THE WITCH OF PAINTED SORROWS
(Daughters of La Lune #1)
by M.J. Rose
Gothic Historical Fantasy
Published by Atria Books on March 17th, 2015
Possession. Power. Passion. New York Times bestselling novelist M. J. Rose creates her most provocative and magical spellbinder yet in this gothic novel set against the lavish spectacle of 1890s Belle Époque Paris.
Sandrine Salome flees New York for her grandmother’s Paris mansion to escape her dangerous husband, but what she finds there is even more menacing. The house, famous for its lavish art collection and elegant salons, is mysteriously closed up. Although her grandmother insists it’s dangerous for Sandrine to visit, she defies her and meets Julien Duplessi, a mesmerizing young architect. Together they explore the hidden night world of Paris, the forbidden occult underground and Sandrine’s deepest desires.
Among the bohemians and the demi-monde,
Sandrine discovers her erotic nature as a lover and painter. Then darker
influences threaten—her cold and cruel husband is tracking her down and
something sinister is taking hold, changing Sandrine, altering her.
She’s become possessed by La Lune: A witch, a legend, and a sixteenth-century courtesan, who opens up her life to a darkness that may become a gift or a curse.
This is Sandrine’s “wild night of the soul”, her odyssey in the magnificent city of Paris, of art, love, and witchery.
Praise for The Witch of Painted Sorrows
“This bell époque thriller is a haunting tale of obsessive passions.” —People Magazine
“Provocative, erotic, and spellbindingly haunting…will have the reader totally mesmerized cover-to-cover….a ‘must-have’ novel.” —Suspense Magazine
“A haunting tale of erotic love….
M.J. Rose seamlessly weaves historical events throughout this story
filled with distinctive characters that will keep the reader captivated
to the end.” —Examiner.com
“Rose has a talent for compelling
writing, and this time she has outdone herself. Fear, desire, lust and
raw emotion ooze off the page.” —Associated Press
“Haunting tale of possession.” —Publishers Weekly
“Rose’s new series offers her
specialty, a unique and captivating supernatural angle, set in an
intriguing belle epoque Paris — lush descriptions, intricate plot and
mesmerizing storytelling. Sensual, evocative, mysterious and haunting.” —Kirkus
“Mixes reality and illusion,
darkness and light, mystery and romance into an adult fairy tale. [Rose]
stirs her readers curiosities and imaginations, opening their eyes to
the cultural, intellectual and artistic excitement that marked the Belle
Epoque period. Unforgettable, full-bodied characters and richly
detailed narrative result in an entrancing read that will be long
savored.” —Library Journal (Starred Review)
“An elegant tale of rare depth and
beauty, as brilliantly crafted as it is wondrously told….melds the
normal and paranormal in the kind of seamless fashion reserved for such
classic ghost stories as Henry James’ The Turn of the Screw.” —Providence Journal
Amazon – Barnes & Noble – iBooks – indieBound
~*~*~*AND NOW AN EXCLUSIVE ~*~*~* EXCERPT FROM THE WITCH OF PAINTED SORROWS
Paris, France April 1894
I did not cause the madness, the deaths, or the
rest of the tragedies any more than I painted the paintings. I had help, her
help. Or perhaps I should say she forced her help on me. And so this
story—which began with me fleeing my home in order to escape my husband and
might very well end tomorrow, in a duel, in the Bois de Boulogne at dawn—is as
much hers as mine. Or in fact more hers than mine. For she is the fountainhead.
The fascination. She is La Lune. Woman of moon dreams, of legends and of
nightmares. Who took me from the light and into the darkness. Who imprisoned me
and set me free.
Or is it the other way around?
"Your questions," my father always said
to me, "will be your saving grace. A curious mind is the most important
attribute any man or woman can possess. Now if you can just temper your
impulsiveness..."
If I had a curious mind, I'd inherited it from
him. And he'd nurtured it. Philippe Salome was on the board of New York City's
Metropolitan Museum of Art and helped found the American Museum of Natural
History, whose cornerstone was laid on my fifth birthday.
I remember sitting atop my father's shoulders
that day, watching the groundbreaking ceremony and thinking the whole
celebration was for me. He called it "our museum," didn't he? And for
much of my life I thought it actually did belong to us, along with our mansion
on Fifth Avenue and our summerhouse in Newport. Until it was gone, I understood
so little about wealth and the price you pay for it. But isn't that always the
way?
