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416 pages, Hardcover
First published September 22, 2020
“If there were stairs to hell, would you venture down those?”
“It depends on what was inside hell, and if I needed it.”
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“I wish my love was more beautiful.”
“Sometimes ghost stories are all that is left of history,” he said. “History is full of ghosts because it’s full of myth, all of it woven together depending on who survived to do the telling.”
Maybe for girls made of snow, love was worth the melt. But she was made of stolen bones and sleek fur, grave dirt and strange blood—her heart wasn’t even hers to give. Her soul was all she had, and no love was worth losing it.
“I saw what I wanted to see,” he said, hoarse. “Only a desperate man trusts a mirage in the desert.”
What he felt now was a different kind of incredulity. The kind where one has released a dream into the world, only to rediscover it on the ground, trampled and stained.
Knowledge was coy. It liked to hide beneath the shroud of myth, place its heart in a fairy tale, as if it were a prize at the end of the quest. Perhaps whatever knowledge was here was similar. Perhaps it wished to be wooed and coaxed forth.
“We need to separate Vasiliev from his bodyguards,” said Séverin. “Something that can pull men apart—”
“Money?” asked Enrique.
“Love!” said Hypnos.
“Magnets,” said Zofia.
Laila, Enrique, and Hypnos turned to stare at her.
“Powerful magnets,” Zofia amended.
“You always see so clearly into the darkness of men’s hearts, Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie,” she said, before adding in a softer voice, “But I remember when you used to see wonder.”
Séverin reached for his water goblet. “And now I see truth.”
He was like a cursed prince, trapped in the worst version of himself. And nothing she possessed—not her kiss freely given, nor her heart shyly offered—could break the thrall that held him because he had done it to himself.
Laila was salvaged bones, and the snow maiden was only gathered snow. Love didn’t deserve to thaw their wits and turn their hearts to dust.
“If there were stairs to hell, would you venture down those?”
“It depends on what was inside hell, and if I needed it.”
“When a man cannot see a person as a person, then the devil has slipped into him and is peering out of his eyes.”
“Why isn’t he going in?” muttered Hypnos.
“Fear of dismemberment,” said Zofia. “If I were designing thief-catching mechanisms, I would have a device rigged to attack the first three people who entered.”
Hypnos stepped behind Zofia. “Ladies first.”
That was how friendship felt to her, an illumination too vast for her senses to capture. Yet she did not doubt its presence. And she held that light close to her as step by step, she ventured down the stairs.
He first glimpsed her through the mirror, like a fairy tale where the hero crept upon the monster, risking only a glance at her reflection lest she turn his heart to stone. Only this was its inversion. Now the monster glanced upon the maiden, risking only a glimpse of her reflection lest she turn his stone to heart.
Credit: Gabriella Bujdoso
She could not see her hope for what it was, nothing more than a silvered serpent.
Love did not always wear the face one wished it would.
Sometimes it looked downright monstrous.
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“You might not be a true muse, but you will live on as inspiration to me.”
“When the devil waged war in the heavens, even angels had to fall.”
“When a man cannot see a person as a person, then the devil has slipped into him and is peering out of his eyes.”
"If surviving meant cutting out her heart, then at least she could do it by her own hand."
"The light the world perceived belonged to the visible spectrum, which meant there was light humans could not see.
But Zofia wondered if they could feel it all the same, the way she could sense sunshine against her closed eyelids. Because that was how friendship felt to her, an illumination too vast for her senses to capture."
“He wanted someone who would enter a room and look for him first, to behold him as though the secrets of the world lay somewhere in his gaze, to finish his sentences. Someone to share cake with.”
“I wanted to be a person I saw only in my dreams, and I named myself for that realm.”
"They are each other's fiercest love, greatest danger, and only hope."
“Then again, the names we are born with can end up meaning so little. The names we give ourselves, well, perhaps that’s the truth of us.”
“I’ll perish left to my own devices. Life is cruel, and often without cake.”
“Séverin Montagnet-Alarie knew there was only one difference between monsters and gods. Both inspired fear. Only one inspired worship.”
"She was made of stolen bones and sleek fur, grave dirt and strange blood—her heart wasn’t even hers to give. Her soul was all she had, and no love was worth losing it"
“She didn’t shiver as she walked. If anything, she seemed to luxuriate in the cold, as if it ran through her blood.”
“I’ll perish left to my own devices. Life is cruel, and often without cake.”
“I envy you, too, for enjoying such trust. For being so”—he circled his glass, frowning—“wanted.”
“I wouldn’t dismiss myths,” said Enrique quietly. “Most myths are just truths covered in cobwebs.”
“Ah, Majnun. The madman who lost himself to an impossible dream,”
“Sometimes ghost stories are all that is left of history,” he said. “History is full of ghosts because it’s full of myth, all of it woven together depending on who survived to do the telling.”
“Once, this meeting room had served as a reminder that the stars themselves were within reach. Once, they could tip back their heads and dare to gaze at the heavens. Now, the stars seemed a mockery: teeth-white snarls of destiny and constellations, spun out into a celestial calligraphy that spelled unshakable fates for all mortals. That would change, thought Séverin. Soon … they would find that book.
Then, not even the stars could touch them.”
