Deathbringer (Deluxe Edition): A Novel - Hardcover

Tagliareni, Sonia

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 1668200090 ISBN 13: 9781668200094

Publisher: Atria Books, 2026

Synopsis

Order the deluxe limited edition of Deathbringer now—a stunning, collectible hardcover edition featuring stenciled edges, endpapers, and a foil-stamped case—only available on the first printing while supplies last!

INSTANT SUNDAY TIMES (LONDON) BESTSELLER

For fans of Naomi Novik and Kerri Maniscalco, “a slow-burn dark academia filled with delicious yearning, dripping with atmosphere, and a compelling mystery” (Ellis Hunter, author of Blood Bound) about a death mage who hates her magic and a poison mage who hates her that are forced to work together to stop a killer before one of them is next.

Everything about Sylas Archyr feels like a sin.

Born with the ability to speak with the dead, Viola’s magic killed her sister, Olivia, and if she doesn’t learn why, it will kill her too. Her only hope lies within the perilous walls of Gorhail Institute of Magic, where Olivia spent her final days.

There, Viola clashes with Sylas, a poison mage whose magic stems from three magical snakes. Immortal, tormented, and reckless, Sylas is tethered to a life he never asked for and haunted by guilt for his father’s death. His hatred for death mages runs deep, and he’s determined to keep Viola at a distance. But when an attack forces him to heal her, their fates become intertwined by a magical bond that threatens to upend his loyalties—and his common sense.

As more students start turning up dead, Viola and Sylas are drawn into an uneasy alliance that pulls them deeper into Gorhail’s treacherous passageways, where secrets fester beneath the stone and the dead do not rest. And as enemy lines begin to blur and their undeniable attraction grows, Viola and Sylas uncover a chilling conspiracy: someone is hunting mages for their magical relics, and if they can’t uncover the killer in time, Viola will be next.

About this title

About the Author

Sonia Tagliareni is a fantasy author who’s always looking for the next best cup of tea. The first story she wrote was a murder mystery for French class at thirteen, and rumor has it the murderer outsmarted her but also left her with a deep love of storytelling. Born and raised in Mauritius, she moved to the United States before deciding she prefers to hop around the world. If she’s not glued to her laptop, you can find her dragging her husband and son to high tea. Visit SoniaTagliareni.com for more information. 

 

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter One: Viola
Mortemagi (n)—Death magic practitioner.

Death magic is intuitive, but it takes more than it gives.

YSENIA FARO, DEATH MAGIC FOR BEGINNERS, CHAPTER 1
one | viola MAY 2, 1927
I was ten the first time I touched a corpse.

Nan died in her sleep a day before her seventieth birthday. When I went to pay respects by her casket, she grabbed my wrist and whispered, The last words of the dead are sacred. Speak them, and you’ll meet your end.

Of course I screamed. The softness of her hand, which used to stroke my hair as I fell asleep, was now a stiff palm with icicles that dug into my tender skin, and her mouth, which used to tell me stories, had doomed me with my worst nightmare: magic.

Mother pinched her lips, her reprimand only a breath away, but my younger sister, Olivia, clutched her throat with feigned disgust. “There’s a roach in Nan’s casket.”

It didn’t work.

Mother knew us too well, and she knew that at least one of us had inherited Nan’s peculiar affinity for the dead. Later that evening, as we sat around a lukewarm casserole of macaroni and cheese, she asked Olivia and me if one of us had the gift. I stuffed my mouth with food. Gift. What a cruel way to describe the magic that killed our father and left her without a husband.

Olivia set her fork down and gave me a look that was halfway between “forgive me” and “don’t stop me.” Then she wore her brightest smile, held her head high, and said, “It’s me. I have magic.”

The moment I realized what she was doing, the half-chewed dough in my mouth became like glue. Years of late-night talks under the single ceiling light of our bedroom, telling Olivia how much I hated magic because it killed our father, culminated in this moment: my sister, the light of my life, was going to lift that burden off my shoulders. I didn’t need to forgive her, and I was never going to stop her. It was selfish, but I would never lean into the magic that destroyed our family. Mother was a nonmagi; no one would question that magic passed to only one daughter.

At her declaration, Mother shot out of her chair, hand on her heart. She looked at Olivia like she had won a prize, made a fuss about how she was destined for greatness. “A mage in my family,” Mother squealed, fawning over my sister.

