Sinder

Kathleen Kaufman

Description

Cinematic Success: Kaufman’s debut novel, The Lairdbalor, is being made into a feature film by award winning Australian director, Nick Verso, in association with Echo Lake Entertainment and Screen Australia.

Cults and the Occult: Entertainment about dark magic, especially with female protagonists, is a hot topic right now with tv shows like The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina and American Horror Story hitting the top of the charts. Fans will be itching to get their hands on the second book in this bewitching four book series.

Series Critical Acclaim: Trade reviewers, including Publisher’s Weekly and Booklist, gave the first book in the series rave reviews, describing it as “engrossing, “spine-chilling,” and “a great choice… for fans of dark

Sujets

• Años 1980
• Sinder
• 1980s
• Occult
• Supernatural
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Turner Publishing Company
• Date de parution: 27 octobre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781684423323
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

SINDER
SINDER
KATHLEEN KAUFMAN
TURNER PUBLISHING COMPANY
Turner Publishing Company
Nashville, Tennessee
www.turnerpublishing.com
Sinder
Copyright 2020 Kathleen Kaufman
This book or any part thereof may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design: M.S. Corley
Book design: Meg Reid
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Upon Request
9781684423309 Paperback
9781684423316 Hardcover
9781684423323 eBook
Printed in the United States of America
19 20 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Terry-our gentle and wise Matrarc. I miss you .
The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.
-W.B. Yeats
CONTENTS
1: AINSLEY, 1924
2: CEIT, 1996
3: AINSLEY, 1924
4: ALAN, 1996
5: CEIT, 1996
6: AINSLEY, 1924
7: ALAN, 1996
8: ALAN, 1996
9: CEIT, 1996
10: AINSLEY, 1924
11: AINSLEY, 1924
12: ALAN, 1996
13: CEIT, 1996
14: AINSLEY, 1924
15: AINSLEY, 1924
16: ALAN, 1996
17: CEIT, 1996
18: AINSLEY, 1924
19: AINSLEY, 1924
20: AINSLEY, 1924
21: CEIT, 1996
22: ALAN, 1996
23: AINSLEY, 1924
24: AINSLEY, 1924
25: CEIT, 1996
26: ALAN, 1996
27: AINSLEY, 1924
28: CEIT, 1996
29: AINSLEY, 1924
30: AINSLEY, 1924
31: ALAN, 1996
32: CEIT, 1996
33: AINSLEY, 1924
34: AINSLEY, 1924
35: AINSLEY, 1924
36: ALAN, 1996
37: CEIT, 1996
38: AINSLEY, 1924
39: AINSLEY, 1924
40: CEIT, 1996
41: ALAN, 1996
42: AINSLEY, 1924
43: ALAN, 1996
44: CEIT, 1996
45: ALAN, 1996
46: AINSLEY, 1925
47: AINSLEY, 1925
48: CEIT, 1996
49: ALAN, 1996
50: AINSLEY, 1925
51: AINSLEY, 1925
52: CEIT, 1996
53: ALAN, 1996
54: AINSLEY, 1925
55: AINSLEY, 1925
56: ALAN, 1996
57: AINSLEY, 1925
58: CEIT, 1996
59: AINSLEY, 1925
60: ALAN, 1996
61: AINSLEY, 1925
62: CEIT, 1996
63: AINSLEY, 1925
64: ALAN, 1996
65: AINSLEY, 1925
66: ALAN, 1996
67: CEIT, 1996
68: AINSLEY, 1925
69: ALAN, 1996
70: CEIT, 1996
71: AINSLEY, 1925
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
1
AINSLEY, 1924
THE STORIES TOLD OF FAE FOLK WHO HID IN THE shadow of the wood when the sun burned bright in the Irish sky-creatures that snuck to the River Lee only after the fire and heat had slipped over the horizon, leaving the waking world in darkness. There they would fill their tiny buckets and pails, hauling them back to their fairy mounds and caves so they could boil the herbs and leaves they had collected from the ancient forest. If a baby was set to the colic or a fever had risen that brought the sweats and delirium, then one could sit very quietly on the edge of the wood, a small dish of black salt and a bit of bread in hand. If the fae were feeling generous, if you were quiet enough, and if your need was pure, then they might bring you one of their tiny vials containing a foul-smelling poultice or a murky elixir in exchange for the tribute. The elders cautioned you could not trust the fae entirely. They were as likely to bring you a tea made from the autumn crocus or nightshade as they were to heal the rash or calm the croup. Still, especially when a young one lay ill, face waxy with fever and eyes unfocused, it was not uncommon to take the risk.
Ainsley Robertson wrapped her pale hair up into a knot and pulled her rough wool shawl tighter around her as she perched at the top of the knoll, on the edge of the wood. The sun was setting across the River Lee, and the water was ablaze with the dying fire of late fall. The air was sharp and carried the hint of the freeze of winter. She had no black salt and had eaten the bread. The fae would need to concede that her stomach was more important than their tribute. But she was quiet, and her need was strong if not pure.
The thing she needed was an end, a tea of weaver s broom or strychnine tree-a means to send the spirit that grew inside her womb back to the place it came from. Or, if the fae were made of the same cowling lot as the elders, then Ainsley wished for a draught of hemlock or wormwood so that she would join the night entire. So she sat watching the sun disappear below the horizon, watching the darkness deepen and overtake the hillside. The fae did not appear, and Ainsley pulled herself off the damp heath and walked back up the hill and along the familiar path to a huddle of farmhouses accented only by the sheep and goat paddocks and the field mare milling about in her stall.
