Magical Peril Abounds in Claire Legrand’s A Crown of Ivy and Glass

Claire Legrand is a best-selling YA creator—her works embody the Empirium and Winterspell trilogies—however subsequent 12 months, she’ll be releasing her first grownup fantasy saga. The first ebook is titled A Crown of Ivy and Glass, and io9 is thrilled to be revealing the quilt and an excerpt right now.

Here’s extra in regards to the saga, which is named the Middlemist Trilogy: “Bridgerton meets A Court of Thorns and Roses in this new fantasy-romance series. The story centers around Gemma, Farrin, and Mara Ashbourne, three sisters in a noble magic family who must fight hidden dark forces trying to destroy the Middlemist—an ancient barrier that protects their world from the dangerous realm of the old gods—and uncover long-buried secrets that will change their lives forever.”

And right here’s the complete cowl of A Crown and Ivy and Glass, that includes a customized illustration by digital fantasy artist Nekro:

And right here’s the excerpt from A Crown of Ivy and Glass; it showcases a heated second between magical sisters Gemma and Mara, and presents an introduction to the eerie Middlemist.

“I have to tell you something, Gemma,” my sister started slowly, “something you can’t tell Father. Not yet. But do tell Farrin. Ask her to summon Gareth from the university. Sit down and tell them both at once—I don’t trust the post, nor even a wilder’s messenger, not with this—and make certain that no one is around to hear. Maybe the three of you together can do something before it’s too late.”

Mara laughed slightly, quietly, like a hitched breath. “At the very least, the secrets I keep will weigh less on me, once you and Farrin share the burden.” Then she frowned, her gaze drifting away. “All the weapons at my fingertips, and yet my hands have long been tied…”

The expression on her face was so distant and unusual, shifting between concern and disappointment and anger, that my blood turned chilly with dismay.

“I don’t understand,” I stated. “Before it’s too late? Too late for what?”

She fell silent, staring on the ground. I touched her chin and turned her again to me.

“Mara?” I set my jaw. “Tell me, right this instant, what you need to say.”

But earlier than she may, a clangor of bells exploded from the priory, so sudden and cacophonous that I practically jumped out of my pores and skin.

Mara was on her ft directly, her tiredness gone. She loomed over me, tense and coiled, palm hovering over the dagger at her waist. A hawk’s cry pierced the air, and Mara whispered, “Freyda.” Then, with out taking a look at me, she barked, “Get inside the priory, Gemma. Now.”

With that, she ran out of the temple and down the mountain, her strides liquid and lengthy, her footfalls practically silent, and I ought to have obeyed—oh, I ought to have obeyed—however I couldn’t overlook that terrible look on her face, nor the haunted high quality of her voice. And I knew what these bells meant.

An intruder, because the Warden deemed them. A creature or being from the Old Country had slipped via the Middlemist someplace alongside its thousand-mile size, breaching the rift between that realm and ours both accidentally or design.

To the Order of the Rose, the explanation mattered not. Intruders would both be wrangled again to the place they belonged or killed. No exceptions. No delays. When the bells rang, the Roses attacked.

And if I didn’t act instantly, I would by no means hear what Mara needed to say. The second can be misplaced, she would feign ignorance and by no means communicate of it once more—or one thing horrible would occur to her, and he or she would lose the chance altogether.

Before it’s too late, she had stated. Words I knew I need to take severely, it doesn’t matter what it value me.

I ran down the mountain after my sister, clumsy in my boots and robe, pumping my skinny legs as quick as I may. “Mara! Wait! What did you need to tell me?”

Mara whipped her head over her shoulder and roared, “Go inside, Gemma!”

Other girls had been flooding out of the priory—some youthful than Mara, some older, all of them impossibly sleek as they bounded via the timber towards the thick silver ring that encircled the grounds.

The Middlemist.

My blood chilled as I watched them—faces flinty, palms clutching quivers and arrows, sabers, crossbows. I knew I ought to cease, that I wasn’t meant to see what would occur subsequent, however I needed to know what Mara wanted to inform me. I couldn’t return to that day twelve years in the past and cease the Warden from taking her, however I may do that.

The Mist was not far now. My physique seized up with concern as I approached its shimmering veil, however I pushed onward, ignoring the shouts of Farrin and Father some methods behind me. Their frantic voices ordered me to cease, begged me to cease.

Dozens of Roses launched themselves into the air or leapt via the timber, their our bodies altering as I watched them—elongating, sharpening, swelling. Bare ft grew talons. The palms clutching weapons hardened to scaly claws. Lean arms sprouted wings of black, grey, speckled brown. Their altering our bodies shredded no matter clothes they wore, the scraps of cloth fluttering to the bottom like molted feathers, and it occurred to me then, startling a gasping snicker out of me, why all of the Roses wore such plain, threadbare clothes.

What was the purpose of carrying fantastic garments if they’d be destroyed each time the bells rang?

