The national bestselling "fine folklorist and gifted narrator"( Publishers Weekly ) of the Sevenwaters novels conjures a new sweeping romantic fantasy. Anluan has been crippled since childhood, part of a curse that has besieged his family and his home of Whistling Tor. But when the young scribe Caitrin is retained to sort through family documents, she brings about unexpected changes in the household, casting a hopeful light against the despairing shadows. But to truly free Anluan's burdened soul, Caitrin must unravel the web of sorcery woven by his ancestors before it claims his life-and their love... Set in Ireland during the twelfth-century Norman invasion, Marillier’s outstanding fantasy is a Beauty and the Beast tale with gothic sensibilities. Fleeing an abusive suitor, Caitrin arrives in Whistling Tor penniless and uncertain of her future. She becomes a scribe for the chieftain Anluan, who lives in a neglected hilltop fortress, but the job has perils rivaling her own. Mercurial and physically crippled, Anluan is beset by revenants, thanks to an ancestral curse. Those otherworldly forces wish only rest, but a whispering voice drives them to violence whenever Anluan leaves the hill. Caitrin believes that the secret to breaking the curse lies in the family records. Though her presence brings much needed hope and love to Anluan, it also puts them in danger. Caitrin and Anluan are a dynamic couple. No longer willing to be passive victims, they struggle to overcome the past and make their destinies. Though the folkloric structure and gothic tropes are predictable, and the pacing occasionally lags, in Marillier’s capable hands, this is a rousing supernatural mystery and a satisfying romance. --Krista Hutley Juliet Marillier was born in Dunedin, New Zealand, a town with strong Scottish roots. She graduated from the University of Otago with degrees in languages and music, and has had a varied career that includes teaching and performing music as well as working in government agencies. Juliet now lives in a hundred-year-old cottage near the river in Perth, Western Australia, where she writes full-time. She is a member of the druid order OBOD. Juliet shares her home with two dogs and a cat. Juliet's historical fantasy novels are published internationally and have won a number of awards. At a place where two tracks met, the carter brought his horse to a sudden halt. "This is where you get down," he said. Dusk was falling, and mist was closing in over a landscape curiously devoid of features. Apart from low clumps of grass, all I could see nearby was an ancient marker stone whose inscription was obscured by a coat of creeping mosses. Every part of me ached with weariness. "This is not even a settlement!" I protested. "It's—it's nowhere!" "This is as far west as your money takes you," the man said flatly. "Wasn't that the agreement? It's late. I won't linger in these parts after nightfall." I sat frozen. He couldn't really be going to leave me in this godforsaken spot, could he? "You could come on with me." The man's tone had changed. "I've got a roof, supper, a comfortable bed. For a pretty little thing like you, there's other ways of paying." He set a heavy hand on my shoulder, making me shrink away, my heart hammering. I scrambled down from the cart and seized my bag and writing box from the back before the fellow could drive off and leave me with nothing. "Sure you won't change your mind?" he asked, eyeing me up and down as if I were a prime cut of beef. "Quite sure," I said shakily, shocked that I had been too full of my woes to notice that look in his eye earlier, when there were other passengers on the cart. "What is this place? Is there a settlement close by?" "If you can call it that." He jerked his head in the general direction of the marker. "Don't know if you'll find shelter. They've a habit of huddling behind locked doors at night around here, and with good reason. I'm not talking about troops of armed Normans on the road, you understand, but . . . something else. You'd far better come home with me. I'd look after you." I slung my bundle over my shoulder. On the tip of my tongue was the retort he deserved: I'm not so desperate, but I was not quite brave enough to say it. Besides, with only four coppers left and the very real possibility that pursuit was close behind me, I might soon be reduced to accepting offers of this kind or starving. I stooped to examine the weathered stone, keeping a wary eye on the carter. He wouldn't attack me, would he? Out here, I would scream unheard. The stone's inscription read Whistling Tor. An odd name. As I traced the moss-crusted letters, the man drove away without another word. The drum of hoof beats and the creak of wheels diminished to nothing. I took a deep breath and ordered myself to be strong. If there was a sign, there must be a settlement and shelter. I headed off along the misty track to Whistling Tor. I had hoped to reach the settlement quite quickly,