The same went for Laure. I felt rotten for abandoning her. After the horrors of yesterday, she deserved better, but I could not— would not—risk Jie’s life waiting for both girls to arrive. Perhaps I would see them in Marseille.
And now it was time for me to go.
My feet padded lightly on the steps into the garden. A breeze licked through the chestnuts and sent the balloon floating toward me. It strained against its leashes, a creaking melody to the rustling leaves and curious voices of passers-by. Even at this early an hour, a crowd had gathered to watch the airship.
To think that none of these people knew what had happened in the night while they slept. What had happened beneath their homes. What we had saved them from or how much it had cost us.
To think that, for them, it was just other day.
It annoyed me. Angered me, even. Philadelphia had been the same as Paris—so much work and so many tears, and all for what? So people could simply get on with their lives.
“And so,” I whispered to myself, pausing on the final step, “the wheel is come full circle.” But
Shakespeare quotes held no comfort for me today, no matter how true they were. I had too many unanswered questions.
For one, where was the compulsion spell—the one built from les Morts? It had sounded as if
Marcus was using the seventy-three sacrifices to build a long-lasting spell, so did he take it with him when he left Paris? Madame Marineaux had said nothing about the amulet’s final destination or final purpose.
For two, what had happened to the Marquis? Had Marcus been the one to kill him? I would have to press Oliver for more information on this black magic that was even darker than necromancy—as soon as the demon was willing to speak to me again.
And the ivory fist—what was it? My fingers slid into my pocket, where it rested. It was not an amulet, yet Madame Marineaux had claimed it was special, powerful. And for whatever reason, she had wanted me to have it. Oddly enough, its fingers had started to loosen—only slightly, but enough for me to notice that the fist was unfurling. . . .
With a yawn, I withdrew my hand and rubbed at my stinging eyes. I would find answers to my questions soon enough.
Then, my hair whipping in my face, I sent my gaze flying out over the small crowd of airship-
viewers. Over their top hats and feathered bonnets. Over the flowers and maple trees. Over the burned-
out palace and the Rue de Rivoli, with its neat, beige buildings and endless gray rooftops.
I sent my gaze out over Paris.
And I let the faintest smile pull at my lips. Seeing this perfect, perfect morning was exactly what I needed. The reminder to dig deeper until . . . until . . .
Until I found it, hiding within my heart and wrapped beneath layers of anger and grief. It was wound up so tightly in hollow regret that I would never have found it if I had not searched.
But there it was: a tiny flame—only the faintest glimmer, really, yet a flame nonetheless. A hope in the darkness.
“Eleanor?”
I turned and met Daniel’s face, peering at me from the top of the steps. He was clean-shaven, freshly dressed. The wind pulled at his damp hair, and he looked as sharp as ever . . . yet sad. Worried.
But he did not need to be. I knew what I was doing.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
I reached into my pocket and slid my fingers around the ivory fist. Then I grinned. “Yes, Daniel. I am ready.”
Acknowledgments
T his book almost killed me, and the only reason I survived it is because of my best friend, soul sister, frequent sounding board, and fellow author: Sarah J. Maas. You held the megaphone to my ear and shouted at me to keep going. I kept going, and the book wasn’t the death of me.
Huge thanks to Biljana Likic for all her help with the book’s Latin phrasing. If not for you, my characters would be speaking in gibberish, and I am so grateful for all you’ve done.
To my Hero Squad, Erin Bowman and Amie Kaufman—thank you, thank you for listening when I needed it and for reading the book when I needed that.
To my critique partner, Katharine Brauer: your honey badger feedback turned this manuscript from pure drivel into an actual story. I love you for that.
A giant thanks to Meredith Primeau, Erica O’Rourke, and Amity Thompson for being beta readers when I needed criticism and cheerleaders when I needed support.
Endless love and thanks to Sara Kendall and Joanna Volpe for going above and beyond the call of duty over and over again. There is literally not enough space in these acknowledgments to convey just how much I appreciate everything you do.
Karen Chaplin, you (and the wonderful Alyssa Miele) helped me transform this book from a giant tome of “talking heads” into a story that made sense. Circumstance might have brought my book to your desk, but I truly believe it’s where Eleanor and the gang were meant to be.
To the entire Harper team working tirelessly (or I assume tirelessly, but in all likelihood you’re terribly exhausted at this point) behind the scenes to design my dazzling covers, set up events, and keep things running smoothly: a million thanks and a million cookies too.
Finally, to my dear husband, Sébastien, and my family—Mom, Dad, David, and Jennifer—you all believed in me long before I believed in myself. I love you.
About the Author
SUSAN DENNARD is a writer turned marine biologist turned writer again. A DARKNESS STRANGE AND
LOVELY is the sequel to her debut novel, SOMETHING STRANGE AND DEADLY . Among the traits she shares with her heroine Eleanor are a weakness for Shakespeare quotes, a healthy appetite for baked goods, and an insatiable curiosity. Sadly, Susan does not get to wear a corset or wave a parasol on a daily basis. You can visit her online at www.susandennard.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
Also by Susan Dennard
Something Strange and Deadly
A Dawn Most Wicked: A Something Strange and Deadly Novella (available as an ebook only)
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