It was no secret that Nan could see the dead. Rhea Corvi was revered around Albion. The townspeople often came to her to confirm their loved ones had moved on, and now that she was dead, they would come see… us. We’d probably inherited Father’s magic after he passed, but Nan was the first dead body we witnessed. And if I could hear the dead, it probably meant Olivia could see Nan’s ghost. Was this why she was fixating on me with furrowed brows, her throat bobbing every time Mother exclaimed she was a mage? Could she see Nan next to me?

But when my sister reached to hug our mother, the angry red skin around her fingernails brought me pause. She only picked at her fingers when she was lying. That’s when I knew that Olivia didn’t possess an ounce of magic.

“We’re enrolling you at Gorhail Academy tomorrow. My beautiful girl is going to the most prestigious secondary school.” Mother cupped Olivia’s cheeks with tears streaming down her face. My sister’s smile froze on her lips; her eyes wouldn’t leave mine.

Gorhail Academy stood tall on the cliffs of Gorhail, the town west of Albion. Set in a separate building on the same premises, it was the younger arm of Gorhail Institute, a university where Nan had been the dean until her death. Both were magic schools, where mages traded their lives to further their magic. The academy taught the fundamentals, their curriculum overlapping much of what we learn in nonmagi schools. The institute was a different story; Nan used to say it forged the best and the worst of mages.

Lying about magic was one thing. Mother knew the basic rules of magical birthright. She wouldn’t give up until one of us admitted we inherited Father’s magic, and I was never going to. But willingly walking into a school of mages when she wasn’t one was reckless. Surely Olivia would tell Mother that she was joking, that she didn’t have any magic, that she wasn’t going to break the promise we’d made when she’d turned five. I had held myself back a grade so we could start secondary school together next year. I didn’t want us to be separated, didn’t want to grow up without my sister.

“Don’t leave me,” I whispered as we lay in my bed that night, watching the Albion sky twinkle. She knew I would’ve followed her anywhere but there. She knew what magic meant to me. She knew what it did to our father.

Olivia reached for my hand, squeezed it, and promised, “I will never leave you, Vi.”

Then she did.
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 15, 1939
Twelve years later, I know more than I care to about Gorhail Institute of Magic, the mages who go there, and the dangers lurking on the outside. I loathe it for taking away my sister, but if I’m honest, I’m jealous that she chose Gorhail over me.

The dead still talk to me in riddles that I spend too much time deciphering. Sometimes, their last words are as simple as a confession. Other times, they have me run errands across town. As I stand before this old lady’s open casket in a stiff dining room, I know today’s an errands day.

The dead woman’s white hair is meticulously combed. Sapphires in her earrings, necklace, and ring tell me that this family is superstitious, probably devout followers of the God of Death. It’s ironic to me that nonmagi uphold mage traditions when their spirits go to Orga—the afterlife for the nonmagical among us. It doesn’t matter how much jewelry they bury with their dead. The God of Death will never let a nonmagi cross into the Underworld.

My hand hovers over hers. It reminds me of Nan’s, frail and wrinkled from decades of years well lived. I don’t know why I hesitate—maybe because this is a private viewing at someone’s home or maybe seeing all the love poured into preparing her body for burial makes me feel like a predator. It would have been a different story had they sent her to Dearly Departed, the funeral home where I work; I would’ve felt less guilty about encroaching on a family’s grief. But death magic cares little about privacy. It rings in my ears, demanding to be quelled—and I, an unwilling servant of Death, like my sanity intact.

Ten minutes have passed since I walked through this small house. Instead of hurrying, I am questioning my morals. The quiet chatter of mourners drones in the adjacent room; they’re gathered around the kitchen island, most of them holding steaming cups of tea that they’ll drink to honor the deceased, a typical funeral custom in Albion. I hope I’m not expected to join them after I pay my respects.

My pulse rises. I’ve been here too long.

Someone will question my presence, and I will have to leave without releasing my magic. But this woman deserves to have her last words heard, her final wishes fulfilled. And I suppose that’s how I manage to live with this despicable magic: I tell myself I am helping.

Blowing out a breath, I close my fingers around her cold, stiff hand. The chill creeps along my arm and crawls around my throat until I stop breathing. Stop and listen, the magic always seems to say. The old lady’s eyes open to cloudy white irises. I look at her dry, pale lips. They never move. Instead, a sweet, old, textured voice speaks, Where the sun meets the moon, the cat sleeps.

