După ce Jacks, Prințul Inimilor, o trădează, Évangéline Fox jură că nu va mai avea încredere în e... more După ce Jacks, Prințul Inimilor, o trădează, Évangéline Fox jură că nu va mai avea încredere în el. Acum că și-a descoperit propria putere, Évangéline crede că o poate folosi pentru a recupera șansa de a fi fericită pentru totdeauna după ce Jacks i-a furat-o. Dar când un nou blestem terifiant este dezvăluit, Évangéline se trezește din nou într-un parteneriat cu Prințul Inimilor. Numai că de această dată regulile sau schimbat. Jacks nu este singura forță de care Évangéline trebuie să se ferească. De fapt, el ar putea fi singurul în care poate avea încredere, în ciuda dorinței ei de a-l disprețui. În loc ca o vrajă de dragoste să facă ravagii în viața lui Évangéline, a fost aruncată o vrajă criminală. Pentru a o rupe, Évangéline și Jacks vor trebui să se lupte cu vechi prieteni, noi dușmani și o magie care se joacă cu mințile și inimile deopotrivă. Évangéline a avut întotdeauna încredere în inima ei, dar de data aceasta nu este sigură că poate...
Uşa bisericii Prinţului Inimilor a dispărut. Vopsită în roşul-închis al inimilor frânte, intrarea... more Uşa bisericii Prinţului Inimilor a dispărut. Vopsită în roşul-închis al inimilor frânte, intrarea simbolică a dispărut, pur şi simplu, dintr-una dintre bisericile cele mai vizitate din Cartierul Templului cândva în timpul nopţii, lăsând în urmă un zid de marmură impenetrabil. Acum e imposibil pentru oricine să intre în biserică… Evangeline vârî hârtia de ziar veche de două săptămâni în buzunarul fustei ei înflorate. Uşa de la capătul acestei alei vechi era puţin mai înaltă decât ea şi era ascunsă în spatele unui grilaj de metal ruginit în loc să fie acoperită cu o frumoasă vopsea roşie ca sângele, dar ar fi pariat pe magazinul de curiozităţi al tatălui ei că aceasta era uşa dispărută. Nimic din Cartierul Templului nu era atât de neatrăgător. Fiecare intrare de aici avea panouri sculptate, arhitrave decorative, marchize de sticlă şi găurile cheilor aurite. Tatăl ei fusese un om credincios, dar obişnuia să spună că bisericile de aici erau ca vampirii-nu erau destinate închinării, ci erau proiectate pentru a ademeni şi a prinde în capcană. Dar această, uşă era diferită. Această uşă era doar un bloc brut de lemn cu o clanţă ruptă şi vopsea albă scorojită. Această uşă nu voia să fie găsită. Dar nu putea ascunde de Evangeline ceea ce era cu adevărat. Forma ei crestată era inconfundabilă. O parte era o curbă înclinată, cealaltă, o tăietură zimţată, formând o jumătate de inimă frântă-un simbol al Prinţului Sortit al Inimilor. CAPITOLUL 4 Măcar Evangeline mai avea abilitatea de a gândi. Deşi, uneori, acea abilitate o făcea să sufere. De obicei, se întâmpla după zile în care nimicul părea nesfârşit, când Evangeline îşi imagina că, în sfârşit, simţea ceva. Dar niciodată nu era ceea ce îşi dorea. Niciodată nu era senzaţia de căldură pe pielea ei, furnicături în degetele de la picioare sau atingerea altei persoane care să o anunţe că nu era singură pe lume. De obicei, era ceva doar ca o săgeată care îi frângea inima sau un junghi de regret. Regretul era cel mai rău. Regretul era acru şi amar, şi avea un gust atât de asemănător cu al adevărului, că trebuia să lupte ca să nu se prăbuşească sub greutatea lui. Trebuia să lupte ca să nu creadă că Jacks avusese dreptate-că ar fi trebuit să lase cupa în pace, să-i lase pe ceilalţi să rămână stane de piatră şi să joace rolul victimei. Jacks se înşelase. Făcuse ce era corect. Cineva avea să o salveze. Uneori, când se simţea deosebit de optimistă, Evangeline chiar se gândea că Jacks ar fi putut să o salveze. Dar, oricât de optimistă era Evangeline, ştia că Prinţul Inimilor nu era un salvator. Oamenii aveau nevoie să fie salvaţi de pericolul reprezentat de el. CAPITOLUL 5 Apoi… Evangeline simţi ceva ce nu era inima ei frântă sau regretul. CAPITOLUL 6 Ceva ca lumina îi gâdilă pielea. Pielea ei. Evangeline îşi putea simţi pielea. Nu mai simţise nimic de-de fapt, nu ştia cât timp trecuse. Mult timp nu se întâmplase nimic, dar acum putea simţi totul. Pleoapele. Gleznele. Coatele. Buzele. Picioarele. Oasele. Pielea. Plămânii. Inima. Părul. Venele. Rotulele. Lobii urechilor. Gâtul. Pieptul. Tremura din cap până-n picioare. Pielea îi era acoperită de sudoare şi i se părea incredibilă-rece, umedă şi vie. Era vie din nou!-Bine ai revenit. Un braţ solid cuprinse talia lui Evangeline în timp ce picioarele ei care se clătinau se obişnuiau să fie din nou muşchi şi oase. Apoi i se limpezi vederea. Poate pentru că nu mai văzuse un chip de ceva timp, tânărul care o cuprinsese cu braţul i se păru extraordinar de chipeş-piele închisă la culoare, ochi cu gene groase, un zâmbet şarmant. Umerii îi erau acoperiţi cu o capă de un verde dramatic, brodată cu frunze de cupru strălucitoare precum chipul lui.-Poţi vorbi? întrebă el.-De ce… Evangeline tuşi ca să scape de nişte pietriş din gât. De ce arăţi ca un mag din pădure? Se ruşină imediat ce îi ieşiră cuvintele pe gură. Era evident că unele dintre simţurile ei-cum ar fi fost filtrul cuvintelor rostite-încă nu îşi făceau treaba. Străinul o salvase. Speră că nu îl jignise. Din fericire, zâmbetul strălucitor al bărbatului se făcu mai larg.-Excelent. Uneori, vocea nu se întoarce imediat. Acum spune-mi numele tău întreg, dragă. Trebuie să mă asigur că ţi-ai recăpătat memoria
