The Youngest Thaumas Sister Is Offered An Adventure In This Excerpt From House of Roots and Ruin
Books Features Erin A. Craig
Is there a more pleasant surprise as a book lover than when a story you loved gets an unexpected second chapter? Erin A. Craig’s sea-drenched, gorgeously Gothic tale House of Salt and Sorrows was both a loose retelling of The Twelve Dancing Princesses and a disturbing story of sisterhood, horror, and loss. It also seemed to be a standalone story, with a fairly definitive resolution to heroine Annaleigh’s story. But, happily, it turns out that Craig isn’t quite done with her Sisters of the Salt universe, and sort-of sequel House of Roots and Ruin will return us to the world of the tragic Thaumas sisters.
A standalone tale set twelve years after the events of the first book, the story follows the youngest Thaumas sibling Verity, and aims to explore everything from doomed love to the sinister side of ambition, and the ghosts—both literal and figurative—that haunt us. As House of Roots and Ruin begins, the surviving Thaumas sisters are scattered across Arcannia. Yet, despite her dreams of seeing the world beyond the Salt, Verity remains at Highmoor, living with her older sister Camille. But when she receives an invitation to paint a portrait for the Duchess of Bloem—wife of a celebrated botanist—family secrets erupt, sending her on the run to the lush and luxurious province and setting her on a path to discover the darker side of Bloem’s sickly-sweet facade.
Here’s how the publisher describes the story.
In a manor by the sea, one sister is still cursed.
Despite dreams of adventures far beyond the Salann shores, seventeen-year-old Verity Thaumas has remained at her family’s estate, Highmoor, with her older sister Camille, while their sisters have scattered across Arcannia.
When their sister Mercy sends word that the Duchess of Bloem—wife of a celebrated botanist—is interested in having Verity paint a portrait of her son, Alexander, Verity jumps at the chance, but Camille won’t allow it. Forced to reveal the secret she’s kept for years, Camille tells Verity the truth one day: Verity is still seeing ghosts, she just doesn’t know it.
Stunned, Verity flees Highmoor that night and—with nowhere else to turn—makes her way to Bloem. At first, she is captivated by the lush, luxurious landscape and is quickly drawn to charming, witty, and impossibly handsome Alexander Laurent. And soon, to her surprise, a romance . . . blossoms.
But it’s not long before Verity is plagued with nightmares, and the darker side of Bloem begins to show through its sickly-sweet façade. . . .
House of Roots and Ruin won’t hit shelves until July 25, but we’re excited to be able to bring you an exclusive look at its story right now.
Chapter 2
“Hand me your brush, won’t you, dear heart?” Hanna asked.
It was that rare moment of quiet in the house, hours after dinner when the children were mercifully put to bed, their chatter stilled. The days were growing longer and I’d already drawn my curtains closed against the lingering light. The velvet drapes softened the air in my room, shrouding it into a deadened silence.
I sat in front of my vanity, dressed in a long nightgown of ivory batiste and my favorite silk robe, tightened securely around my frame. Hanna, my nursemaid, my friend, and my closest confidante, had been bustling about behind me, tidying the room, turning down the linens. Next would be hair brushing, then tea. We’d had the same evening ritual for years.
Hanna removed the comb holding up my dark tresses and began working her crooked fingers through the waves, seeking out any last remaining hidden pins. Those clinked in the catchall dish at my right, a clamshell Artie had found on the beach last summer. He’d carefully polished the concave surface till it glowed and presented it to me, his round cheeks lifting with unmistakable pride.
“Mercy wrote,” I mentioned, leaning forward to remove the envelope from the drawer I’d cast it in before dinner.
“And how is the young ingénue?” Hanna started brushing out the ends of my hair with practiced strokes, careful not to tug on any knots.
I broke the wax seal and withdrew the contents. There was Mercy’s letter, soft and sinuous curves scrawled across just a single page—short this week—and a second envelope bearing my name in an unfamiliar hand. I flipped it over and studied the seal. Intricate floral vines cascaded over a heart aflame.