“Bloody saints,” I mutter, pulling my hand away. Another ridiculous riddle, and if I don’t solve it, the incessant ringing in my ear will erode every corner of my brain. My stomach growls; I skipped lunch to be here, and right now, I have very little regard for where the sun and the moon meet.

Behind me, gentle footsteps click on the floorboard. My breath catches into my breastbone. Leaving now would be suspicious. If they ask why I’m here, I’ll tell them I’ve occasionally helped the lady with her garden. “The lady.” I don’t even know her name.

“Subtlety is still not your forte, I see,” a musical voice whispers next to me. “This is the second time this year I find you at a random person’s funeral.”

My lungs relax. Olivia stands to my right, decked out in a light pink sweater and a long white pleated skirt. She looks like a pink peony against the somber room. Now they’re definitely going to know we don’t belong here.

“I don’t work on weekends, and there were no new bodies this morning. I need to expel the magic somehow.” I hook my arm through hers, hurrying us to the door before we run into the family. “You didn’t tell me you were visiting today,” I say. She usually visits twice a year, once during the Pine Festival and the second time during the Midsummer Festival, neither of which is today. When she was at the academy, I used to see her every month, but the institute heavily controls the movement of their mages, so my sister’s visits have become my personal favorite holidays.

“Surprise.” Her lips curve up in a mischievous smile. Then she nods at a picture of the dead woman on the wall in the sitting room. “A riddle, I imagine.”

“How did you know?”

“You cursed.” She lifts her eyebrows. “You never curse.” She pauses, then asks, “What did she say?”

The last words of the dead are sacred. Speak them, and you’ll meet your end. Nan’s warning rings in my head, but I don’t keep secrets from my sister. It’s been twelve years, and I’ve shared the last words of the dead with Olivia more times than I can count. Sometimes, out of necessity; other times, to help me solve riddles. And we’re both still alive. “Where the sun meets the moon, the cat sleeps,” I whisper, my eyes darting to the three people glaring at us from the living room as we walk by.

We’re almost to the entryway when a woman in her late fifties stops us. She looks like a younger version of the deceased. “Thank you for coming,” she croaks. “How did you know my mother?”

“I…” I didn’t.

Olivia lets go of my hand. In two steps, she’s hugging the woman. “We are so sorry about your mother,” she says. Then she quietly adds, “Where the sun meets the moon, the cat sleeps.”

The woman’s eyes widen as Olivia lets go of her. The pause between them gnaws at my insides. I bite my lips, waiting. This can go one of two ways—Albion’s general sentiment around mages is either overt enthusiasm or downright fear. As much as I tell myself I don’t care, it always hurts to see that flicker of terror across their eyes when they meet a mage. It may not be directed at me, but it crushes me all the same. I am not like the other mages, I always want to say. I try to use my magic to help. Still, I cannot blame their sentiment. I do not fear mages. I hate them.

“He’s in the treehouse. My granddaughter’s cat. Someone left the door open yesterday and Buttons ran out. We thought we’d never see him again.” The woman’s eyes brim with tears. She takes Olivia’s hands between hers. “Thank you,” she says. Of course she would be grateful; their family worships the God of Death. It’s ironic, how much Olivia fits into a world that isn’t her own; she carries magic with pride while I carry it as a burden.

“May Death light her way,” Olivia whispers, and I give the woman a quick nod, my cheeks warm with the thought of a child reunited with her cat. I don’t even notice the lull in my ears until Olivia and I walk out of the house.

“You’re welcome,” Olivia teases as we begin our fifteen-minute walk home. She enjoys everything that comes with being a mage, loves everything I despise. How wicked are the Gods? They gave magic to the wrong sister.

Our house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac, with Nan’s rose garden spanning the front and back. After Nan died and Olivia left, tending to the roses became my only comfort. At first, they were dying, but over time, I’ve managed to grow thirty-three different varieties.

“Olivia,” Mother calls out from the front porch. She runs down the wobbly wooden stairs, down the pathway, her dress brushing along the fresh blooms of a rare hybrid I’ve been nurturing for the last three years. The petals fall to the ground, and my breath hitches.

