In this exciting follow-up to Shimmer and Burn , Faris has given up love to save her sister’s life and the dying kingdom of Avinea, but will her sacrifices be enough to overcome the poisoned magic and villains surrounding her on all sides? The fight is just beginning. Faris has been forced to give up the man she loves for a dangerous but necessary alliance. Her loyalty is bound by magic to his future bride, the villainous Bryn. And her mother’s powerful spell that could be the key to saving Avinea fights with poisoned magic for control of her heart. None of that matters though because everything Faris has done has been for Cadence, the little sister she’s been trying to rescue from the king’s slavery. Now they’re finally reunited, but Cadence has a gut-wrenching confession: she remembers everything from while she was under the king’s enchantment. She wants nothing to do with Faris. Heartbroken, Faris focuses on tracking Merlock, the king who must be killed to stop The Burn, by manipulating her mother’s spell through her dreams. Before long though, Faris realizes these aren’t normal dreams, they might just be real, and they may show her a way to kill Merlock herself. But there are things darker than poison that lie in The Burn, and not even the spell deep in Faris’s chest can stop them. Faris will again be faced with impossible choices. Does she risk everything to save Avinea, even if she might lose North and further betray her sister’s trust? Or does she succumb to the poison inside that begs her to think this time, finally, of herself? "Faris and North keep readers rooting for their success, even when it seems they’ve already failed. With inventive magic mechanics for the fantasy-lover, and complex, relatable protagonists for fans of character-driven dramas, Taranta delivers a story that will steal hearts." -- Booklist ― September 2018 Mary Taranta grew up playacting her favorite stories and writing some of her own in the woods behind her family’s farmhouse. Originally from Ohio, she moved to central Florida at the age of fifteen, where she still remains with her husband, two cats, and library cards in two counties. You can visit Mary online at MaryTaranta.com. Splendor and Spark One A HUNDRED YEARS AGO THE PALACE of new prevast was built for pleasure: four courtyards, an expansive garden with a hedge maze, two ballrooms, a swimming pool, and more than three hundred windows. It once hosted the royal family, a hundred servants, and a revolving guest list for three months out of every twelve. It was a summer home away from the bustle of the capital. An escape. Now it’s a prison. A dozen servants, entire halls of empty rooms, shelves to the ceiling with no books or trinkets to fill them, peeling paint and saltwater decay on the wood and metal fixtures. And a bastard prince who resents every inch of his opulent captivity. It’s suffocating, the way silence and anger ooze through the hallways and fill the ornate cornices of the plastered ceilings. The way they turn every meal into an abrasive symphony of silverware against porcelain, the grating click of teeth against crystal, and the low rumbling interruption of a cleared throat. At least back in the Brim, you could hear music in the dark when you couldn’t sleep; you heard some proof that life existed, at least for somebody else. In the palace all I hear is the ghostly whisper of the sea crashing against the rocks at the mouth of the harbor, haunting and full of loneliness. Which is why almost every night, I escape to the roof, where I can see the stars and New Prevast and be reassured that someone somewhere is still breathing. Tonight my company is the flickering lights that come from the taverns crowded along the span of the Bridge of Ander, which connects the palace grounds to the city proper across the harbor. In daylight the wilting buildings are shuttered up tight, while waterbirds sun themselves on the pilings below. At night vice opens its doors for a booming business, and the bridge is flooded with thieves and beggars and drunks. Any waterbirds still roosting become target practice for bottles that shatter against the rocks below. Pieces of colored glass eventually wash up on the black sand beach with the tide, worn smooth by the water. Terrible for holding magic or casting spells, but beautiful for collecting and lining the narrow windowsill of my bedroom on the second floor. I hug my knees to my chest, balancing my chin on top, staring until my vision blurs and New Prevast loses its shape, becoming a generic smear of light and dark. The chill of the wind masks the briny scent of the sea, and for an instant I could be anywhere: the shallows of the Brim, the open fields of Avinea, the abandoned wagon of a traveling magician trying to save the world. But then the window shutters open behind me and I hear the sigh that anchors me here. “Locke,” Captain Chadwick says, frustration warring with relief. I wonder how long