“Do you know this crest?” I asked, holding it up for Hanna to inspect.
“That looks like the People of the Petals. In Bloem,” she added.
Bloem was a tiny province near the heart of Arcannia. The people of the region worshipped Arina, goddess of love, beauty, and the arts, and Bloem was known for being the most refined and cosmopolitan area in the country, even putting the capital to shame. Its streets had as many fashion houses as they did theaters and salons.
So I’d read.
I ran a thoughtful finger over the seal. The wax had a deep purple hue, a sign of nobility. “I don’t know anyone from Bloem, do I?”
Hanna frowned. “Not that I can recall. Perhaps Mercy’s letter will explain everything.”
Nodding, I set the envelope aside and picked up my sister’s missive.
“‘Dearest Verity,’” I began, reading aloud for Hanna’s sake. “‘You missed the most marvelous party last night. There were so many guests in attendance. My dance card was never empty but I still managed to take a turn about the room with Princess Beatrice, though of course we pretended it was nothing more than a laugh. Still. Sometimes I think that girl shall drive me mad with her charms.
“‘Two of the guests were the Duke and Duchess of Bloem, Gerard and Dauphine Laurent. They have a grand apartment in Arcannus, as well as their family estate in the country—Chauntilalie. Beatrice, Euphemia, and I stopped there on summer progress last year. It’s beautifully decrepit and wistful. Lavender fields and so many little hills and dales, truly a bucolic dream. You would love it.’”
I stopped, briefly wondering what it would be like to simply go on a tour of the kingdom. Mercy seemed to spend half her life traveling with the court, a companion to the princesses, and she never made it sound like the awful lot of work Camille claimed it to be.
“‘Dauphine surprised me by visiting my suite yesterday afternoon and we caught up over tea. She was quite enamored with a series of your paintings I have on display—the little one of the sunrise over Selkirk, the tide pool with that darling crab, and of course, the portrait you did of me. She wanted to know all about them and was delighted to hear how well I know the artist.’”
“Look at that,” Hanna said, the brush now at the crown of my head. “A duchess fancying your work!”
I closed my eyes for a moment against her gentle ministrations before continuing on.
“‘I was seated next to the duke at dinner—such a dear old soul—and he asked if I might relay this letter to you, from Dauphine. Apparently, they’d like to offer you a commission, little sister. What fun. You should absolutely accept, of course, and make sure your travels involve a stop in the capital. I miss you and can’t wait to show you off to all my favorite friends. Please come soon. Your dearest, Mercy.’”
“A commission,” Hanna echoed. She set down the hairbrush and began dividing up sections of my hair to braid.
“How odd,” I murmured, burning with curiosity. I’d never received a letter from someone who wasn’t a relation, and my fingers traced the lilac seal once more before I broke it.
Thick and creamy and edged with a glint of rose gold, the paper inside was far nicer than Mercy’s usual stationery. The duchess’s hand was a refined copperplate, written in a shocking shade of orchid ink.
“‘My dear Miss Thaumas,’” I began, bringing the letter closer to me. A cloying bouquet danced in the air. The paper had even been sweetened with perfume! “‘First, I wish to introduce myself to you. My name is Lady Dauphine Laurent, Duchess of Bloem. I’m an acquaintance of your sister Mercy and hope to become a friend of yours. Second, I wanted to commend you on your obvious talent as an artist. Your work is exquisite and fresh. I’ve greatly enjoyed your portrait of Mercy and admire the style in which you captured her.
“‘My son, Alexander, turns twenty this year and my husband would like to mark the occasion with his first adult portrait, as is the tradition for all Laurent heirs. As you may know, Bloem boasts of several academies and conservatories. In the last month I’ve looked through so many portfolios of work, I feel as though my eyes have crossed and I honestly can’t remember a single piece from them. But there was something in yours that stayed with me.
“‘To be short, I want you to be the one to paint my son. We will obviously pay you for your efforts and would be more than pleased to host you at Chauntilalie while you work. Please respond to my request at your earliest convenience. Alexander’s birthday is in just three months, and I know it would please my husband to unveil the portrait on his special day.