Mother pushes me aside, taking Olivia in her arms. “What a lovely surprise—I didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”

“Mama, I’ve missed you so.” Olivia kisses her cheeks. “I wish I could stay longer, but I’m only here to get a book to study for my promotional exam this week.”

“I can’t believe you’ll be promoted to High Magus soon,” our mother says, holding Olivia’s face. “I am so proud of you.”

I share both her pride and her disbelief, albeit for different reasons. I don’t need any reason to be proud of Olivia, but I cannot believe she’s lasted four years at the institute without being caught. When she passes her promotional exam, she’ll be the first nonmagi with a High Magus rank. More importantly, she’ll finally be free to leave Gorhail. After earning my mastery in botany last November, I’ve been counting the days until her graduation.

Leaving me behind, Mother walks Olivia to the house, trampling over the pink petals from my roses. It’s always disconcerting seeing them together. We may be sisters, but Olivia is a mirror of our mother. They both look like they belong here in Albion, with their green eyes, mildly tan skin, and dark brown hair. They even style it the same, loose curls falling mid-back. I share Nan’s golden-brown skin, dark eyes, and black hair. With her gone, I feel like the roses, scattered on the ground, crushed by the boots of a woman who should have nurtured them.

When I walk through the front door, Mother is already pouring two cups of tea. I take off my shoes and dart across the kitchen, squeezing myself between the sideboard and the backs of the dining chairs, and make a beeline for the stairs. Early this morning, the mailman brought two letters bearing the golden seal of DOTS, the Department of the Supernatural, for Olivia.

“Viola, do you not care that your sister is home?” Mother asks quietly. The silent threat between her words dares me to take the first step up the stairs. For a split second, I consider it, but her sharp inhale pulls me back.

“Of course I do.” My feet drag to the wooden kitchen table covered in a gaudy pumpkin-patterned tablecloth, where she placed two steaming cups of tea next to each other at the head of the table. I settle in the seat farthest from them, although it makes no difference because any room with my mother in it feels small. Even smaller when Olivia is here.

“How is work?” Olivia’s eyes wince in apology. She slides her cup toward me even though I’m too far to reach it, but I shake my head. Mother’s tea is as bitter as her tongue.

“Good,” I reply. I know Olivia’s trying to include me, but the less I say, the fewer opportunities Mother has to ridicule me.

“You’ve been at that funeral home for four years now.” Mother takes a sip. There we go. “It’s not a forever job.”

“It pays.” I sigh. “I’m saving for a postgrad botany program in Osneau.”

“Osneau.” She lifts a brow. If I didn’t know better, I would think she was taking interest in my future. She crushes that thought immediately. “Pity you cannot join your sister. Gorhail takes care of all expenses.”

“It’s a pity indeed,” I mutter.

After a tense silence, Olivia taps her watch and gets up. “Mama, I am so sorry, I don’t have much time before curfew. I’ll get my book while the tea cools. Vi, will you help me?”

She doesn’t have to ask twice. I’m already out of my seat and climbing the stairs, grateful for any excuse to get out of there.

The attic door opens with a familiar creak that doubles as an alarm on the rare times Mother comes up here. Despite it being the middle of the day, the single round window toward the back of the room only lights up a few feet. I flip on the switch to the right of the entrance, and Nan’s favorite old chandelier that she picked up from a local thrift store illuminates the room, giving life to the rows of books on the walls. It may be old and stuffy up here, but it wraps me with the same comfort as Nan’s embrace.

After Olivia left for Gorhail, I spent most of my days reading the stories in Nan’s journals, glossing over intricate drawings of skeletons straight out of a horror movie. I perused thousands of handwritten notes about Gorhail’s Houses, classes, relics, and poachers who hunt mages that only strengthened my desire to stay away from that place. The only silver lining was helping my sister with her death magic homework when she was at the academy.

“They don’t have wares like Nan’s chandelier at Gorhail,” she muses, studying the ceiling. “Sometimes, I miss the mundane.”

Before I’m able to reply, she skips her way to the wall of dusty books in the far left of the room. I recently unpacked them from one of Nan’s old crates and haven’t gotten around to dusting them. I’d wanted to sell Nan’s collection to the local bookshop to save for my move. Their fascination with mage history would see them spend a hefty sum on these ancient tomes.

“Did you know Gorhail still doesn’t run on electricity?” she asks.

I have half a mind to veer the conversation back to her missing the mundane. It’s a good sign that she does; it means she’s ready to come home. But I know my sister. If I bring it up, she will avoid the discussion until she leaves.

