfo, is located, but there are no remaining pillars or foundations to visit. Rhea and her sons are one of the old myths, occurring outside the cultural assumptions of Roman Empire, the stock images of Coliseum and Caesar.
I read of the kings that descended from Aeneas, a lineage almost Shakespearean in nature, so reminiscent of the Bard’s best tragedies, so rife with rivalry and revenge. King Numitor’s daughter, a Vestal Virgin, is impregnated by the god of war, and delivers Romulus and Remus in an almost biblical narrative: babes sent down the river to escape death, fulfilling a prophecy. Afterward, however, Rhea Silvia fades from the record like the brightest colors in an ancient fresco. She’s not even in the background; she’s gone.
In SPQR: A History of Ancient Rome, Mary Beard raises the question: What does Rome’s founding myth reveal about its values and character?
A redundant brother. A divine birth. Patriarchal values. Male protagonists.
Retelling is a trendy word, but these stories are more than a reimagining, they are also a resurrection. In Mother of Rome, Rhea gets restored to the scene—rising out from under the classical author’s omission or neglect and into the game of thrones. In the novel, I write: “’This is the first lesson, Rhea. Men think they create the empires, but both are born of women.”
Mother of Rome is my ode to Rhea Silvia, to a mother’s life-giving love, but it is also a reminder: There is always a before. Before the city. Before the kings. This is that origin story, and it’s hers.
Photo of Lauren J.A. Bear by Heidi Leonard.
Lauren J.A. Bear’s Mother of Rome reorients the empire’s founding myth around the rebellious, passionate princess Rhea Silvia.
In Old Crimes and Other Stories, Jill McCorkle’s characters face moments of reckoning and work to make sense of the past. A father has trouble connecting with his daughter and adjusting to the digital era in “The Lineman.” In “Confessional,” a husband and wife buy an antique confessional for their house—a purchase that leads to surprising discoveries. “Commandments” features a trio of women dumped by the same man who meet to share stories about him. Wistful and wise, McCorkle’s fifth collection is the work of a writer at the top of her game.
Louise Kennedy explores the lives of contemporary Irish women in her bleakly beautiful collection, The End of the World Is a Cul de Sac. Kennedy’s protagonists—rendered with authenticity and compassion—contend with fraught or dangerous relationships, motherhood issues and economic woes. Sarah, the main character of the title story, pays an ugly price for her husband’s poor business decisions, while the main character in “In Silhouette” is tormented by her brother’s participation in IRA activity. Kennedy’s moving stories offer numerous discussion topics for book clubs, including female fulfillment and the human need for connection.
Salt Slow finds Julia Armfield leaning in to science fiction and the supernatural in stories that examine urban life and women’s experiences. “Mantis” focuses on the turmoil of adolescence, as a young girl’s body mutates in startling fashion. In “Formerly Feral,” two stepsisters form an extraordinary bond with a wolf. Whether she’s writing about giant bugs or a zombie ex-girlfriend, Armfield is clearly at home with the odd and the uncanny, and the end result is a captivating group of stories. Themes of sexuality, spirituality and loss will get book clubs talking.
GennaRose Nethercott’s Fifty Beasts to Break Your Heart and Other Stories is sure to delight—and disquiet—readers. Ominous, imaginative and intriguing, Nethercott’s stories probe the tension between the wild and the tame as they exist in our daily lives. In “Homebody,” a young woman undergoes a strange physical transformation after moving into a new house with her partner. “Sundown at the Eternal Staircase” chronicles the goings-on at an eerie tourist attraction. Thanks to Nethercott’s remarkable narrative skills, the impossible becomes plausible. Inspired by folklore and fairy tales, she reinvigorates the short story form.
Round up your reading group and ring in 2025 with one of these fabulous short story collections.
In an odd corner of Tokyo is a ramen restaurant that, for the right clientele, is actually a pawnshop. Walk inside and the shop owner will greet you warmly. You’ll apologize and say you are in the wrong place, that you were looking for a hot meal, you need to go, but the shop owner will stop you. And he’ll offer you the opportunity of a lifetime: the chance to pawn a regret, or to shed a choice that has been a burden.
All her life, Hana Ishikawa has anticipated and dreaded the day she will inherit her father’s magical pawnshop, a nook that rests between two worlds: bustling, modern Tokyo and Isekai, or the Other World. She understands it is necessary to collect human choices and to turn them over—in the form of glowing birds—to the Shiikuin, the mysterious, terrifying figures in “pale white Noh masks . . . [stinking of] rusting metal and decaying flesh” who guard Isekai. But on the morning of Hana’s first day as shop proprietor, she finds the place ransacked, her father missing and a choice stolen, presumably by him. To complicate matters, Keishin, a brilliant human physicist, stumbles into the shop on the morning of the disaster and insists on helping Hana find her father.