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, incl... more No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. CONTENTS TRIGGER WARNING Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter TRIGGER WARNING Non-consensual sex and kidnapping are present in this book. They are not presented in a graphic or overly detailed way. I RODE INTO TOWN ALONE, disguised under the hood of my cloak until I came to one of my favorite courtier's houses, Maxwell Blane. He was handsome, rich, funny, and a total lothario. It would be perfect for what I was about to ask. I knocked on his door hurriedly, as the street beyond his house in town was bustling and I didn't want any rumors. I'd never been alone in another man's presence without a chaperone, but I didn't want a witness for what I was about to ask of him. When his housemaid opened the door, I slipped inside without being asked to do so. She squeaked in shock, backing up, then I pulled off my cloak. "Sorry for the intrusion, Margaret." "Oh, Princess Madelynn." She bowed, seemingly relieved that she knew who was barging into her home. My lady-in-waiting, Piper, and I came to Maxwell's house once a week for one of his famous cocktail parties. He was the courtier to know, and put on the most entertaining parties I'd ever been to. There was singing, games, and drinking. I didn't drink of course, it wouldn't be proper but I played the games and we always had a wonderful time. "Is Maxwell around? I have an urgent issue." She nodded. "Right this way. He's in the study." She looked behind me at the door as if nonverbally asking where my chaperone was. I said nothing, only letting the heat of my cheeks speak for me. Without a word, she took the hint and asked for my cloak. Maxwell's parents came from old money, and when they died in a boating accident they left him everything. He was a spoiled brat and a dear friend. I knew he would help me with my request. She walked me down the hallway. We came upon an open door and the maid knocked on the casing. "Sir, Princess Madelynn is here." His face lit up when he saw me. "What an honor. Come in, darling." Darling. Beautiful. Honey. He never addressed a woman without something sweet at the end. He'd bedded half the court, I was sure of it. The maid left us. Normally, she would stay to make sure my reputation was intact, but I think she had gathered this was going to be a private conversation.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, incl... more No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Mr. Lee blinks at me. Adjusts his glasses. "Right …" "Just wanted to put that out there." I lean ... more Mr. Lee blinks at me. Adjusts his glasses. "Right …" "Just wanted to put that out there." I lean back in my seat, suddenly unsure if I should feel triumphant or guilty for interrupting. Maybe he really had meant it in your typical she-sure-knows-her-conjunctions kind of way, rather than an I-don't-expect-people-who-look-like-her-to-speak-any-English way. Ma clearly seems to believe the former, because she shoots me a sharp look. "Sorry. Carry on," I mutter. Mr. Lee glances over at Ma. "So what I'm curious to know, if you don't mind, is a bit about Eliza's background before she came here …" Ma nods, well prepared for this, and launches into the usual script: born in China, moved when she was five, went to this school and that school and moved countries again … I try not to fidget, to flee. Being talked about this way makes my skin itch. "Ah, but the best thing about having lived everywhere is that she belongs anywhere." Mr. Lee stretches his hands out wide in a gesture that I'm assuming represents "anywhere"-and knocks over a tissue box in the process. He pauses, flustered. Picks it up. Then, unbelievably, continues right where he left off. "You should know that Eliza is not a citizen of one country or even one continent, but rather a-" "If you say citizen of the world, I'm going to throw up," I mutter under my breath, low enough for only me to hear. Mr. Lee leans forward. "Sorry, what's that?" "Nothing." I shake my head. Smile. "Nothing." A beat. "Well, since we're on the topic of Eliza's circumstances," Mr. Lee says delicately, hesitantly, and I have a terrible feeling I know what's coming. "I do worry that Eliza is having a hard time … adjusting." My throat tightens. This. This is why I hate parent-teacher interviews. "Adjusting," Ma repeats with a frown, though she doesn't look too surprised. Just sad. "She doesn't seem to be close with anyone in her class," Mr. Lee elaborates. The trilingual group waiting for their parents in the back choose this time to burst into loud laughter at whatever it is they're chatting about, the sound banging against all four walls. Mr. Lee raises his voice, almost yelling, "That is to say, it's somewhat concerning that she still doesn't have any friends here." Unfortunately for me, the noise levels happen to die down again halfway through his sentence. And of course, everyone hears every last word. There's an awkward pause, and about thirty pairs of eyes burn holes into my skull. My face catches fire. I rise from my seat, wincing inwardly when the chair legs squeak against the polished floor, scraping against the silence. I mumble something about using the bathroom. Then I get the hell out of there. In my defense, I'm generally pretty good-an expert, even-at pushing my feelings aside and disconnecting myself from everything, but sometimes it just hits me hard: this horrible, crushing sense of wrongness, of otherness, regardless of whether I'm the only Asian kid at an elite Catholic all-girls school in London or the only new kid in a tiny cohort at a Chinese international school. Sometimes I'm convinced I'll spend the rest of my life this way. Alone. Sometimes I think loneliness is my default setting. To my relief, the corridor is empty. I retreat into the farthest corner, bend down into a half crouch, and take my phone out. Scroll through nothing for a minute. Feel intuitively for the rough string bracelet around my wrist, a gift from Zoe, let it comfort me. This is fine, I'm fine. Then I head onto the Craneswift website.
