off long ago, and besides, Ingrid’s sixth sense was positively humming.
“We should find out more about these
‘incidents,’
” Gabby said, nervously patting the sides of her skirts. “I hardly know what to think.”
Ingrid did, however. Something bad had happened to her brother. It wasn’t a knowledge she could put into words. It was only something she could feel, just as when, after they’d left the nursery for their own bedrooms, Grayson would wake from a nightmare and Ingrid would instinctively wake as well. Even if her dream had been a happy one, she’d know somehow to leave it so that she might tiptoe into Grayson’s room and climb into bed beside him, assure him it had only been a dream.
Ingrid stared up at the ruined abbey, at the series of stone gargoyles stamped darkly against the twilight. The sight of them made her shiver, and she started to look away.
From the corner of her eye she saw the wings of one hunched black statue flutter up.
With a gasp, Ingrid turned back. She pressed closer to the glass, straining to see through the failing light. The gargoyle’s wings were no longer up but were hanging like curtains. What had she just seen?
Ingrid closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cold glass.
Nothing
. She’d seen nothing. She was just overwhelmed and the poor light had been playing tricks on her.
Her brother was missing. There might be a kidnapper—or a murderer—stalking the girls of Paris. And Ingrid was confined to the rectory for the night. Come morning, first thing, she’d set out to find Grayson.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at the sequel to
The Beautiful and the Cursed
The Lovely and the Lost
Look for it Spring 2014!
Excerpt copyright © 2014 by Angie Frazier. Published by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
PARIS
RUE SAINT-DOMINIQUE
EARLY FEBRUARY 1900
T he quiet ached.
After all the crying and screaming, all the pleas for Léon to
stop!
, silence crushed the dining room. Now Léon trembled on the rug beside the table, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees.
He wanted to shut his eyes, but terror froze them open. He wanted to clap his palms over his ears so he wouldn’t have to listen to the weak, muffled cries coming from all around him—but his fingertips were still
leaking
.
Léon’s father was at the head of the table. Every inch of the man, from his thinning crown to his polished brogans, even the spindle-back chair upon which he sat, had been bound in a cocoon of thick white silk. The untouched plate of coq au vin still steamed in front of his father’s mummified figure. The scent of mushrooms and wine, a sauce Léon’s mother had spent the afternoon stirring at the stove as she hummed little songs, now turned Léon’s stomach.
Unblinking, Léon turned his head. The lacey trim of the tablecloth hung low, but not low enough to block the sight of his mother’s cocoon as it wriggled on the floor. And moaned.
Léon jumped to his feet and crashed back into his chair. A third, smaller silken cocoon, the one imprisoning his younger brother, had already gone still. The venom had worked its way through his sticklike limbs the quickest. Léon’s wriggling mother would stop moving next. But his father, whose meaty frame was fully upright in his chair, might remain conscious another few minutes. Five at the most.
Léon hadn’t wanted to hurt them. But he’d lost his temper when his father had started to shout the way he always did whenever Léon had done something wrong in their
pâtisserie
downstairs. He had thought he’d become immune to his father’s blustering, but lately, things had started to change. With every flare of Léon’s temper, Léon
himself
had started to change: the swelling pressure at each of his fingertips and the piercing pain in the roots of his eyeteeth were always the first signals.
Tonight, they had come on too quickly.
With his father’s
“We should find out more about these
‘incidents,’
” Gabby said, nervously patting the sides of her skirts. “I hardly know what to think.”
Ingrid did, however. Something bad had happened to her brother. It wasn’t a knowledge she could put into words. It was only something she could feel, just as when, after they’d left the nursery for their own bedrooms, Grayson would wake from a nightmare and Ingrid would instinctively wake as well. Even if her dream had been a happy one, she’d know somehow to leave it so that she might tiptoe into Grayson’s room and climb into bed beside him, assure him it had only been a dream.
Ingrid stared up at the ruined abbey, at the series of stone gargoyles stamped darkly against the twilight. The sight of them made her shiver, and she started to look away.
From the corner of her eye she saw the wings of one hunched black statue flutter up.
With a gasp, Ingrid turned back. She pressed closer to the glass, straining to see through the failing light. The gargoyle’s wings were no longer up but were hanging like curtains. What had she just seen?
Ingrid closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the cold glass.
Nothing
. She’d seen nothing. She was just overwhelmed and the poor light had been playing tricks on her.
Her brother was missing. There might be a kidnapper—or a murderer—stalking the girls of Paris. And Ingrid was confined to the rectory for the night. Come morning, first thing, she’d set out to find Grayson.
Turn the page for a sneak peek at the sequel to
The Beautiful and the Cursed
The Lovely and the Lost
Look for it Spring 2014!
Excerpt copyright © 2014 by Angie Frazier. Published by Delacorte Press, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
PARIS
RUE SAINT-DOMINIQUE
EARLY FEBRUARY 1900
T he quiet ached.
After all the crying and screaming, all the pleas for Léon to
stop!
, silence crushed the dining room. Now Léon trembled on the rug beside the table, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees.
He wanted to shut his eyes, but terror froze them open. He wanted to clap his palms over his ears so he wouldn’t have to listen to the weak, muffled cries coming from all around him—but his fingertips were still
leaking
.
Léon’s father was at the head of the table. Every inch of the man, from his thinning crown to his polished brogans, even the spindle-back chair upon which he sat, had been bound in a cocoon of thick white silk. The untouched plate of coq au vin still steamed in front of his father’s mummified figure. The scent of mushrooms and wine, a sauce Léon’s mother had spent the afternoon stirring at the stove as she hummed little songs, now turned Léon’s stomach.
Unblinking, Léon turned his head. The lacey trim of the tablecloth hung low, but not low enough to block the sight of his mother’s cocoon as it wriggled on the floor. And moaned.
Léon jumped to his feet and crashed back into his chair. A third, smaller silken cocoon, the one imprisoning his younger brother, had already gone still. The venom had worked its way through his sticklike limbs the quickest. Léon’s wriggling mother would stop moving next. But his father, whose meaty frame was fully upright in his chair, might remain conscious another few minutes. Five at the most.
Léon hadn’t wanted to hurt them. But he’d lost his temper when his father had started to shout the way he always did whenever Léon had done something wrong in their
pâtisserie
downstairs. He had thought he’d become immune to his father’s blustering, but lately, things had started to change. With every flare of Léon’s temper, Léon
himself
had started to change: the swelling pressure at each of his fingertips and the piercing pain in the roots of his eyeteeth were always the first signals.
Tonight, they had come on too quickly.
With his father’s
Similar Books