So unfurls a story that is equal parts adventure and romance, lighthearted and devastating, philosophical and emotionally resonant. Hana and Kei embark on a journey through Isekai, jumping into puddles and coming out in other realms, folding into paper, climbing ladders through clouds and witnessing the release of the stars. They run from the Shiikuin and chase after Hana’s father, who presumably holds answers to questions about Hana’s past; simultaneously, they circle each other, tentative but magnetic. It’s a Romeo and Juliet love story, after all. They’re from two different worlds: “She was the moon in the water,” Kei observes, “Close enough to touch, yet beyond reach.”
Author Samantha Sotto Yambao’s world building in Water Moon is marvelous and digestible, utilizing short chapters and precise, direct descriptions. And our protagonists, Hana and Kei, are refreshingly communicative and mature. Yambao has created a work of art that is atmospheric and, above all else, wondrous. Although there are stakes, Water Moon is a heartwarming, low-suspense read that reminds us to take hold of our lives and our choices.
Water Moon, Samantha Sotto Yambao’s atmospheric and wondrous fantasy, centers on a Tokyo pawnshop where people can sell their regrets.
Princess Rhea Silvia has had everything wrenched from her grasp. She has borne the loss of her mother and brothers, and seen her father stripped of his throne. Now forced into the life of a Vestal Virgin by her power-hungry uncle, Rhea has been divested of whatever power she once possessed. But she has a secret that will change the world forever—if she can live long enough for it to bear fruit. The night before she is to be commended to the virgins, Rhea takes Mars, the god of war, to her bed, violating her vows and consummating an affair that will birth one of the most powerful empires the world has ever known. Rhea’s story is one of gods and blood, of sacrifice and vengeance. Hers is the story of the birth of Rome.
In Mother of Rome, author Lauren J.A. Bear reinterprets the strange and tragic backstory of the twin founders of Rome, Romulus and Remus, into a story of intrigue, determination and the raw ferocity of a mother’s love. Like most myths, Rhea’s intrigues even when stripped down to its most basic parts. But Mother of Rome gathers strength from emotional specificity: namely, Bear’s refusal to shy away from the uglier parts of a mythological retelling and her devotion to showing the emotional truth of the women she portrays. Rhea seeks vengeance in a world where men acknowledge her only when exerting control over her destiny and body, and her rage and frustration spring from the page—but so too does her unbridled joy at seeing her children for the first time. Similarly, her cousin Antho’s sense of helplessness at being tied to men who disgust and terrify her may loom large, but so too does her hope for her forbidden love. Because in Bear’s hands, women’s stories—and women’s rages, hopes and fears—matter. Cathartic and moving, Mother of Rome reimagines the founding myth of Rome in a way that transcends gods and empires, instead focusing on the humanity at the story’s core.
Cathartic and moving, Mother of Rome reimagines the myth of Romulus and Remus by placing their mother, Princess Rhea Silvia, center stage.
I’ll be honest—it took me a moment to understand this book. We are immediately thrown into an opulent “year-turning” party: buffets of food, swirling gowns, a mysterious grandfather clock slowly ticking down the hours until the new year. Our protagonist, Kembral Thorne, is at the party while on maternity leave from her job as a Hound, a police officer-esque position that specializes in retrieving people or objects from other dimensions known as Echoes. In rapid succession, author Melissa Caruso introduces Kembral and the rest of the guests at the year-turning party (including Kembral’s nemesis and obsession, professional thief Rika Nonesuch), the framework of Echoes and a series of specialized terms for the world and its sociopolitical system. If reading this paragraph was overwhelming, you can expect a similar reaction when you begin The Last Hour Between Worlds.
But—but! If you’re a fantasy romance fan who’s been craving originality from the genre, this book is truly a breath of fresh air. Once you’ve gotten the gist of Echoes and more or less familiarized yourself with the characters, the storyline is a heady, bizarre rush of murder mystery meets Alice in Wonderland. Kembral discovers quite quickly that the year-turning party is being used as a chessboard of sorts, that a game is being played out between powerful interdimensional beings. Every hour, the party falls into a weirder, deadlier Echo, and it is up to Kembral and Rika to figure out how to stop the game before they’re trapped in an Echo they can’t escape from—if they don’t, everyone will die.