An Hachette UK Company www.hachette.co.uk www.littlebrown.co.uk To my fellow zebras. Not all stre... more An Hachette UK Company www.hachette.co.ukwww.littlebrown.co.uk To my fellow zebras. Not all strength is physical. Iron Flame is a nonstop-thrilling adventure fantasy set in the brutal and competitive world of a military college for dragon riders, which includes elements regarding war, psychological and physical torture, imprisonment, intense violence, brutal injuries, perilous situations, blood, dismemberment, burning, murder, death, animal death, graphic language, loss of family, grief, and sexual activities that are shown on the page. Readers who may be sensitive to these elements, please take note, and prepare to join the revolution… The following text has been faithfully transcribed from Navarrian into the modern language by Jesinia Neilwart, Curator of the Scribe Quadrant at Basgiath War College. All events are true, and names have been preserved to honor the courage of those fallen. May their souls be commended to Malek.
pentru prezenta ediție Toate drepturile rezervate pentru limba română. Nicio parte a acestei lucr... more pentru prezenta ediție Toate drepturile rezervate pentru limba română. Nicio parte a acestei lucrări nu poate fi stocată sau reprodusă fără acordul editurii.
As a little girl I walked for hours alone in the silent woods behind my house in Louisiana, singi... more As a little girl I walked for hours alone in the silent woods behind my house in Louisiana, singing songs. Being outside gave me a sense of aliveness and danger. When I was growing up, my mother and father fought constantly. He was an alcoholic. I was usually scared in my home. Outside wasn't necessarily heaven, either, but it was my world. Call it heaven or hell, it was mine. Before going home, I would follow a path to our neighbors' house, through a landscaped yard and past a swimming pool. They had a rock garden full of small, soft pebbles that would trap the heat and stay warm in a way that felt so good against my skin. I would lie down on those rocks and look up at the sky, feeling the warmth from below and above, thinking: I can make my own way in life. I can make my dreams come true. Lying quietly on those rocks, I felt God. Raising kids in the South used to be more about respecting your parents and keeping your mouth shut. (Today, the rules have reversed-it's more about respecting the kids.) Disagreeing with a parent was never permitted in my house. No matter how bad it got, there was an understanding to stay mute, and if I didn't, there were consequences. In the Bible it says your tongue is your sword. My tongue and my sword were me singing. My whole childhood, I sang. I sang along with the car radio on the way to dance class. I sang when I was sad. To me, singing was spiritual. I was born and went to school in McComb, Mississippi, and lived in Kentwood, Louisiana, twenty-ve miles away. Everyone knew everyone in Kentwood. Doors were left unlocked, social lives revolved around church and backyard parties, kids were put in matching out ts, and everyone knew how to shoot a gun. The area's main historic site was Camp Moore, a Confederate training base built by Je erson Davis. Each year there are Civil War reenactments the weekend before Thanksgiving, and the sight of the people dressed up in military out ts was a reminder that the holiday was coming. I loved that time of year: hot chocolate, the smell of the replace in our living room, the colors of the fall leaves on the ground. We had a little brick house with green-striped wallpaper and wood paneling. As a girl I went to Sonic, rode go-karts, played basketball, and attended a Christian school called Parklane Academy. The rst time I was truly touched and got shivers down my spine was hearing our housekeeper singing in the laundry room. I always did the family laundry and ironing, but when times were better nancially, my mom would hire someone to help. The housekeeper sang gospel music, and it was literally an awakening to a whole new world. I'll never forget it. Ever since then, my longing and passion to sing have grown. Singing is magic. When I sing, I own who I am. I can communicate purely. When you sing you stop using the language of "Hi, how are you…" You're able to say things that are much more profound. Singing takes me to a mystical place where language doesn't matter anymore, where anything is possible. All I wanted was to be taken away from the everyday world and into that realm where I could express myself without thinking. When I was alone with my thoughts, my mind lled with worries and fears. Music stopped the noise, made me feel con dent, and took me to a pure place of expressing myself exactly as I wanted to be seen and heard. Singing took me into the presence of the divine. As long as I was singing, I was half outside the world. I'd be playing in the backyard like any kid would, but my thoughts and feelings and hopes were somewhere else. I worked hard to make things look the way I wanted them to. I took myself very seriously when I shot silly music videos to Mariah Carey songs in my girlfriend's backyard. By age eight, I thought I was a director. Nobody in my town seemed to be doing stu like that. But I knew what I wanted to see in the world, and I tried to make it so. Artists make things and play characters because they want an escape into faraway worlds, and escape was exactly what I needed. I wanted to live inside my dreams, my wonderful ctitious world, and never think about reality if I could help it. Singing bridged reality and fantasy, the world I was living in and the world that I desperately wanted to inhabit. Tragedy runs in my family. My middle name comes from my father's mother, Emma Jean Spears, who went by Jean. I've seen pictures of her, and I understand why everyone said we look alike. Same blond hair. Same smile. She looked younger than she was. Her husband-my grandfather June Spears Sr.