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396 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 15, 2019
History is a myth shaped by the tongues of conquerors.
- From the Author's Note
“What proof did you have? What was your research?”
“Superstition. Stories,” said Enrique, before adding just to annoy her: “A gut instinct.”
“That boy looks like every dark corner of a fairy tale. The wolf in bed. The apple in a witch’s palm.”
“Sometimes the only way to take down what had destroyed you was to disguise yourself as part of it.”
“Turning into ghosts is not what the dead deserve.”
“But the greatest thief of all was the Order of Babel, for they stole more than just objects . . . they stole histories”
He thought of the stories he'd heard growing up about the underworld. The tale of Orpheus, who looked behind him and lost everything. He wouldn't be that. He would descend and ascend, and lose nothing but a handful of time.
“Wolves were everywhere. In politics, on thrones, in beds. They cut their teeth on history and grew fat on war.”
“Am I pretty?” asked Enrique, plucking at his fake beard and patting his hands over his jowls, wrinkles and age spots. “Be honest.”
“‘Pretty’ is a stretch. Let’s call you ‘striking.’ Or ‘impossible to look away from’.”
“Oooh. Like the sun?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a train wreck.”
“When you are who they expect you to be, they never look too closely. If you’re furious, let it be fuel,” Séverin said, looking each of them in the eye. “Just don’t forget that enough power and influence makes anyone impossible to look away from. And then they can’t help but see you.”
Everywhere he looked, he was surrounded by gilded wolves. And for whatever reason it made him feel perfectly at home. Wolves were everywhere. In politics, in thrones, in beds. They cut their teeth on history and grew fat on war. Not that Séverin was complaining. It was just that, like other wolves, he wanted his share.
➽I couldn’t reconcile the horrors of that era with the glamour of it, which, up until then, was what had stood out in my imagination of the 19th century: courtesans and the Moulin Rouge, glittering parties and champagne… History is a myth shaped by the tongues of conquerors. I wanted to write this trilogy not to instruct or condemn, but to question. [...] Question what is gold and what glitters.
Wolves were everywhere. In politics, on thrones, in beds. They cut their teeth on history and grew fat on war. Not that Séverin was complaining. It was just that, like other wolves, he wanted his share.
Lust taught him that a broken heart made a fine weapon, for its pieces were exceptionally sharp.
“Lust is safer than love, but both can ruin you.”
“Take what the world owes you by any means necessary,” Pride had said. “The world has a shit memory. It will never pay its debts unless you force its hand.”
“Think about what this could mean for us. It could bring us everything we wanted.”
Enrique dragged his palm down his face. “You know how moths look at a fire and think, ‘Oooh! shiny!’ and then die in a burst of flames and regret?”
“Vaguely.”
“Right. Just checking to be sure.”
“Aristocracy is just a fancy word for thievery, my dear wallets. I am simply embodying what I was innately born with, you see?”
Credit: Nicole
“I don’t want to be their equal. I don’t want them to look us in the eye. I want them to look away, to blink harshly, as if they’ve stared at the sun itself. I don’t want them standing across from us. I want them kneeling.”
“You could’ve been hurt.”
“It’s the price one pays for chasing wants,” he said lightly. “The problem is, I have too many of them.”
“Tristan, my love,” said Laila with dangerous calm. “If you get in the way of a woman’s battle, you’ll get in the way of her sword.”
That was the thing about numbers. They weren’t like people, who could say one thing and do another. They weren’t like riddles of social mannerisms or conversations.
Numbers never lied.
“I am personally undecided, but if we’re assessing based on objectivity, then according to the principles of the golden ratio, also known as phi, which is approximately 1.618, your facial beauty is mathematically pleasing.”
Enrique shuddered. “Honestly. Who looks at a vase covered in bull testicles and says, ‘You. I must have you.’?”
“The bored, the rich, and the enigmatic.”
Enrique sighed. “All my life aspirations.”
“You care for me. We’re all friends. We’re friends going to save another friend! This is…this is amazing.”
“I never said that,” said Séverin, alarmed.
“Actions have a better voice than words.”
“It’s actions speak louder than words.”
“Whatever. I like my version better.”
“‘Pretty’ is a stretch. Let’s call you ‘striking.’ Or ‘impossible to look away from.’”
“Oooh. Like the sun?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of a train wreck.”
Credit: Sally
The dark and the fair, the ones whose languages sounded spiced. The ones kept in makeshift villages, commanded to entertain. The ones who watched and jeered or tamped down their horror. The ones who reached for hands they could never hold openly in the street. All of them. Stitches in a tapestry that had no horizon.
CW ➾ racism, autism, child abandonment, neglect, and abuse, bullying, cultural appropriation and erasure, self harm
The setting is Paris, 1889, and the world is a strange and industrious place, run by Forgers and curators of fantastical items. Séverin is a treasure-hunter with a crew, and he’s looking to find the item he needs to be reinstated in his rightful place, to receive the inheritance taken unfairly from him—but the item will come at a cost, and he and his team will need to overcome many obstacles to retrieve it.
“I don’t want to be their equals. I don’t want them to look us in the eye. I want them to look away, to blink harshly, like they’ve stared at the sun itself. I don’t want them standing across from us. I want them kneeling.”
They might owe him their service. But he was the one bound to them. He was the one who would always be left behind.
And though they were not all his tales, he saw himself in them: pushed to the corners of the dark. He was just like them. As solid as smoke and just as powerless.
→ Séverin 💀 half-Algerian, clever, criminal mastermind, total grump-butt in the best way
→ Laila 🍰 Indian, #squadmom, baker extraordinaire, sweetest and most loving little ball of sunshine ever, has a beautiful story arc regarding the importance of dance in her culture/homeland
→ Zofia 🔬 Jewish, Polish, autistic (and so well-done, written with such obvious care and research), scientist/genius, wickedly funny, probably my actual favorite??
→ Enrique 📜 Filipino/Spanish, queer, adorable, pouty, historian, has endless internal monologues about feeling erased, suffering racism/microaggressions, etc., made me cry a million times
→ Tristan 🕸 precious soft little bean, has a pet tarantula he never shuts up about, needs to be protected and cared for at all costs
→ Hypnos 💎 black, queer, doesn’t always have the best motives but is generally the actual softest, killer taste in fashion
He whispered the words Pride spoke every time he went to repossess an object: “I’ve come to collect my dues.”
“When you are who they expect you to be, they never look too closely. If you’re furious, let it be fuel.”
“If you’re furious, let it be fuel.”
“Wolves were everywhere. In politics, on thrones, in beds. They cut their teeth on history and grew fat on war.”