A teen girl's dream job aboard a luxury train derails when she discovers the strange cargo being transported—a mysterious and beautiful greenhouse—but its flowering façade may hide deadly thorns beneath, in this atmospheric and lush novel from the author of Those We Drown . When Lara Williams gets a summer job aboard the luxury train the Banebury , she thinks she’s landed a five-star escape from her past. Even after she learns that her ex-friend Rhys, who she definitely did not have feelings for before their relationship imploded, is one of her coworkers, she’s determined to make things work. But on the first day of their journey, the trip takes a strange turn. Two mysterious carriages filled with an array of beautiful and rare plants are attached to the Banebury in the middle of the night. And with them comes a pair of siblings. Wealthy, mysterious, and charismatic, Gwen and Gwydion claim the plants they’re transporting are for research, but Lara can’t shake the feeling that there’s something . . . otherworldly about the strange blooms. Something that will stop at nothing to ensure the Banebury never reaches its destination. Soon Lara will learn: You can’t outrun your troubles. You have to grab them by their roots. And if she can’t unearth the secrets of the Banebury, they might drag her down for good. . . . ★ "Goldsmith deftly braids folklore, supernatural horror, and romantic suspense into a layered novel that confronts emotional abuse ." — Publishers Weekly , starred review "This engaging, well-paced novel explores horrors both supernatural and very much of this world. Dark, page-turning, folkloric horror ." — Kirkus Reviews "Goldsmith cultivates a fierce, frightening fantasy. ... Predatory Natures grafts itself into the flourishing genre of botanical horror, joining the ranks of Krystal Sutherland’s House of Hollow (2021) and Andrea Hannah’s Where Darkness Blooms (2023)." — Booklist " A ­solid work of atmospheric botanical ­horror." — School Library Journal Amy Goldsmith grew up on the south coast of England, obsessed with obscure 70s horror movies and antiquarian ghost stories. She studied Psychology at the University of Sussex and, after gaining her Postgraduate Certificate in Education, moved to inner London to teach. Now, she lives back on the south coast where she still teaches English and spends her weekends trawling antiques shops for haunted mirrors. She is the author of Those We Drown, Our Wicked Histories and Predatory Natures . 1 An early spring breeze stirs the delicate buds on the trees as I gaze out over the ancient walled city of Carcassonne, deep in the south of France. Adjusting the vintage sunglasses I picked up in Milan last week, I take a final sip of my chocolat chaud before heading back to the bustling market where Vincent is waiting for me, all floppy French hair and-- “Attention all passengers. The Banebury will soon be arriving on platform thirteen.” The announcement crashes into my dream. I flip my glossy magazine shut with a grin and shove it into my backpack. The article I was reading is titled “Secret Escapes”--which is fitting--and soon that will be me, lapping up the scenery as I make my way across Europe. My phone’s already bookmarked with historic sites I’m dy-ing to see and directions to all the best beaches. Clicking my phone to selfie mode, I force a smile and shake back my curls, appraising myself. I got this. Lara Williams, reinvented. Lara Born Anew. My fresh start (Lara’s Version). I’m friendly, professional . . . relaxed. If I say it enough times, who knows, maybe I’ll start be-lieving it. Picking up my Frappuccino, I tug my case toward the platform, weaving between hordes of distracted commuters. I’m expecting the Banebury to be grand; after all, it’s five-star luxury accommodation. But though I’ve checked out the glossy photos on the website countless times, I audibly gasp as the train slides into Cardiff Central station. I mean, okay, I knew it wasn’t going to be anything like the crappy commuter train I used to take to school, all crazy ’80s prints on the seats and perfumed with stale piss, but this . . . this is an entirely different beast. It glides effortlessly along the platform like some magnificent stallion, its sleek black paintwork glistening, its windowpanes glittering like diamonds in the February sun. And for a moment, I think I must have got it wrong, that this is an entire echelon above the train someone like me is due to work on, but no, there’s the name, painted on the side of the carriages in glorious golden, looping letters: The Banebury Through the windows, I spy plush crimson seating, acres of polished wood, and delicate crystal light fittings. This is some fancy shit. I’m early--I always am--wanting to scope out my surroundings and the people I’ll be working with in advance. As the train finally stills, I wait to see if anyone disembarks, but the doors remain stubbornly closed, with no sign of any passen