-was abusive. Jean su ered the loss of a baby when he was only three days old. June sent Jean to Southeast Louisiana Hospital, a by-all-accounts horrible asylum in Mandeville, where she was put on lithium. In 1966, when she was thirty-one, my grandmother Jean shot herself with a shotgun on her infant son's grave, just over eight years after his death. I can't imagine the grief that she must have felt. The way people talk about men like June in the South is to say "Nothing was good enough for him," that he was "a perfectionist," that he was "a very involved father." I would probably put it more harshly than that. A sports fanatic, June made my father exercise long past exhaustion. Each day when my father nished basketball practice, no matter how tired and hungry he was, he still had to shoot a hundred more baskets before he could come inside. June was an o cer for the Baton Rouge Police Department and he eventually had ten children with three wives. And as far as I can tell, no one has one good word to say about the rst fty years of his life. Even in my family, it was said that the Spears men tended to be bad news, especially in terms of how they treated women. Jean wasn't the only wife June sent to the mental hospital in Mandeville. He sent his second wife there, too. One of my father's half sisters has said that June sexually abused her starting when she was eleven, until she ran away at sixteen. My father was thirteen when Jean died on that grave. I know that trauma is part of why my father was how he was with my siblings and me; why, for him, nothing was ever good enough. My father pushed my brother to excel in sports. He drank until he couldn't think anymore. He'd disappear for days at a time. When my father drank, he was extremely mean. But June softened as he got older. I didn't experience the vicious man who had abused my father and his siblings but rather a grandfather who seemed patient and sweet. My father's world and my mother's world were completely opposite from each other. According to my mother, my mom's mom-my grandmother Lilian "Lily" Portell-was from an elegant, sophisticated family in London. She had an exotic air about her that everyone commented on; her mother was British and her father was from the Mediterranean island of Malta. Her uncle was a bookbinder. The whole family played instruments and loved to sing. During World War II, Lily met an American soldier, my grandfather Barney Bridges, at a dance for the soldiers. He was a driver for the generals and he loved driving fast. She was disappointed, though, when he brought her with him to America. She'd imagined a life like what she had in London. As she rode to his dairy farm from New Orleans, she looked out the window of Barney's car and was troubled by how empty his world seemed. "Where are all the lights?" she kept asking her new husband. I sometimes think about Lily riding through the Louisiana countryside, looking out into the night, realizing that her large, vibrant, music-lled life of afternoon teas and London museums was about to become small and hard. Instead of going to the theater or shopping for clothes, she would have to spend her life cooped up in the country, cooking and cleaning and milking cows. So my grandmother kept to herself, read a ton of books, became obsessed with cleaning, and missed London until the day she died. My family said that Barney didn't want to let Lily go back to London because he thought that if she went, she wouldn't come home. My mother said Lily was so distracted by her own thoughts that she had a tendency to start clearing the table before everyone was done eating. All I knew was that my grandmother was beautiful and I loved copying her British accent. Talking in a British accent has always made me happy because it makes me think of her, my fashionable grandmother. I wanted to have manners and a lilting voice just like hers. Because Lily had money, my mother, Lynne; her brother, Sonny; and her sister, Sandra, grew up with what you might consider money-money, especially for rural Louisiana. Even though they were Protestant, my mom attended Catholic school. She was gorgeous as a teenager, with her black hair worn short. She'd always go to school wearing the highest boots and the tiniest skirts. She hung out with the gay guys in town, who gave her rides on their motorcycles. My father took an interest in her, as well he might. And probably in part because June made him work so ridiculously hard, my father was unbelievably talented at sports. People would drive for miles just to see him play basketball. My mom saw him and she said, "Oh, who is this?" By all accounts, their relationship was born of mutual attraction and a sense of adventure. But the honeymoon was over long before I came along. When they got married, my parents lived in a small home in Kentwood. My mother was no longer supported by her family, so my parents were very poor. They were young, too-my mom was twenty-one and my father was twentythree. In 1977, they had my big brother, Bryan. When they left that rst small place, they bought a little three-bedroom ranch house. After Bryan was born, my mom went back to school to become a teacher. My dad, who worked as a welder at oil re neries-hard jobs that would last a month or sometimes three-started to drink heavily, and before too long, that was taking its toll on the family. The way my mom tells it, a couple of...