“How many candles do they burn through in a year?” I join her, coughing as her pink sleeve turns brown from wiping the cover of a worn-out book. She frowns at it, then puts it back.

“You’re funny,” she deadpans. “They use lamps powered with magic dust,” she says, her eyes slightly widening in wonder like they do every time she talks about Gorhail.

“That sounds innovative. Unnecessary, but innovative. Do they hate nonmagi so much that they created their own form of electricity?” I jest. She once told me about Gorhail’s attempt to use more nonmagi technology, which was cut short when a fire broke out in one of their Magisters’ offices. Perhaps it’s best they keep to magic.

She laughs. “When I was at the academy, I remember learning that they were fed up with the constant power cuts.”

I can’t blame them. Albion has at least two power cuts a week, more when it rains.

Olivia reaches for a book on the top shelf, and her sweater catches on her armcuff. Muttering a curse, she unclasps it and slides the polished brass relic out of her sleeve. It looks nothing like the intricate one she wore the last time I saw her, one that looked identical to Nan’s cuff.

“Is this a new cuff?”

“It is.” My sister’s eyes snap up at me, a devious grin playing on her lips. “A real one this time—my friend broke through the magic that prevented nonmagi from wearing relics. It does nothing for me, of course. Do you want to try it on?” She hands me her cuff, but I recoil.

“If you wore yours, you’d be able to speak to ghosts instead of only hearing the dead when you touch them.” She feigns a shudder, then bursts into laughter.

“Not funny.” I frown. I am terrified of ghosts, and I have no desire to explore this curse that flows through my veins. I’m glad she doesn’t have to experience the harrowing sound in my ears if I don’t use my magic for a while, or if I take too long to solve a riddle. “It’s easy to jest when you don’t have to carry the weight of the unfulfilled dead.”

Her laugh falters, an uncomfortable yet familiar silence settling between us—whenever we talk about my magic or about Olivia leaving Gorhail.

“I asked my friend about the constant noise in a whisperer’s ears. Wearing Nan’s cuff will contain the magic so the ringing stops.” She regards me with concern. “I fear it will only worsen as you age. Mages aren’t supposed to be without their relics, Vi. At some point, the dead bodies won’t be enough.”

I shake my head. I’m thriving without the relic, and I refuse to let a piece of metal dictate my life. Once I’m up in Osneau, I will find a Sealer—exiled mages who can rid any person of their magic. And I’ll finally be normal.

“And what did your friend say about nonmagi with fake relics?” I give her a pointed look, my lips tugging upward. I hope she follows my lead. “It’s been twelve years, and they still haven’t caught you. I’m impressed.”

“Why the sudden suspicion?” She clips her cuff back on, then snorts. “Do you think the relic gave me magic overnight?”

I roll my eyes. Relics store magic. The older the relic, the more magic it stores. It doesn’t grant magic, although for Olivia’s sake, I wish it did. And if it did, I’d run to my room to retrieve Nan’s cuff and give it to her.

She’s so happy at Gorhail, so I hate myself for what I’m about to say.

“Two mages turned up dead at work last week.” I hesitate. “Maybe it’s time to come home.”

The uncomfortable silence is back, but this time, I’m not letting up.

“Vi,” she finally sighs, pushing in the book she was about to retrieve. “They both knew the risk of leaving school grounds after curfew. Even nonmagi know not to venture into Gorhail Woods after sundown, and they’re not even the target of poachers.”

“Please, Ole.” I hold her gaze. The slight twitch in her bottom lip gives me hope, but then she breaks our stare and continues to peruse Nan’s bookshelves, crushing my sliver of optimism. Still, I have to keep trying.

“Why did you go?” The last time I asked was during her first Midsummer break from the academy. She hadn’t replied and had begun distancing herself from me, so I never asked again.

At first, I thought she would come home after the academy, but when she willingly enrolled at Gorhail Institute, I felt a betrayal so deep I didn’t reply to any of her letters for a month. Then I saw how happy she was, how she spoke of her friends with so much love. I realized I was selfish to want her to come home. But that was then. Mages weren’t turning up dead every other week.