Caruso has created a compelling heroine in Kembral, who is equal parts tough, resourceful and vulnerable. A full-blown adult and mother, there’s an element of maturity and caution to her perspective that is refreshing in a genre that is often full of young protagonists who dive headlong into peril. The heart of the novel is Kembral’s relationship with Rika: their history and their secrets, how they’ve leaned on each other and how they’ve hurt each other. Caruso’s writing is stunning as well, with lines like “trying to figure her out was like trying to hold the shape of fire in your mind.” Although I was skeptical when I started, by the middle, I was completely on board with Kembral and Rika as they tried to save their sinking ship—or, in this case, their dimension-bending party. The Last Hour Between Worlds isn’t a breezy read, but it will stretch your imagination and leave you thinking.
A heady, bizarre rush of murder mystery meets Alice’s in Wonderland, The Last Hour Between Worlds is an interdimensional fantasy adventure.
An acolyte of the sun god, Mische saw her life destroyed when she was forcibly Turned into a vampire. After murdering the vampire who turned her, Mische is spared from execution when she agrees to journey into the afterlife with Asar, a vampire prince, and resurrect the god of death. Tasked by the sun god with betraying Asar and sabotaging their mission, Mische finds herself questioning everything she’s ever believed in when she begins to fall for Asar.
The Songbird & the Heart of Stone takes us straight into an afterlife that’s as intriguing as it is terrifying. How did you conceive of your version of the road to the underworld? Much of my process adhered to the improv philosophy of “yes, and . . .” I know that many readers love my books for the hot vampires—and make no mistake, I do also love hot vampires!—but I have a streak that just really, really loves weird, gross, dark magic. I always enjoy creating structures to my magical fantasy journeys that have a strong sense of progression, and better yet if they give me the opportunity to try all kinds of different gimmicks. So, I loosely ran with the general idea of “circles of hell” and thought about what those “levels” might look like in the context of the Nyaxia world. Then I mapped each of these levels to the character arcs for Mische and Asar, and tied them into the lore of the gods’ story. This piece was the most fun for me!
So far in the Crowns of Nyaxia series, we’ve been inside the heads of three characters: Raihn, Oraya and Mische. Mische has a very different internal monologue than any of the others. How did you get into her head to really capture that change in narrative voice? Going from Oraya’s cynical, hard-edged voice to Mische’s optimistic and thoughtful one was a little jarring in the beginning. But, I had a baby in between writing The Ashes and the Star-Cursed King, the previous book in the series, and Songbird, so I had a lot of time to think about the inner workings of Mische’s brain during my maternity leave. I got to know her a lot in borderline-hallucinatory brainstorming sessions at 3 a.m.!
“There’s a lot more to power than physical strength . . .”
Luce, Asar’s beloved necromantic dog, is undoubtedly going to steal some readers’ hearts (just as she stole mine). How did she come into the picture? It’s only now that I realize I cannot remember when I first conceived of Luce! She came into the picture very early in my brainstorming for Asar’s character. He’s introverted, rigid and definitely a bit scary, but boy does he love his dog! (Rightfully so—she is a very good girl.) I believe that platonic relationships are just as important as romantic ones. It’s important that we see the characters reflected against someone else who is meaningful to them. In this case, Luce really helped me define Asar, and took on an (after)life of her own from there.
Architecture—whether it’s the impressive structures of the underworld or the details of the Citadel—gives a distinct sense of character to the human, vampire and godly locations within The Songbird & the Heart of Stone. Did you have any particular inspirations for the look of each major location? I’m very flattered by this question, because it’s so important to me that each of the houses feels distinct! My favorite thing about the Nyaxia world is that it’s just so huge, and with every book that ventures into a new corner of the world, I try to make sure that place feels different from everywhere we’ve been before it. Typically, I’ll start with a very general “vibe” for a place, and then I’ll mash together many different influences until I like what I’ve arrived at. I will be the first to admit that the entire creative process on this front is chaotic!
You once mentioned that you ended up with the three courts because you couldn’t choose one type of vampire. What were some of your influences in creating the vampire houses, and if you had to join one of the houses, which would it be? There wasn’t one specific influence for each house so much as each had a general “vibe” I was trying to capture. The Nightborn are the winged, deadly vampires; the Shadowborn are the seductive, scheming vampires; the Bloodborn are the monstrous, bloodthirsty vampires. Of course, these simplistic ideas bloomed into many others as I fleshed everything out!
I would be in the House of Shadow, because I’m definitely not coordinated enough to be in the House of Night nor intimidating enough to be in the House of Blood. I’d likely immediately get myself killed in the House of Shadow, too—but at least I could hide out in the libraries for a while first.