După ce Jacks, Prințul Inimilor, o trădează, Évangéline Fox jură că nu va mai avea încredere în e... more După ce Jacks, Prințul Inimilor, o trădează, Évangéline Fox jură că nu va mai avea încredere în el. Acum că și-a descoperit propria putere, Évangéline crede că o poate folosi pentru a recupera șansa de a fi fericită pentru totdeauna după ce Jacks i-a furat-o. Dar când un nou blestem terifiant este dezvăluit, Évangéline se trezește din nou într-un parteneriat cu Prințul Inimilor. Numai că de această dată regulile sau schimbat. Jacks nu este singura forță de care Évangéline trebuie să se ferească. De fapt, el ar putea fi singurul în care poate avea încredere, în ciuda dorinței ei de a-l disprețui. În loc ca o vrajă de dragoste să facă ravagii în viața lui Évangéline, a fost aruncată o vrajă criminală. Pentru a o rupe, Évangéline și Jacks vor trebui să se lupte cu vechi prieteni, noi dușmani și o magie care se joacă cu mințile și inimile deopotrivă. Évangéline a avut întotdeauna încredere în inima ei, dar de data aceasta nu este sigură că poate...
Uşa bisericii Prinţului Inimilor a dispărut. Vopsită în roşul-închis al inimilor frânte, intrarea... more Uşa bisericii Prinţului Inimilor a dispărut. Vopsită în roşul-închis al inimilor frânte, intrarea simbolică a dispărut, pur şi simplu, dintr-una dintre bisericile cele mai vizitate din Cartierul Templului cândva în timpul nopţii, lăsând în urmă un zid de marmură impenetrabil. Acum e imposibil pentru oricine să intre în biserică… Evangeline vârî hârtia de ziar veche de două săptămâni în buzunarul fustei ei înflorate. Uşa de la capătul acestei alei vechi era puţin mai înaltă decât ea şi era ascunsă în spatele unui grilaj de metal ruginit în loc să fie acoperită cu o frumoasă vopsea roşie ca sângele, dar ar fi pariat pe magazinul de curiozităţi al tatălui ei că aceasta era uşa dispărută. Nimic din Cartierul Templului nu era atât de neatrăgător. Fiecare intrare de aici avea panouri sculptate, arhitrave decorative, marchize de sticlă şi găurile cheilor aurite. Tatăl ei fusese un om credincios, dar obişnuia să spună că bisericile de aici erau ca vampirii-nu erau destinate închinării, ci erau proiectate pentru a ademeni şi a prinde în capcană. Dar această, uşă era diferită. Această uşă era doar un bloc brut de lemn cu o clanţă ruptă şi vopsea albă scorojită. Această uşă nu voia să fie găsită. Dar nu putea ascunde de Evangeline ceea ce era cu adevărat. Forma ei crestată era inconfundabilă. O parte era o curbă înclinată, cealaltă, o tăietură zimţată, formând o jumătate de inimă frântă-un simbol al Prinţului Sortit al Inimilor. CAPITOLUL 4 Măcar Evangeline mai avea abilitatea de a gândi. Deşi, uneori, acea abilitate o făcea să sufere. De obicei, se întâmpla după zile în care nimicul părea nesfârşit, când Evangeline îşi imagina că, în sfârşit, simţea ceva. Dar niciodată nu era ceea ce îşi dorea. Niciodată nu era senzaţia de căldură pe pielea ei, furnicături în degetele de la picioare sau atingerea altei persoane care să o anunţe că nu era singură pe lume. De obicei, era ceva doar ca o săgeată care îi frângea inima sau un junghi de regret. Regretul era cel mai rău. Regretul era acru şi amar, şi avea un gust atât de asemănător cu al adevărului, că trebuia să lupte ca să nu se prăbuşească sub greutatea lui. Trebuia să lupte ca să nu creadă că Jacks avusese dreptate-că ar fi trebuit să lase cupa în pace, să-i lase pe ceilalţi să rămână stane de piatră şi să joace rolul victimei. Jacks se înşelase. Făcuse ce era corect. Cineva avea să o salveze. Uneori, când se simţea deosebit de optimistă, Evangeline chiar se gândea că Jacks ar fi putut să o salveze. Dar, oricât de optimistă era Evangeline, ştia că Prinţul Inimilor nu era un salvator. Oamenii aveau nevoie să fie salvaţi de pericolul reprezentat de el. CAPITOLUL 5 Apoi… Evangeline simţi ceva ce nu era inima ei frântă sau regretul. CAPITOLUL 6 Ceva ca lumina îi gâdilă pielea. Pielea ei. Evangeline îşi putea simţi pielea. Nu mai simţise nimic de-de fapt, nu ştia cât timp trecuse. Mult timp nu se întâmplase nimic, dar acum putea simţi totul. Pleoapele. Gleznele. Coatele. Buzele. Picioarele. Oasele. Pielea. Plămânii. Inima. Părul. Venele. Rotulele. Lobii urechilor. Gâtul. Pieptul. Tremura din cap până-n picioare. Pielea îi era acoperită de sudoare şi i se părea incredibilă-rece, umedă şi vie. Era vie din nou!-Bine ai revenit. Un braţ solid cuprinse talia lui Evangeline în timp ce picioarele ei care se clătinau se obişnuiau să fie din nou muşchi şi oase. Apoi i se limpezi vederea. Poate pentru că nu mai văzuse un chip de ceva timp, tânărul care o cuprinsese cu braţul i se păru extraordinar de chipeş-piele închisă la culoare, ochi cu gene groase, un zâmbet şarmant. Umerii îi erau acoperiţi cu o capă de un verde dramatic, brodată cu frunze de cupru strălucitoare precum chipul lui.-Poţi vorbi? întrebă el.-De ce… Evangeline tuşi ca să scape de nişte pietriş din gât. De ce arăţi ca un mag din pădure? Se ruşină imediat ce îi ieşiră cuvintele pe gură. Era evident că unele dintre simţurile ei-cum ar fi fost filtrul cuvintelor rostite-încă nu îşi făceau treaba. Străinul o salvase. Speră că nu îl jignise. Din fericire, zâmbetul strălucitor al bărbatului se făcu mai larg.-Excelent. Uneori, vocea nu se întoarce imediat. Acum spune-mi numele tău întreg, dragă. Trebuie să mă asigur că ţi-ai recăpătat memoria