“‘Yours most earnestly, Dauphine Laurent.’”
“They want you to go all the way to Bloem to paint?” Hanna mused, tying off the braid with a ribbon in dark blue. She tapped the top of my head, work done.
All the way to Bloem . . .
My heart quickened. My first real adventure!
I stood up quickly and my knee bumped against the edge of the vanity, jarring the taper candle. I caught it before it could clatter over, spilling its foul wax upon the marble tabletop. Every year, Annaleigh gave me a case of these candles for my birthday. She had them made up especially for me, claiming I’d been fond of the scent as a child. It was a horrid mix of sea salt and sage, and as much as I detested it now, Camille made sure the candles were used, claiming them to be too extravagant of a gift to be stored away and forgotten.
“I should write her back at once,” I decided, turning to the little desk near the fireplace. I sat down, pulling out a sheet of parchment and my inkwell. A silver octopus, the Thaumas sigil, wrapped its arms around the container. My stationery was nowhere near as fine as either of the letters I’d received. Camille bought my supply from a shopkeeper in Astrea, made from the pulp of harvested kelp. It was grainy, with irregular blots of fibers, and had a slight tinge of green. It had always been more than suitable for my purposes—letters to my sisters, silly doodles for the twins or Artie—but I paused now, tracing the bumpy surface and wondering if I ought to find something nicer for my reply.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Hanna asked, busying herself with the tea cart. “You know your sister is going to have an opinion about that. About all of that.”
“I’m sure she’ll have many,” I said, setting pen to paper with a decisive flourish. The paper wasn’t important. The message was. “She usually does.”
Hanna brought a cup of cinnamon tea and leaned against the back of my chair, reading over my shoulder. I could feel her eyes on my neck like a physical weight. “Well?” she prompted.
“Well . . .” As I signed my name, the nib of my pen scratched the page, sounding deeply important. “I’m eighteen next week. An adult. Camille doesn’t get to decide absolutely everything in my life for me anymore. If these people—these kind and respectable people—want to invite me to their home, if they want to pay me to paint, then I’m all for it. I can’t live at my sister’s house forever.”
“It’s your home too,” Hanna reminded me. “It always has been.”
“Not exactly. Not since it became Camille’s. I don’t even recall what it was like before it was hers,” I admitted, though Hanna knew all that.
Most nights she’d tell me about my childhood, from the time before I could remember. We’d sit on the love seat, drinking tea, while she spun another story. I was her only charge at Highmoor—Marina, Elodie, and Artie had their own nursemaid, a much younger woman named Callabeth. Camille had confided to me once the twins were born that she didn’t want them growing fond of Hanna, already so old and frail, and marring their childhood having to mourn her.
Looking back at our youth, it made sense, wanting to shield your children from the pain that had marked you. I was also more than happy to keep Hanna all to myself.
“Just think of how nice it will be without me here for a while,” I said with a false brightness. What would she do to occupy her time? Camille had kept her on because of loyalty. Since my return to Highmoor, Hanna had only ever looked after me. Mercy and Honor had declared themselves too grown to need fussing over. I wondered if Hanna was hurt I’d leapt into this commission without talking it through with her. “You can kick up your feet and finally get around to that sampler you’ve been talking about.”
Hanna loved to sew, and her needlework had always been a source of pride for her, though I often kept her too busy to ever work on it.
“I’ll be back in no time,” I promised. “It’s not like it will be goodbye forever.”
She sniffed and turned back to the cart. “I suppose not. Now that your letter is all done, shall I tell you about the time Annaleigh snuck an army of sea turtles into the bathtub downstairs?”
“Sea turtles in the bathtub?” I echoed, following her over to my sitting area. I’d heard this story a dozen times before but always pretended as though it were the first. “Why on earth would she do a thing like that?”
House of Roots and Ruin will be released on July 25, but you can pre-order it right now.
Lacy Baugher Milas is the Books Editor at Paste Magazine, but loves nerding out about all sorts of pop culture. You can find her on Twitter @LacyMB