Smoke rose from the chimney of her home, and Ainsley could smell mutton stew and fresh bread. Her stomach twisted painfully, reminding her that the last time she ate was several hours ago and that the meal had been intended as tribute to the fae. With a sigh of resignation, she trudged forward to the front door and slid inside, letting as little of the chill night air in as possible. Her mother looked up from the rough wood table, a basket of dried bilberry before her. She was in the process of grinding the dried berries with a stone pestle when she paused to glare at Ainsley.
Your father set out half an hour ago to see if you were dead and gone, she muttered. I had no opinion either way on how I hoped he might find ye.
Ainsley said nothing and hung her shawl, damp from the night air, on the hook by the door.
Eat, her mother commanded as she nodded toward the hearth where the soup pot, still full of a rolling warmth, had been moved from the fire. Ainsley ladled herself a bowl of the thick stew and sat across from her mother as she commenced with the task of pulverizing the dried berries. Ainsley inhaled the food, the warmth of it spreading downward to the alien force that rolled and twisted inside her abdomen like a winter storm. There was a stirring up above in the loft where Ainsley slept with her little sister, Maire. A tiny, pale face appeared over the edge. Maire gave her a quick smile and ducked back before their mother could direct her glare upward.
I expect you have a reason for this worry, her mother said as Ainsley rinsed her bowl in the sink.
I don t, Ainsley replied quietly but firmly.
Your father is the Ceannaire of the Society. You are his eldest daughter, and you stay out all times of night. You ve been matched and will be a married woman before spring, and you behave as though you were a common amad n. Her mother was turning the berries to dust with the force of her thick, muscled arm. Her voice was level, but Ainsley could hear the fire beneath the calm.
You ve been seeing that gra nna buachaill. Her mother stopped the destruction of the berries for a moment and locked her eyes on Ainsley.
No, Ainsley replied, her voice small. He left from Cork Harbour for England months ago, you know that.
Finnan Rourke is the son of Grady Rourke, her mother stated and emptied the berry dust into a shallow bowl before refilling the mortar with a fresh batch of victims. Grady Rourke ran off on a merchant ship with an English whore and let his family starve, Finnan included. His son grew to be no better.
Well, he s gone now, left some time ago and not coming back, Ainsley spat as she spun around to stare out the tiny window into the darkness.
That night, as Ainsley lay on the straw cot next to Maire, she laid her hands on her still unnoticeable belly. It was a secret between herself and the fae-and would be for as long as it could be kept. Next to her, Maire shivered and Ainsley pulled her close, wrapping the end of her blanket over the little girl. Maybe the fae would bring her a moon-shaped boat, and the three of them-Ainsley, Maire, and the baby-could sail from Cork Harbour into the Celtic Sea. Maybe the Old Moon from the fairy stories would pull them up to the stars and they d spend their nights looking down on the rolling Cork hillsides, far from the rot of the Society. As Ainsley let the last claw of consciousness slip into a dreamless sleep, she let herself feel the hum of the night sky and the power of the darkness that lay beyond. Her fingertips trembled with the intensity of it all, and as sleep overtook her entirely, Ainsley Robertson felt the stars themselves flowing through her veins.
2
CEIT, 1996
I HAVE NO ONE ELSE TO TURN TO, THE OLD WOMAN in a rough wool dress whimpered. My husband is dead. I ask you, Matrarc, for your generosity, your sympathy, your pity.
Ceit Robertson considered the pathetic creature before her. M thair Bedelia had never simpered or cowed like this with Ceit s great-grandmother M r Ainsley, the previous Matrarc. It spoke of many things, but as Ceit looked into the old woman s face, locking her pale eyes on Bedelia s unfocused and vapid gaze, she knew her to be false.
Ceit sighed. What is it you want me to do for you? she asked in a steady tone, already knowing the answer. Beside her, her brother Alan shifted, leaning forward just slightly.
They stole from me. They took my Aedan s things, they took my memories, all the things I hold dear, Bedelia whispered theatrically.
This is a very sad thing you tell me, Ceit replied evenly. And I would like to help, but you have not said what it is you need from me.
You can call the old ones, the Rabharta, the Siabhra. You can call them to devour these thieves, these monsters. Bedelia looked up cautiously. I was just a girl when we came to this country with your great-grandmother. M r Ainsley would-
Don t speak to me of my great-grandmother. Ceit cut her off sharply, and the old woman recoiled as though slapped. I cannot do what you ask. I will not call the old gods and fae to settle your dispute-this is unreasonable. I can help you with a bit of money to replace some of what is lost, and that is all. Ceit nodded to Alan, who stood to take the old woman s arm and lead her o