Despite following the same god, Mische and Chandra have little in common when it comes to both their outlook and their goals. If their roles had been reversed, how would Mische have taken to life as a midwife for vampires? What about Chandra as a vampire? Chandra and Mische both have been indoctrinated by their god most of their lives, and both of them have very real, very legitimate reasons to justify hatred of vampires. Chandra is so similar to Mische in so many ways, and yet has followed all of those commonalities to a completely different end. Even at the height of her status in her previous human life in her cult, Mische couldn’t fully accept the harsh boundaries of her world. Chandra was likely exactly the kind of acolyte Mische wished she could be in those years: pious, devoted and unquestioningly loyal. But Mische was never going to be that person, for better or for worse. Even if her positions were swapped with Chandra, they would always end up in radically different places.
Just as Chandra and Mische are foils, so too are Mische and Asar. We get Mische’s perspective the first time she sees Asar, but what does Asar think of Mische at first sight? I can’t answer this question in too much detail because it might be something we cover in the next book! In a super general sense: Asar knows right away that Mische is unusual, and he’s intrigued by her right off the bat. Some of that is just because he’s a guy who likes to know things, and Mische is objectively unusual because of her background. But even from the start, when he’s underestimating her, he gets the sense that there’s more to her.
Imbalanced power dynamics and the abuse of power are themes that have cropped up several times in Crowns of Nyaxia so far, from Vincent in The Serpent & the Wings of Night to this novel. This is obviously an issue in our own world as well, but do you think that there’s something about vampire society that makes it particularly interesting to explore? The exploration of power runs through the entire series. In the world of Nyaxia, there are just so many different layers to those power dynamics: humans versus vampires, gods versus mortals and, of course, the plethora of interpersonal power dynamics that are specific to each character. What makes this particularly interesting to me is that some groups or characters stand in very different places on the power spectrum depending on the lens you’re looking through. Vampires, for instance, are much more powerful than humans physically, but they’re also often brutally hunted if they venture beyond Obitraes. Vincent, Oraya’s father, was obsessed with maintaining power, but the things he had to do to keep it ended up isolating him—and unforgivably harming those he loved most. There’s a lot more to power than physical strength and having so many different layers in this world has made it particularly fun to explore.
Even with her own discomfort surrounding her vampirism, Mische holds views on vampires that seem more nuanced than what we see from Oraya in the Nightborn Duet. How much of that is from their backgrounds, and how much is due to the individuals—and the courts—that they’re dealing with? I love this question! Mische and Oraya are so, so different. They came from opposite backgrounds. Oraya was surrounded by vampires but constantly told how dangerous the world around her was. Meanwhile, as a missionary, Mische learned to help people become better versions of themselves by looking beyond her initial impressions of them. They embody opposite extremes, and we would have seen that even if their positions and Houses had been swapped—but of course, both still isolate themselves in different ways.
We get a deeper view of the pantheon in The Songbird & the Heart of Stone, including the very intimate interactions between the gods and their followers. What inspired you to have the gods be so very present (and fallible)? I love the sheer amount of possibility that the pantheon introduces into this world, and from the beginning, I wanted the gods to be highly present, creating very tangible impacts on the story. It introduces a whole other layer to the hierarchy of the world and another level of power dynamics. It throws open doors that would otherwise be impossible to explore!
Are there any gods who we haven’t interacted with yet who you’re excited to explore further? I am fascinated by the gods, and they play a much bigger role from Songbird onwards. So, the short answer is “yes, so many!”—but I think I’ll leave it at that rather than risk saying too much.
Photo of Carissa Broadbent by Victoria Costello.
The Songbird & the Heart of Stone starts a new arc in the author’s bestselling Crowns of Nyaxia series.
The question of how best to set up a personal library has confounded many a book collector. When it comes time to arrange them, all those wonderful volumes can seem like the pieces of an unsolvable puzzle. The literature lover who’s searching for solutions will welcome Book Nooks: Inspired Ideas for Cozy Reading Corners and Stylish Book Displays by Vanessa Dina and Claire Gilhuly.
Packed with easy-to-execute design schemes and Antonis Achilleos’ fabulous photographs, Book Nooks offers tips on how to group books according to color and size, as well as strategies for using personal effects in an arrangement. For establishing a comfy reading area, there are options to suit every style, space and taste. The book also addresses the art of stacking (Yes, it can be a creative act!), suggests methods for bringing plants into the picture, organizing those prize cookbooks and integrating analog reading material into a teen’s room. With reading recs from noted authors and a look at Little Free Libraries, Book Nooks is a bibliophile’s best friend.
