Boggs, Shanta Newlin, Erin Berger (pasta night part deux, right?), Christina Colangelo, Colleen Conway, Caitlin Whalen, and Bri Lockhart. Immense gratitude to Laurel Robinson, Cindy Howle, and the inimitable Anne Heausler for their notes and edits. And a special note of thanks to Kara Brammer and Felicity Vallence for being the mad geniuses you both are.
A huge thank-you to all the amazing book bloggers, readers, and book lovers from all over the world. I cannot do what I do without you.
To Jessica Khoury for the stunning map and the gorgeous emblem. It’s my desktop, and I am in awe of your talent and consummate professionalism.
To Daniel José Older for the New Orleans expertise, the notes, and endless support. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
To Alwyn for your precious emails and your enthusiasm and all the help perfecting my sad attempts at French. You are a delight and one of the most genuinely kind people I know. I adore you.
To Rosh, JJ, and Lemon: when I think of all the memories we’ve already made, I smile at everything destined to come. Thank you for gracing me with your love and endless talent.
To Sabaa for cheering with me, crying with me, reading with me, and inspiring me every day. And for watching The Two Towers Extended Edition and knowing every line by heart, just like me. Your friendship is a gift beyond measure.
To Gio Mannucci for all the help with the Italian. I love how this career has reconnected us in such a wonderful way.
To Carrie Ryan and Brendan Reichs for all the Cantina lunches, advice, and laughter. QC represent!
To my assistant Emily Williams: thank you for being the most organized person I know and keeping me—and my hare-brained ideas!—on track.
To Maggie Kane, Heather Baror-Shapiro, and the wonderful team at IGLA: thank you for all your endless work and unceasing professionalism.
To Elaine: I am so lucky to have a chosen sister like you. Thank you for fixing all the Spanish in the book and sending me curse-laden text messages at 3:00 a.m. and for loving New Orleans like I do. There is no one I’d rather gallivant down Dumaine with, searching for a tarot card reader or our next foodie fix.
To Erica, Ian, Chris, and Izzy: I love you all so much, and am so grateful to call you family. To my parents—Umma, Dad, Mama Joon, and Baba Joon—thank you for all your love and for always putting my books where everyone can see them, front-facing in bookstores.
To Omid, Julie, Navid, Jinda, Evelyn, Isabelle, Andrew, Ella, and Lily: thank you for our family and for all the times you never fail to show up and cheer for me. I’m so proud to share in this life with you.
And to Vic: for the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention, and for the way you make me smile even when you’re not there, thank you, to the stars and back. There is no better man than you.
TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCERPT OF RENÉE AHDIEH’S FLAME IN THE MIST
The Beginning
In the beginning, there were two suns and two moons.
The boy’s sight blurred before him, seeing past the truth. Past the shame. He focused on the story his uba had told him the night before. A story of good and evil, light and dark. A story where the triumphant sun rose high above its enemies.
On instinct, his fingers reached for the calloused warmth of his uba’s hand. The nursemaid from Kisun had been with him since before he could remember, but now—like everything else—she was gone.
Now there was no one left.
Against his will, the boy’s vision cleared, locking on the clear blue of the noon sky above. His fingers curled around the stiff linen of his shirtsleeves.
Don’t look away. If they see you looking away, they will say you are weak.
Once more, his uba’s words echoed in his ears.
He lowered his gaze.
The courtyard before him was draped in fluttering white, surrounded on three sides by rice-paper screens. Pennants flying the golden crest of the emperor danced in a passing breeze. To the left and right stood grim-faced onlookers—samurai dressed in the dark silks of their formal hakama.
In the center of the courtyard was the boy’s father, kneeling on a small tatami mat covered in bleached canvas. He, too, was draped in white, his features etched in stone. Before him sat a low table with a short blade. At his side stood the man who had once been his