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, incl... more No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. CONTENTS TRIGGER WARNING Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter Chapter TRIGGER WARNING Non-consensual sex and kidnapping are present in this book. They are not presented in a graphic or overly detailed way. I RODE INTO TOWN ALONE, disguised under the hood of my cloak until I came to one of my favorite courtier's houses, Maxwell Blane. He was handsome, rich, funny, and a total lothario. It would be perfect for what I was about to ask. I knocked on his door hurriedly, as the street beyond his house in town was bustling and I didn't want any rumors. I'd never been alone in another man's presence without a chaperone, but I didn't want a witness for what I was about to ask of him. When his housemaid opened the door, I slipped inside without being asked to do so. She squeaked in shock, backing up, then I pulled off my cloak. "Sorry for the intrusion, Margaret." "Oh, Princess Madelynn." She bowed, seemingly relieved that she knew who was barging into her home. My lady-in-waiting, Piper, and I came to Maxwell's house once a week for one of his famous cocktail parties. He was the courtier to know, and put on the most entertaining parties I'd ever been to. There was singing, games, and drinking. I didn't drink of course, it wouldn't be proper but I played the games and we always had a wonderful time. "Is Maxwell around? I have an urgent issue." She nodded. "Right this way. He's in the study." She looked behind me at the door as if nonverbally asking where my chaperone was. I said nothing, only letting the heat of my cheeks speak for me. Without a word, she took the hint and asked for my cloak. Maxwell's parents came from old money, and when they died in a boating accident they left him everything. He was a spoiled brat and a dear friend. I knew he would help me with my request. She walked me down the hallway. We came upon an open door and the maid knocked on the casing. "Sir, Princess Madelynn is here." His face lit up when he saw me. "What an honor. Come in, darling." Darling. Beautiful. Honey. He never addressed a woman without something sweet at the end. He'd bedded half the court, I was sure of it. The maid left us. Normally, she would stay to make sure my reputation was intact, but I think she had gathered this was going to be a private conversation.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, incl... more No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Mr. Lee blinks at me. Adjusts his glasses. "Right …" "Just wanted to put that out there." I lean ... more Mr. Lee blinks at me. Adjusts his glasses. "Right …" "Just wanted to put that out there." I lean back in my seat, suddenly unsure if I should feel triumphant or guilty for interrupting. Maybe he really had meant it in your typical she-sure-knows-her-conjunctions kind of way, rather than an I-don't-expect-people-who-look-like-her-to-speak-any-English way. Ma clearly seems to believe the former, because she shoots me a sharp look. "Sorry. Carry on," I mutter. Mr. Lee glances over at Ma. "So what I'm curious to know, if you don't mind, is a bit about Eliza's background before she came here …" Ma nods, well prepared for this, and launches into the usual script: born in China, moved when she was five, went to this school and that school and moved countries again … I try not to fidget, to flee. Being talked about this way makes my skin itch. "Ah, but the best thing about having lived everywhere is that she belongs anywhere." Mr. Lee stretches his hands out wide in a gesture that I'm assuming represents "anywhere"-and knocks over a tissue box in the process. He pauses, flustered. Picks it up. Then, unbelievably, continues right where he left off. "You should know that Eliza is not a citizen of one country or even one continent, but rather a-" "If you say citizen of the world, I'm going to throw up," I mutter under my breath, low enough for only me to hear. Mr. Lee leans forward. "Sorry, what's that?" "Nothing." I shake my head. Smile. "Nothing." A beat. "Well, since we're on the topic of Eliza's circumstances," Mr. Lee says delicately, hesitantly, and I have a terrible feeling I know what's coming. "I do worry that Eliza is having a hard time … adjusting." My throat tightens. This. This is why I hate parent-teacher interviews. "Adjusting," Ma repeats with a frown, though she doesn't look too surprised. Just sad. "She doesn't seem to be close with anyone in her class," Mr. Lee elaborates. The trilingual group waiting for their parents in the back choose this time to burst into loud laughter at whatever it is they're chatting about, the sound banging against all four walls. Mr. Lee raises his voice, almost yelling, "That is to say, it's somewhat concerning that she still doesn't have any friends here." Unfortunately for me, the noise levels happen to die down again halfway through his sentence. And of course, everyone hears every last word. There's an awkward pause, and about thirty pairs of eyes burn holes into my skull. My face catches fire. I rise from my seat, wincing inwardly when the chair legs squeak against the polished floor, scraping against the silence. I mumble something about using the bathroom. Then I get the hell out of there. In my defense, I'm generally pretty good-an expert, even-at pushing my feelings aside and disconnecting myself from everything, but sometimes it just hits me hard: this horrible, crushing sense of wrongness, of otherness, regardless of whether I'm the only Asian kid at an elite Catholic all-girls school in London or the only new kid in a tiny cohort at a Chinese international school. Sometimes I'm convinced I'll spend the rest of my life this way. Alone. Sometimes I think loneliness is my default setting. To my relief, the corridor is empty. I retreat into the farthest corner, bend down into a half crouch, and take my phone out. Scroll through nothing for a minute. Feel intuitively for the rough string bracelet around my wrist, a gift from Zoe, let it comfort me. This is fine, I'm fine. Then I head onto the Craneswift website.