Our museum's vast halls and endless exhibit rooms
fascinated me as much as they did my father—which pleased him, I could tell.
We'd meander through exhibits, my small hand in his large one, and he'd keep me
spellbound with stories about items on display. I'd ask for more, always just
one more, and he'd laugh and tease: "My Sandrine, does your capacity
for stories know no bounds?"
But it pleased him, and he'd always tell me
another.
I especially loved the stories he told me about
the gems and fate and destiny always ending them by saying: "You will make
your own fate, Sandrine, I'm sure of it."
Was my father right? Do we make our own destiny?
I think back now to the stepping-stones that I've walked to reach this moment
in time.
Were the incidents of my making? Or were they my
fate?
The most difficult steps I took were after
certain people died. No deaths were caused by me, but at the same time, none
would have occurred were it not for me.
So many deaths. The first was on the morning of
my fifteenth birthday, when I saw a boy beaten and tragically die because of
our harmless kisses. The next was the night almost ten years later, when I
heard the prelude to my father's death and learned the truth about Benjamin, my
husband. And then there were more. Each was an end-ing that, ironically, became
a new beginning for me.
The one thing I am now sure of is that if there
is such a thing as destiny, it is a result of our passion, be that for money,
power, or love. Passion, for better or worse. It can keep a soul alive even if
all that survives is a shimmering. I've even seen it. I've been bathed in it.
I've been changed by it.
*********
Four months ago I snuck into Paris on a wet,
chilly January night like a criminal, hiding my face in my shawl, taking extra
care to be sure I wasn't followed.
I stood on the stoop of my grandmother's house
and lifted the hand-shaped bronze door knocker and let it drop. The sound of
the metal echoed inside. Her home was on a lane blocked off from rue des
Saints-Pères by wide wooden double doors. Maison de la Lune, as it was called,
was one of a half dozen four-story mid-eighteenthcentury stone houses that shared
a courtyard that backed up onto rue du Dragon. Hidden clusters like this were a
common configuration in Paris.These small enclaves offered privacy and quiet
from the busy city. Usually the porte cochère was locked and one had to ring
for the concierge, but I'd found the heavy doors ajar and hadn't had to wait
for service.
I let the door knocker fall again. Light from a
street lamp glinted off the golden metal. It was a strange object. Usually on
these things the bronze hand's palm faced the door. But this one was palm out,
almost warning the visitor to reconsider requesting entrance.
I was anxious and impatient. I'd been cautious on
my journey from New York to Southampton and kept to my cabin. I'd left a letter
telling Benjamin I'd gone to visit friends in Virginia and assumed that once he
returned and read it, it would be at least a week before he'd realize all was
not what it seemed. One thing I had known for certain—he would never look for
me in France. It would be inconceivable to Benjamin that any wife of his could
cross the ocean alone.
Or so I assured myself until my husband's banking
associate, William Lenox, spotted me on board. When he expressed surprise I was
traveling by myself, I concocted a story but was worried he didn't believe me.
My only consolation was that we had docked in England and I had since crossed
the channel into France. So even if Benjamin did come looking, he wouldn't know
where I'd gone.
That very first night in Paris, as I waited for
my grandmother's maid to open the door, I knew I had to stop thinking of what I
had run away from. So I refocused on the house I stood before and as I did,
felt an overwhelming sense of belonging, of being welcome. Here I would be
safe.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times Bestseller, M.J. Rose
grew up in New York City mostly in the labyrinthine galleries of the
Metropolitan Museum, the dark tunnels and lush gardens of Central Park
and reading her mother’s favorite books before she was allowed. She
believes mystery and magic are all around us but we are too often too
busy to notice… books that exaggerate mystery and magic draw attention
to it and remind us to look for it and revel in it. Rose’s work has
appeared in many magazines including Oprah Magazine and she has been
featured in the New York Times, Newsweek, WSJ, Time, USA Today and on
the Today Show, and NPR radio. Rose graduated from Syracuse University,
spent the ’80s in advertising, has a commercial in the Museum of Modern
Art in NYC and since 2005 has run the first marketing company for
authors – Authorbuzz.com. The television series PAST LIFE, was based on
Rose’s novels in the Reincarnationist series. She is one of the founding
board members of International Thriller Writers and currently serves,
with Lee Child, as the organization’s co-president. Rose lives in CT
with her husband the musician and composer, Doug Scofield, and their
very spoiled and often photographed dog, Winka.
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