Foolish lady that I used to be, I had by no means earlier than thought of the practicality of their garb, solely the dreariness of it.

Just earlier than I plunged into the Mist, I held my breath, bracing myself.

I used to be not upset.

Right because the Mist hit me, washing over me with an odd supple coolness, agony ripped via me like nothing I had ever felt earlier than. Our greenway’s hungry pull was nothing as compared. The Mist had a thousand relentless tooth, and all of them had been digging into my pores and skin, my muscle, my bone.

I staggered, vomited, caught myself in opposition to a tree. Looking up, squinting via tears of ache and shock, I frantically looked for Mara, determined to search out her earlier than the tingling blackness encroaching on my imaginative and prescient swallowed me entire.

But as I stood there, a horrible refrain of shrieks assailed my ears—first just a few, then dozens. Vicious and clearly not of our world. The sound made my ache worse. I blacked out for an prompt and got here to within the filth, on my hand and knees. I gasped for breath, not understanding what I used to be listening to. I had thought Mara and the others would journey via one of many priory’s greenways to no matter distant expanse of the Mist had been breached—however these bestial cries had been shut, and rising nearer. Intruders, so near Rosewarren? Impossible. Unheard of. When the gods created the Middlemist simply earlier than their deaths, on the day of the Unmaking, they ensured that the Mist nearest the priory was doubly sturdy. A closing pitying reward for many who can be doomed to serve there.

Intruders had by no means managed to achieve the grounds of Rosewarren, not even the close by city of Fenwood or any settlement inside ten sq. miles—however they had been right here now, and that would imply just one factor:

The Middlemist, crafted and fortified by the gods themselves, was weakening.

But was it dropping power solely right here, close to the priory? I hoped so, regardless of the hazard to Mara. The various was too horrific to think about.

All round me, the Roses known as to one another of their unusual language—a hybrid of the widespread tongue and no matter coded phrases the Warden taught them. I solely acknowledged a number of: They need the lady! Get her out of right here!

My abdomen plummeted to my toes. I knew, no doubt, my instincts screaming at me to run, that the lady they spoke of was me.

I attempted to rise however couldn’t, my legs ineffective. I scrambled for one thing—something, a tree or rock to cover behind, some dropped weapon I may faux I knew hearth—however I used to be misplaced within the Mist, the world round me opaque with slithering grey.

And then I heard a cry of fury, each human and never, shattering in its despair, and distorted, multiplied, as if the sound had been run via with claws and every bleeding strip had its personal voice.

Even so, I knew to whom the cry belonged, and my chest seized laborious round my coronary heart.

A terrific weight crashed out of the timber and threw itself earlier than me, defending me from no matter approaching enemy was issuing these piercing shrieks.

My breath caught in my throat.

Mara.

I had by no means seen her remodel; none of us had. She had made certain of it. But now I used to be within the Mist, a trespasser, and he or she couldn’t conceal herself from me—her lambent golden eyes, the wild fall of darkish hair and feathers cascading down her again, the large brown wings sprouting from bare, knotted muscular tissues she had not possessed solely moments earlier within the temple. Her pores and skin was now not completely human, a mosaic of pale flesh, scales, and modern feathers. Her face was her personal, however sharper, feral, wreathed in gleaming velvet fur.

“Leave, now!” She roared the phrases, her modified voice breaking in half with sorrow and disgrace, and I wished to—gods assist me, I wished to flee as I’d a monster in a nightmare—however I now not had management over my limbs. The ache was too nice, my illness too full. I attempted to apologize, however my voice croaked in useless.

A powerful hand gripped my arm, pulled me up, helped me run. I let it take me, trusting it, glad for it, as a result of it was main me away from this creature that was each my sister and never. The air cleared; the hand was taking me out of the Mist, thank all of the gods, and as my imaginative and prescient righted itself, I noticed that the hand belonged to my father. His countenance was totally modified—now not a proud, preening father however as a substitute a ferocious hunter. A sentinel, his Anointed energy giving him heightened power and agility, unfailing precision with any weapon he may seize.

But there was no want for weapons. Father’s velocity was sufficient to avoid wasting us. We burst via the iron gate and into the thicket the place Farrin waited, trying pale and small, after which plunged into the greenway’s mouth. Its magic swirled round me, confused however desperate to scent the Mist on my pores and skin, however I didn’t care about its confusion, nor the tingling recent ache spreading quick via my physique.

I may assume solely of Mara, the howl of her despair, the tears streaking her face—feminine and avian, each beautiful and repugnant.

It was solely the second time I may keep in mind seeing my sister cry. The first was the day the Warden took her from us, and in each situations, Mara’s tears—her concern and sorrow, the horrible loss radiating from her like churning waves—had been all due to me.

Excerpt from Claire Legrand’s A Crown of Ivy and Glass reprinted by permission of Sourcebooks Casablanca.

Claire Legrand’s A Crown of Ivy and Glass shall be launched in May 2023; you’ll be able to pre-order a copy here.

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