An Hachette UK Company www.hachette.co.uk www.littlebrown.co.uk To my fellow zebras. Not all stre... more An Hachette UK Company www.hachette.co.ukwww.littlebrown.co.uk To my fellow zebras. Not all strength is physical. Iron Flame is a nonstop-thrilling adventure fantasy set in the brutal and competitive world of a military college for dragon riders, which includes elements regarding war, psychological and physical torture, imprisonment, intense violence, brutal injuries, perilous situations, blood, dismemberment, burning, murder, death, animal death, graphic language, loss of family, grief, and sexual activities that are shown on the page. Readers who may be sensitive to these elements, please take note, and prepare to join the revolution… The following text has been faithfully transcribed from Navarrian into the modern language by Jesinia Neilwart, Curator of the Scribe Quadrant at Basgiath War College. All events are true, and names have been preserved to honor the courage of those fallen. May their souls be commended to Malek.
pentru prezenta ediție Toate drepturile rezervate pentru limba română. Nicio parte a acestei lucr... more pentru prezenta ediție Toate drepturile rezervate pentru limba română. Nicio parte a acestei lucrări nu poate fi stocată sau reprodusă fără acordul editurii.
As a little girl I walked for hours alone in the silent woods behind my house in Louisiana, singi... more As a little girl I walked for hours alone in the silent woods behind my house in Louisiana, singing songs. Being outside gave me a sense of aliveness and danger. When I was growing up, my mother and father fought constantly. He was an alcoholic. I was usually scared in my home. Outside wasn't necessarily heaven, either, but it was my world. Call it heaven or hell, it was mine. Before going home, I would follow a path to our neighbors' house, through a landscaped yard and past a swimming pool. They had a rock garden full of small, soft pebbles that would trap the heat and stay warm in a way that felt so good against my skin. I would lie down on those rocks and look up at the sky, feeling the warmth from below and above, thinking: I can make my own way in life. I can make my dreams come true. Lying quietly on those rocks, I felt God. Raising kids in the South used to be more about respecting your parents and keeping your mouth shut. (Today, the rules have reversed-it's more about respecting the kids.) Disagreeing with a parent was never permitted in my house. No matter how bad it got, there was an understanding to stay mute, and if I didn't, there were consequences. In the Bible it says your tongue is your sword. My tongue and my sword were me singing. My whole childhood, I sang. I sang along with the car radio on the way to dance class. I sang when I was sad. To me, singing was spiritual. I was born and went to school in McComb, Mississippi, and lived in Kentwood, Louisiana, twenty-ve miles away. Everyone knew everyone in Kentwood. Doors were left unlocked, social lives revolved around church and backyard parties, kids were put in matching out ts, and everyone knew how to shoot a gun. The area's main historic site was Camp Moore, a Confederate training base built by Je erson Davis. Each year there are Civil War reenactments the weekend before Thanksgiving, and the sight of the people dressed up in military out ts was a reminder that the holiday was coming. I loved that time of year: hot chocolate, the smell of the replace in our living room, the colors of the fall leaves on the ground. We had a little brick house with green-striped wallpaper and wood paneling. As a girl I went to Sonic, rode go-karts, played basketball, and attended a Christian school called Parklane Academy. The rst time I was truly touched and got shivers down my spine was hearing our housekeeper singing in the laundry room. I always did the family laundry and ironing, but when times were better nancially, my mom would hire someone to help. The housekeeper sang gospel music, and it was literally an awakening to a whole new world. I'll never forget it. Ever since then, my longing and passion to sing have grown. Singing is magic. When I sing, I own who I am. I can communicate purely. When you sing you stop using the language of "Hi, how are you…" You're able to say things that are much more profound. Singing takes me to a mystical place where language doesn't matter anymore, where anything is possible. All I wanted was to be taken away from the everyday world and into that realm where I could express myself without thinking. When I was alone with my thoughts, my mind lled with worries and fears. Music stopped the noise, made me feel con dent, and took me to a pure place of expressing myself exactly as I wanted to be seen and heard. Singing took me into the presence of the divine. As long as I was singing, I was half outside the world. I'd be playing in the backyard like any kid would, but my thoughts and feelings and hopes were somewhere else. I worked hard to make things look the way I wanted them to. I took myself very seriously when I shot silly music videos to Mariah Carey songs in my girlfriend's backyard. By age eight, I thought I was a director. Nobody in my town seemed to be doing stu like that. But I knew what I wanted to see in the world, and I tried to make it so. Artists make things and play characters because they want an escape into faraway worlds, and escape was exactly what I needed. I wanted to live inside my dreams, my wonderful ctitious world, and never think about reality if I could help it. Singing bridged reality and fantasy, the world I was living in and the world that I desperately wanted to inhabit. Tragedy runs in my family. My middle name comes from my father's mother, Emma Jean Spears, who went by Jean. I've seen pictures of her, and I understand why everyone said we look alike. Same blond hair. Same smile. She looked younger than she was. Her husband-my grandfather June Spears Sr.