Hidden Libraries
DC Helmuth’s Hidden Libraries: The World’s Most Unusual Book Depositories is a perfectly on-point present for any reader, but especially one who loves to travel. This wide-ranging title profiles 50 remarkable libraries in locations across the globe. Staff stories, fascinating facts, spectacular imagery and a foreword from critic and librarian Nancy Pearl make it a winning tribute to the mission of libraries everywhere.
Hidden Libraries surveys a range of amazing physical spaces. The Kurkku Fields’ Underground Library in Kisarazu, Japan, is a book-lined grotto covered in grass, while the cocoon-shaped Heydar Aliyev International Airport Library near Baku, Azerbaijan, projects sheer architectural awesomeness. Examples of inspired resourcefulness regarding book circulation abound: In China, the Shenzhen library system distributes titles via vending machine. And Helmuth doesn’t dismiss even the most miniature of libraries. A handsome wooden cabinet filled with colorful books, the Little Free Library at the South Pole—startling against Antarctica’s unrelieved whiteness—seems to defy its frozen surroundings. Big or small, grand or humble, each library serves as a singular point of enrichment and connection, and Helmuth’s stirring volume honors these efforts.
The Rory Gilmore Reading Challenge
With its quick-witted heroine Rory Gilmore, a voracious reader with dreams of attending Harvard, Gilmore Girls could very well be classified as a TV show for bookworms. The series, which aired from 2000 to 2007, made numerous allusions (339, to be exact) to books of all genres—titles favored by Rory and her friends. In The Rory Gilmore Reading Challenge: The Official Guide to All the Books, Erika Berlin explores the novels, plays and poetry cited on the show, providing episode information and details on who read what.
Inspired by Buzzfeed’s 2014 list of all the books mentioned in Gilmore Girls, Berlin’s breezy volume takes a nostalgic look back at Rory’s world while sharing reading recommendations (Frankenstein, The Poems of Emily Dickinson, One Hundred Years of Solitude, the list goes on) and invaluable book-related advice, including approaches for becoming a more focused reader and easy ways to impose order on a chaotic book collection. Filled with photos from the show, this book is a sunny retrospective and a buoyant tribute to the reading life.
Buried Deep and Other Stories
For the fantasy fan, there’s no better gift than Buried Deep and Other Stories by Naomi Novik, bestselling author of the Scholomance trilogy, Uprooted and Spinning Silver. As this collection proves, Novik is a natural conjurer whose stories—rich with allusion and detail—feel effortlessly authentic. Each provides an escape into an alternative world that’s wholly realized.
“Dragons & Decorum”—a fantastical recasting of Pride and Prejudice, set in the Regency England of Novik’s Temeraire series—finds Elizabeth Bennet riding a winged dragon named Wollstonecraft. In “The Long Way Round,” Novik offers a taste of her next work (tentatively titled Folly) and introduces spirited protagonist Intessa Roh. “Vici,” another Temeraire tale, but this time set in ancient Rome, chronicles the unexpected camaraderie that arises between Marc Antony and a valiant dragon. Introductions from Novik accompany the anthology’s 13 stories, and readers will relish the context they give to her work. This is a transportive collection from an author who maps her narrative milieus with extraordinary precision.
The Man in Black and Other Stories
Crime fiction maven Elly Griffiths is known as a prolific writer, having penned the Ruth Galloway, Harbinder Kaur and Brighton mysteries series. But did anyone suspect she was writing short stories on the side? That’s right—Griffiths has long played around with short-form work, and her intriguing new volume, The Man in Black and Other Stories, spotlights this aspect of her artistry.
The atmospheric anthology brings together 19 pieces, in which, fans will be delighted to learn, Griffiths expands the backstories of some of her most popular characters. The volume’s eponymous story is a spooky sketch set just before Halloween that features Ruth Galloway. “Harbinger” tracks Harbinder Kaur’s all-too-eventful first day at Shoreham Criminal Investigation Department. And in “Ruth Galloway and the Ghost of Max Mephisto,” all three of Griffiths’ sleuths converge, as it were. Ingeniously plotted and leavened with humor, the pieces are brief but satisfying. From sinister tales to twisty whodunits, Griffith’s short stories deliver as much spellbinding suspense as a full-blown novel.
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Maria Ressa’s book is a political history of the Philippines and an intimate memoir, but it’s also a warning to democracies everywhere: Authoritarianism is a threat to us all.
Sean Adams has dialed down the dystopian quotient from his first satirical novel, The Heap, but that element is still very much present in The Thing in the Snow.
In the author’s latest graphic novel, Oasis, two children seek comfort in a discarded AI robot, while their mother labors in a factory in order to give them a better life.