“I wish, in war, there were no need for casualties,” he said. “And yet, no one is truly safe. When the devil waged war in the heavens, even angels had to fall.”
“Speaking of cake … or rather, the opposite of cake.” He paused, frowning in thought. “What is the opposite of cake?”
“Despair,” said Laila.”
"That was how friendship felt to her, an illumination too vast for her senses to capture. Yet she did not doubt its presence. And she held that light close to her as step by step, she ventured down the stairs."
“You cannot protect everyone from everything. You’re only human, Séverin.”
Séverin closed his eyes, his hand on the doorknob of the office.
“Then that must change.”
“In The Divine Lyrics, he sensed richness. A future where the alchemy of those ancient words would gild his veins, cure him of human error, and its pages would become grounds rich enough to resurrect dead dreams.”
“To be powerless was the price of mortality. And he was done with mortality.”
“You always see so clearly into the darkness of men’s hearts, Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie,” she said, before adding in a softer voice, “But I remember when you used to see wonder.”
Séverin reached for his water goblet. “And now I see truth.”
“What he had not considered was how a god acted, and this was his first taste—the bitter calculus of decision. Gods made choices. Gods burned cities and spared a child. Gods put gold in the palms of the wicked and left that miserable currency of hope in the hearts of the good."
“To him, Laila was like a fairy tale plucked from the pages of a book—a girl with a curse woven into her heartbeat. In all the time he’d known her, part of her seemed to hum with the force of her secret. Who was she? What could she do?”
“Laila was like a fairy tale plucked from the pages of a book—a girl with a curse woven into her heartbeat. A mirage glimpsed through smoke. A temptation in the desert that lulls the soul into thinking of false promises. The essence of her was walking into a room, and all eyes pinned to her, as if she were the performance of a lifetime. The essence of her was a smile full of forgiveness, the warmth in her hands, sugar in her hair.”
“Laila thought of Snegurochka. She wished she were like her, a girl whose very heart could thaw and unmake her on the spot. Perhaps if she had been a girl made of gathered snow, she would be nothing but a puddle of water. But she was not. She was bones and pelt, and though every part of her felt broken, she wrapped her arms around her knees as if it might hold her together.”
“Maybe for girls made of snow, love was worth the melt. But she was made of stolen bones and sleek fur, grave dirt and strange blood—her heart wasn’t even hers to give. Her soul was all she had, and no love was worth losing it.”
“It was the name of a fear that never had a chance to become a joy, and it filled her with shame that she had not tried to love it, and would never have the chance.”
“If there were stairs to hell, would you venture down those?”
“It depends on what was inside hell, and if I needed it.”
“Only then did her mother look up and smile, before pulling her close and saying: “Be a light in this world, my Zosia, for it can be very dark.”
Zofia’s throat tightened to think of them now. The world seemed too dark to navigate, no matter what light she tried to bring to it.
“I’ll perish left to my own devices. Life is cruel, and often without cake.”
Enrique’s chin dropped a little, and his gaze went to the ice. “I can see that. I know how much it hurts when you realize you’re not held in the same emotional regard as you thought. Or, perhaps, imagined.”
“But a shared past didn’t make a future. And Hypnos seemed to know this too.”
“I envy you, too, for enjoying such trust. For being so”—he circled his glass, frowning—“wanted.”
Character Dynamics
“Someone wants to play God.”
The Romance (and who I ship)
“We debase ourselves for the ones we love.”
"Her words rang through his head.
I don’t think Laila could stand to see how much her Majnun had lost himself to the wilderness in his soul."
“Laila’s kindness was warmth freely given—like unasked for treasure—and it overwhelmed him as if he were a beggar gifted a king’s ransom for as irrational a reason as the day of the week.”
“In debating the merits of pursuing hidden treasure, one must weigh the risk of whether it was never meant to be found and if so, why?”
“Séverin Montagnet-Alarie knew there was only one difference between monsters and gods. Both inspired fear. Only one inspired worship.
Séverin sympathized with monsters. (....) he understood that perhaps monsters were misunderstood gods; deities with plans too grand for humans; a phantom of evil that drank from the roots of good.
He should know.
After all, he was a monster.”
“History is full of ghosts because it’s full of myth, all of it woven together depending on who survived to do the telling.”
Séverin Montagnet-Alarie knew there was only one difference between monsters and gods. Both inspired fear. Only one inspired worship.
Sometimes to love meant to hurt. And he would be a loving god.
Thank you to Macmillan for providing me a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review. This did not affect my opinion in any way.
All quotes are from an advanced copy and may differ in final publication.
The Gilded Wolves (#1) ★★★★★
The Silvered Serpents (#2) ★★★★☆
↣ an early digital copy received via netgalley
#1) The Gilded Wolves ★★★★★
A small part of him hesitated, but he steeled himself. He was doing this for them. For his friends. The more he cared about their feelings, the harder his task became. And so he endeavored to feel nothing at all.
“Why isn’t he going in?” muttered Hypnos.
“Fear of dismemberment,” said Zofia. “If I were designing thief-catching mechanisms, I would have a device rigged to attack the first three people who entered.”
Hypnos stepped behind Zofia. “Ladies first.”
She couldn't live with his pity, and she would die at his apathy. All that remained was his silence. Laila wondered if that was the truest death - being slowly rendered invisible so that all she inspired was indifference.