The Foxglove King (The Nightshade Crown #1)

by Hannah F. Whitten

Threads of Mortem waved in the air like spider legs, the black corona of an inverted sun.

Warmth on her hands, stilling them, stopping her from twisting mindlessly at the fabric of her skirt. Gabriel’s palm was laid across her fingers, rough with calluses. His eye patch was on her side, so he wasn’t looking at her, but he still took his hand away when her head whirled his direction. “You’ll tear it,” he said. “And that will attract far more attention than just sitting here will.”

Her eyes closed; the summer sunlight filtering through the branches above lit the network of veins in her eyelids, a lurid map of capillaries. It reminded her of the catacombs.

Gabe fell into step on Lore’s other side. It felt somewhat like being escorted by two abnormally tall cats, twitchy and standoffish.

hating it is only easy from far away.”

If they’d pressed their palms together, the upside-down crescent of her moon would fit perfectly as the completed curve of his sun.

“Bastian, shut up.”

She fed death to the corpse and laid it slowly to rest again.

The body always knows. —Eroccan proverb

She recognized the scent. Clove and cinnamon, warming things.

The bandage over the missing tip of his finger was stark against the dark blanket.

“I wasn’t the one who took the book from the library. I found it in my father’s study.” He cocked his head toward Malcolm. “And if you think I was mistreating it, you should’ve seen what he was doing. He’d left it open and weighted down the pages with a wineglass to keep it that way.” “Bleeding God.” Malcolm hurriedly flipped the book over in his hands to inspect the spine.

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Delicate china met delicate lips, delicate pastries were sampled by delicate hands. Lore felt like a horse let loose in a jewelry shop.