Olivia clears her throat. She turns to me, her face solemn. “Do you think Gorhail would’ve believed that Rhea Corvi died without leaving a legacy? Father died before her, so it was only logical that her cuff was passed to one of us.” She gives me a weak smile, and guilt knots my throat. She knew I didn’t want to go; I spent years telling her how much I hated magic, how much I hated Gorhail. She went because of me.

Deep down, I had known the reason, but I needed Olivia to tell me.

“DOTS has relic trackers,” she continues. “Every time a relicsmith crafts a relic, they make a tracker that tells DOTS whether the relic is dead, dormant, or alive. They would’ve broken into our house to find the famed Corvi relic.” She breathes out, and her eyes twinkle with tears. All these years, she took my place so I wouldn’t be somewhere I hated, so Gorhail would think they have eyes on Nan’s cuff, so they would leave me alone. And I had the audacity to be angry when she chose to stay. Of course, she’d stay. Gorhail was all she’d known growing up, and I expected her to leave that comfort and reassimilate into a world she was no longer a part of.

I pull my sister into a tight hug, and she wraps her arms around me, occasionally patting me on the back. It’s all I can muster to thank her for saving me years of a life I didn’t want. My beautiful sister was only nine then and so clever. But now, it’s my turn to save her.

Too soon, she begins to pull away. “I love you, too, Vi, but I have to hurry. You don’t want me to end up like those mages who missed curfew, do you?”

“Olivia,” I exclaim, stepping back. “Don’t joke about that.”

Olivia bites her laugh and goes back to looking for her book. Her fingers land on an old leatherbound tome. The spine is a stunning weave of red, blue, and silver. It’s one of the books I shelved last week. Olivia grabs it, wipes off the front, and smiles with satisfaction.

“I’ve been accepted to Osneau’s Postgraduate School of Botany,” I blurt out, and her eyebrows shoot up. She has to leave Gorhail with me. I will make sure of it.

“Vi,” Olivia exclaims. “That’s incredible. They only take fifty students a year.”

I nod, looking down. “Come with me to Osneau. I’ll wait until your promotional exam is over. I— I saved enough for a place.” I haven’t. In fact, I will have to use the tuition money I saved to afford a room for the two of us, but I would give up on my dreams if it meant that I could keep my sister safe.

“Viola—” It’s never a good thing when she uses my full name.

“Think about it,” I implore. “Plenty of mages stop at High Magus. You don’t need to sink four more years into Gorhail for Grand Magus. And it’ll become harder and harder to hide. The other classes of magic aren’t as theoretical as death magic.”

“I…” She hesitates. “I’ve built a life there, Vi. I have friends and people I care so much about. Leaving would be selfish.”

Don’t you care about me, I want to scream. Is it selfish to want to keep you safe? Maybe she’s blinded by the glamours of the magic world. “You’ve been gone over a decade, Ole. I want my sister back. I need you back. Please.”

Her eyes soften, and she sucks in her lips. We fall back into our usual discomfort around this subject, and the growing silence between us dashes any hope for an answer. With a long sigh, she leads me to the door, and I follow her down the stairs.

We reach the kitchen, and Mother pushes herself out of her chair with a screech that makes me want to claw my ears out. “Don’t drink too fast.” She rubs Olivia’s back as she chugs the tea.

“Sorry, Mama, I have to run. Thanks for the tea.”

“Ole,” I stop her. “Letters from DOTS came in the mail this morning. They’re in my room. Should I get them?”

She shakes her head while carefully placing the book in her canvas bag. “I’ll grab them when I come back after my promotional exam.” She pauses, then looks at Mother. “Mama, my exam is on Friday. Then some friends and I are going on a trip to Wanora over the weekend.”

“Oh,” Mother utters, hiding her disappointment with a grimace of a smile. “Perhaps I could join you toward the end of the trip and we can spend some time at the beach?”

Olivia hugs Mother tight. “I would love that. See you next Monday at the Salt Rock Inn? Join us if you’re free, Vi.”

Mother’s nose is already flaring, her ears red as a tomato. “Sure,” I reply, “I’ll take the week off and we can travel up the coast to Osneau.”

As she’s about to walk out, she turns to me with a sigh. Then I hear them: the words that will haunt me forever. Olivia’s voice, small, tender, and full of promise. “Let’s talk on Monday.”

Edition details

• Publisher: Atria Books
• Publication date: 2026
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1668200090
• ISBN 13: 9781668200094
• Binding: Hardcover
• Number of pages: 432