Fans of Cassandra Clare's Mortal Instruments series and Lauren Kate's Fallen novels will devour The Beautiful and the Cursed, a wholly original interpretation of gargoyle lore.
After a bizarre accident, Ingrid Waverly is forced to leave London with her mother and her younger sister, Gabby, trading a world full of fancy dresses and society events for the unfamiliar city of Paris.
In Paris there are no grand balls or glittering parties for Ingrid, and, disturbingly, the house her twin brother, Grayson, was sent ahead to secure for the family isn't a house at all. It's an abandoned abbey, its roof lined with stone gargoyles that could almost be mistaken for living, breathing creatures.
And Grayson is missing.
Yet no one seems worried about his whereabouts save for Luc, a devastatingly handsome servant at their new home.
Ingrid is sure her twin isn't dead--she can feel it deep in her soul--but she knows he's in grave danger, and that it's up to her and Gabby to find him before all hope is lost.
The path to Grayson will be twisted, leading Ingrid to discover dark secrets and otherworldly truths that, once uncovered, can never again be buried.
Release date:
May 14, 2013
Publisher:
Delacorte Press
Print pages:
352
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So this was what a nightmare looked like by the light of day.
Ingrid stared through the window as the coach drew to a halt along rue Dante's snowy curb, a single block from the ice-crusted Seine. Mother could not be serious. This place, this ruin, was to be their new home? Ingrid rubbed the fogged glass and saw the ancient and desolate abbey clearly.
"You've completely lost your mind," Ingrid whispered. Her mother ignored her and continued to gaze out the coach window.
Pockmarks riddled the blocks of dirty gray limestone, leaving the abbey looking like a ravaged victim of the pox. The four front-facing arched windows held dull and warped stained glass that had more cracks and gaps than lead and glass. The two planks of desiccated wood acting as doors had been left slightly ajar, as if beckoning someone, anyone, to enter. Ingrid didn't think she'd ever seen a lonelier place.
Her mother's eyes began to mist over. "Isn't it marvelous, girls?"
"Mama, please don't start crying again. You've gone through all your hankies." Ingrid's younger sister, Gabriella, opened her beaded reticule for one of her own.
Their mother, Lady Charlotte Brickton, had been sniffling ever since their steamer had reached Calais and her feet had met solid French soil for the first time in over sixteen years. She was overjoyed to be home. Ingrid was just relieved to be gone from London. She never wanted to go back there. Not now, not after what had happened and what she'd done. But this abbey . . . it only added insult to injury.
"Marvelous? It looks condemned," Ingrid said.
The place was a hulking wreck. Even the new layer of powdery snow couldn't soften the blow. It coated the spikes of a tall wrought-iron fence like icing. Thick twists formed the gate, which was draped with ivy, roses, and thorny vines forged from the same metal. It was all as cold and uninviting as the whitecapped waters of the English Channel had been.
"It's absolutely horrifying," Gabby whispered. An awestruck grin bowed her lips. Ingrid's sister pressed the tip of her nose against the cold pane of glass to get a better look.
"Gabby, among the sane, horrific things don't generally bring about smiles." Ingrid flipped up the black mink hood of her cloak.
Gabby pushed out her full lower lip. "It has charm."
"If you find abandoned and haunted churches charming," Ingrid shot back.
Their mother spared them an irritated glance as the footman opened the coach door. "Don't be so dramatic, girls. The abbey is a masterpiece, and entirely fitting for my gallery."
The footman kicked down the short flight of steps and helped their mother to the curb. Behind them, a second carriage carrying their lady's maids and luggage rolled to a stop.
"Do you really think it's haunted?" Gabby asked. "We'll have to ask Grayson if he's sensed anything. Oh! I know--we'll host a seance!"
Ingrid sighed and held her tongue. Her twin brother, Grayson, would have better luck talking Gabby down from her idea of a resident ghost. Not even eighteen and without so much as one personal servant, Grayson had been sent ahead of them to Paris two months before to scout out a location for their mother's art gallery. Both the trip and the art gallery had been planned in a snap. Ingrid hadn't been able to believe that her father, Lord Philip Northcross Waverly III, Earl of Brickton, had finally decided to fund her mother's lifelong dream of opening a gallery of her own. He'd turned the idea down year after year--patronage of the arts was his wife's torch, not his, and he wasn't certain he wanted the Brickton name associated with such a bohemian endeavor.
So when Grayson had rushed off less than two days after their father abruptly announced his support, Ingrid had started to wonder if the art gallery was being launched more because of the growing rift between Papa and Grayson than because of Mama's dream.
Things had never been easy between her father and brother, but within the last year or so their quarreling had escalated. And taking to life as a wild, pleasure-seeking rake had only worsened Grayson's standing with their father. Ingrid hoped it was just a rebellious phase, but Papa had no tolerance for it. He might have sent Grayson to Paris with this task to occupy him, or maybe just to get him out of his hair. What Ingrid couldn't stop wondering was why everything had happened so quickly. Grayson hadn't confided in her before he left, and for the last two months she hadn't been able to shake the feeling that something secret and serious had happened to spur everything on.
The footman helped Ingrid navigate the steps to the curb. The December cold ate through her burgundy velvet dress as if it were a sheer slip of silk. She stared at the abbey, at the frescoes that had crumbled into unrecognizable scenes, and at the dozens of slates missing from the ramshackle roof. What had her brother been thinking when he'd chosen to invest in this heap? Ingrid was only thankful Papa couldn't see it. Some business with his seat at the House of Lords had kept him from escorting them to Paris as he'd intended. He'd come later, he'd assured them. Definitely for the gallery opening.
"Where is Grayson? I thought he was to meet us here," Gabby said as she lighted on the curb. Her ruffled pink parasol was already open against snowflakes drifting from the platinum clouds.
With her smoky eyes, short, slightly upturned nose, rosebud lips, and hair the color of golden rum, Gabby was a fifteen-year-old replica of their mother. Ingrid stood out in sharp contrast to them. Her hair, flaxen like Grayson's and Papa's, was only a shade lighter than her fair complexion. She'd been told more times than she cared for in her seventeen years that she was the epitome of English beauty: all cream and roses and soft petal-pink lips. With it came the expectation of a sweet disposition--an expectation those who met Ingrid dismissed immediately.
"It's too cold for Grayson to stand out here all day waiting for us," Ingrid answered.
She clenched her fingers into fists, hating the buzz of anxiety she hadn't been able to cast off for months. It always flared at the mention of Grayson, turning her blood into a glass of frothing champagne. The jittery feeling didn't worry her. She'd had this sixth sense for as long as she could remember. She and Grayson shared it, the same way they'd shared a womb, a nursery, and, before his recent rebellion, a personality. No, what worried her was what it always meant: that something was wrong with her twin.
The sooner she saw Grayson, the better. And then maybe she could finally get answers about what had happened with Papa.
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