One Dark Window (The Shepherd King, #1)

by Rachel Gillig

To the quiet girls with stories in their heads. To their dreams—and their nightmares.

This isn’t even the start of the book, but it drew me in immediately!

I pushed into the back of my head—feeling in the dark. When nothing answered, I pattered on down the road.

I love this imagery.

I was a spooked animal, so rarely calm. I needed Ione—her shield of warmth and ease—especially on days like this, my nameday, when I visited my father’s house.

I love the descriptions in this book. They’re so clear in my head. I adore the use of simile and metaphor to paint the picture.

But that was a time I tried not to remember—a time of innocence, before Providence Cards. Before the Nightmare.

She had all the appearance of a beautiful vulture, perched in her favorite chair. She sat, watching me with keen blue eyes, measuring whether I was worthy enough to consume.

My magic moves, he said. My magic bites. My magic soothes. My magic frights. You are young and not so bold. I am unflinching—five hundred years old.

A heart of gold can still turn to rot. What he wrote, what he did, was all done for naught. His Cards are but weapons, his kingdom now cruel. Shepherd of folly, King of the fools.

As if spun of sheep’s wool, magical and smelling of salt, the mist blanketed all of Blunder in gray.

Not very bright, this Physician.

Either Ravyn Yew was in the middle of rearranging his chamber, or what was beginning to feel more apparent by the moment— He was not the man I imagined him to be.

His laugh echoed in the cavernous dark. I know what I know. My secrets are deep. But long have I kept them, and long will they keep.

“I said she was pretty, didn’t I?” Emory twirled the twig wildly through his fingers. A moment later he swore, having poked himself in the eye.

In my attempt to wound him, I had only injured myself.

I frowned, searching the wool. It felt like a forgotten dream, looking at the man with gilded armor. A reflection in water too murky to make out.

Soon the wild soul of the garden would grow tired and retreat deep into itself, the looming chill of winter drawing closer each night.

I love this description of winter closing in.

“You and I already carry strange magic. We’re the very things the book warns against, Miss Spindle.” He smiled, gesturing away from the house into the garden. “We needn’t be afraid of a little salt in the air.”

He laughed. But there was no joy in it. It was an empty laugh, ominous—like falling down a well. Like being eaten by darkness. It stole something from me, leaving me terrified of the place—the doorless chamber—he so desperately wanted me to take him.

Winded, my dress wet and muddy at the hem, I stomped out of the thicket like an ogress, wild and weary.

“Trees!” he coughed. “Grip tight enough? It felt like I was wearing a corset.”

Hah!

He paused again, his brow furrowed. “There are so few of us, Miss Spindle. You are more special than you know. And it pains me to think I might have hurt you. I’m—sorry.” He paused. “Trees, I’m sorry.”

💜

I looked up, desperate for sleep, wide awake.

This feeling is my favorite.

Tell them. Tell them the truth. When your children ask, do not lie—do not hide the risk of magic. Children are strongest when their eyes are clear. Only then can they make their own choices. Only then are they truly free. Tell them. Tell them the truth.

The chapter headings are my favorite. They’re so clever and really pull me deeper into this world.

I saw myself reflected in his expression, the brutal world of the infection embedded on our brows alike—all the fear, all the isolation. I saw the world through his gray eyes—felt the weight of his responsibilities and treacheries—as if they were stones sewn into the fabric of my dress.

You cannot undo what already begins. He paused, his voice serpentine as it flickered past my ears. You cannot erase the salt from the din. But if you won’t let me out… you must let him in.

My name was a token on his lips, a barter, as if he was giving all of himself to me just to say it.

🫠🥹

We were not the same, my half sisters and I. Life had sheltered them, like pearls kept in a velvet pouch. And I—I was not made of pearls. I was made of salt.