Rohan, which was quickly put down. In that revolt, he invited England to assist him, which provided them the foothold they’d long been seeking. King Henry VII did invade French soil, landing at Boulogne in the autumn of 1492. King Charles of France quickly repelled the advance, resulting in the signing of the Treaty of Étaples. Those few lines were all my imagination needed to construct the bones of the story and thus be able to get to the part I love best—the human drama that lies at the heart of it all.
Once again, I have taken the greatest liberties with the timing of events and the d’Albret family, shamelessly manipulating both to serve the needs of the narrative.
Throughout the centuries, religious orders and houses sanctioned by the Catholic Church have come and gone, some lost to indifference or dying out, and others actively persecuted by the Church itself. It has also been a longstanding prerogative of kings and queens to establish military or religious orders to defend their interests and maintain the standards of chivalry within their kingdom. I like to believe that, over time, the Nine managed to weave their way into the larger tapestry of the Church’s hagiography and remain with us today under different names that are, if we squint back through the lens of time, faintly recognizable.
It is often said that history is written by the victor and it is clear that for centuries women’s stories have been excluded from the annals of history—their contributions diminished, overlooked, or erased altogether. That is one of the joys of writing historical fantasy—getting to reimagine the past with women at the center of their own stories. After being forced to be silent for so long, I feel certain that some of them would, indeed, like to burn it all.
Acknowledgments
Once again, I find myself reaching the end of a book only by the grace and support of dozens of patron saints along the way. First among these is my editor, Kate O’Sullivan, the perennial shepherdess, guiding me ever closer to a book I’ll be proud of.
My agent, Erin Murphy, has been unwavering in her support, not just for this book, but for all my books.
I hold deep gratitude for the entire team at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, who continue to amaze me with their skill, professionalism, and passion. I am incredibly lucky to be the recipient of the talents of Mary Magrisso, Ana Deboo, Erika West, Mary Hurley, Margaret Rosewitz, Emily Andrukaitis, and Ellen Fast.
Special thanks to Whitney Leader-Picone and Billelis, who have outdone themselves again, encompassing the theme of this book with yet another stunning visual.
And, of course, no one would even know about the book if not for the talent and support of John Sellers, Nadia Almahdi, Lisa DiSarro, Amanda Acevedo, Matt Schweitzer, Colleen Murphy, Ed Spade, and their entire sales team.
Thank you also to my poor, long-suffering family, who, once again, were understanding and cheerfully supportive as I disappeared into an alternate world that consumed me wholly until I hit “The End.”
Since this book ended up having a lot to do with fathers, a special thank-you goes out to my own—for being there for his family in so many ways and for loving me unconditionally, even when I shocked him by writing about assassin nuns.
But, most of all, I owe the biggest thanks to you, dear readers, those who have embraced my assassin nuns and their world and let me know it in so very many ways. I appreciate all that you have done: reading, handselling, putting the books into the hands of your students, emailing, DMing, tweeting, Bookstagramming, blogging, reviewing, rating, and YouTubing. Thank you so much for allowing my books into your life for a short while. My hope is that they have made it richer in some small way. I know you have made my life richer by far.
Chapter One
Brittany 1485
I bear a deep red stain that runs from my left shoulder down to my right hip, a trail left by the herbwitch’s poison that my mother used to try to expel me from her womb. That I survived, according to the herbwitch, is no miracle but a sign I have been sired by the god of death himself.
I am told my father flew into a rage and raised his hand to my mother even as she lay weak and bleeding on the birthing bed. Until the herbwitch pointed out to him that if my mother had lain with the god of death, surely