-was abusive. Jean su ered the loss of a baby when he was only three days old. June sent Jean to Southeast Louisiana Hospital, a by-all-accounts horrible asylum in Mandeville, where she was put on lithium. In 1966, when she was thirty-one, my grandmother Jean shot herself with a shotgun on her infant son's grave, just over eight years after his death. I can't imagine the grief that she must have felt. The way people talk about men like June in the South is to say "Nothing was good enough for him," that he was "a perfectionist," that he was "a very involved father." I would probably put it more harshly than that. A sports fanatic, June made my father exercise long past exhaustion. Each day when my father nished basketball practice, no matter how tired and hungry he was, he still had to shoot a hundred more baskets before he could come inside. June was an o cer for the Baton Rouge Police Department and he eventually had ten children with three wives. And as far as I can tell, no one has one good word to say about the rst fty years of his life. Even in my family, it was said that the Spears men tended to be bad news, especially in terms of how they treated women. Jean wasn't the only wife June sent to the mental hospital in Mandeville. He sent his second wife there, too. One of my father's half sisters has said that June sexually abused her starting when she was eleven, until she ran away at sixteen. My father was thirteen when Jean died on that grave. I know that trauma is part of why my father was how he was with my siblings and me; why, for him, nothing was ever good enough. My father pushed my brother to excel in sports. He drank until he couldn't think anymore. He'd disappear for days at a time. When my father drank, he was extremely mean. But June softened as he got older. I didn't experience the vicious man who had abused my father and his siblings but rather a grandfather who seemed patient and sweet. My father's world and my mother's world were completely opposite from each other. According to my mother, my mom's mom-my grandmother Lilian "Lily" Portell-was from an elegant, sophisticated family in London. She had an exotic air about her that everyone commented on; her mother was British and her father was from the Mediterranean island of Malta. Her uncle was a bookbinder. The whole family played instruments and loved to sing. During World War II, Lily met an American soldier, my grandfather Barney Bridges, at a dance for the soldiers. He was a driver for the generals and he loved driving fast. She was disappointed, though, when he brought her with him to America. She'd imagined a life like what she had in London. As she rode to his dairy farm from New Orleans, she looked out the window of Barney's car and was troubled by how empty his world seemed. "Where are all the lights?" she kept asking her new husband. I sometimes think about Lily riding through the Louisiana countryside, looking out into the night, realizing that her large, vibrant, music-lled life of afternoon teas and London museums was about to become small and hard. Instead of going to the theater or shopping for clothes, she would have to spend her life cooped up in the country, cooking and cleaning and milking cows. So my grandmother kept to herself, read a ton of books, became obsessed with cleaning, and missed London until the day she died. My family said that Barney didn't want to let Lily go back to London because he thought that if she went, she wouldn't come home. My mother said Lily was so distracted by her own thoughts that she had a tendency to start clearing the table before everyone was done eating. All I knew was that my grandmother was beautiful and I loved copying her British accent. Talking in a British accent has always made me happy because it makes me think of her, my fashionable grandmother. I wanted to have manners and a lilting voice just like hers. Because Lily had money, my mother, Lynne; her brother, Sonny; and her sister, Sandra, grew up with what you might consider money-money, especially for rural Louisiana. Even though they were Protestant, my mom attended Catholic school. She was gorgeous as a teenager, with her black hair worn short. She'd always go to school wearing the highest boots and the tiniest skirts. She hung out with the gay guys in town, who gave her rides on their motorcycles. My father took an interest in her, as well he might. And probably in part because June made him work so ridiculously hard, my father was unbelievably talented at sports. People would drive for miles just to see him play basketball. My mom saw him and she said, "Oh, who is this?" By all accounts, their relationship was born of mutual attraction and a sense of adventure. But the honeymoon was over long before I came along. When they got married, my parents lived in a small home in Kentwood. My mother was no longer supported by her family, so my parents were very poor. They were young, too-my mom was twenty-one and my father was twentythree. In 1977, they had my big brother, Bryan. When they left that rst small place, they bought a little three-bedroom ranch house. After Bryan was born, my mom went back to school to become a teacher. My dad, who worked as a welder at oil re neries-hard jobs that would last a month or sometimes three-started to drink heavily, and before too long, that was taking its toll on the family. The way my mom tells it, a couple of...
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