“ This is that rarest of first novels—a truly original voice, and a truly original story.” —Jodi Picoult, New York Times bestselling author The 20th anniversary of this lyrical debut novel is both a love letter to New Orleans and a transcendent exploration of the nature of love and how it transcends all barriers—even death. New Orleans, 1920s. Raziela Nolan is in the throes of a magnificent love affair when she dies in a tragic accident. In an instant, she leaves behind her one true love and her dream of becoming a doctor…but somehow, she still remains. Immediately after her death, Razi chooses to stay between —a realm that exists after life and before whatever lies beyond it. From this remarkable vantage point, Razi narrates the stories of her lost love, Andrew, and the relationship of Amy and Scott, a couple whose house she haunts almost seventy-five years later. The Mercy of Thin Air entwines these two fateful and redemptive love stories that echo across three generations. From ambitious, forward-thinking Razi, who illegally slips birth control guides into library books; to hip web designer Amy, who begins to fall off the edge of grief; to Eugenia, caught between since the Civil War, the characters in this wondrous novel sing with life. Evoking the power of love, memory, and time, The Mercy of Thin Air culminates in a startling finish that will leave you breathless. "Entrancing and ethereal." -- Seattle Post-Intelligencer "This is that rarest of first novels -- a truly original voice, and a truly original story." -- Jodi Picoult, New York Times bestselling author of The Tenth Circle "Through the alchemy of Domingue's rich, lovely prose we are transported back and forth through time." -- The Boston Globe "Filled with vivid descriptions of . . . marvelous human sensations that people take for granted and that spirits can only wistfully recall, this is a novel that gets under one's skin." -- Library Journal (starred review) "Domingue's vision of the shifting, shadowy world of the dead is convincing and surprisingly affecting . . . and stays just the right side of romantic." -- Daily Mail (London) Ronlyn Domingue is the author of The Chronicle of Secret Riven , The Mapmaker’s War , and The Mercy of Thin Air , which was published in ten languages. Her essays and short stories have appeared in several print and online publications, including New England Review , Shambhala Sun , and The Nervous Breakdown . Connect with her on RonlynDomingue.com, Facebook, and Twitter. From Part One The day I die, I glance at Daddy's newspaper before I leave the house. I notice the date, July 10, 1929, and realize it's been almost a month since my graduation from Tulane. No matter what I've done to make these weeks drag wide and full as clouds, they've disappeared in a gust. I walk the tree-shaded blocks in my favorite green sleeveless dress. The heat makes me dewy. I hope my extra swimsuit is at his house because I terribly want a dip. If not, perhaps I should go bare. Andrew's parents are in the Swiss Alps, avoiding mosquitoes and tropical heat, and Emmaline will be away shopping until it's time to cook lunch. My pace quickens. Along St. Charles Avenue, I grin at a college boy who offers a ride in his coupe. His F. Scott hair weeps into his neck from the humidity. He looks familiar, someone who's cut in on me at a dance or two. "Thanks," I reply, "but I'm limbering up for a swim." "Mind if I join you?" he asks. "Not today, sport." As he drives away, I stop in my tracks. Andrew's surprise. The items are still on my dressing table. A sliver of grapefruit curls at the tip of my tongue. Go back home, brush my teeth -- forgot to do that, too -- sneak it out in a little bag. No one will notice, no one will know. No. Maybe. It can wait. I unlock the back gate with a key hidden behind the purple bougainvillea. The back door near the pool is unlocked. I find my swimsuit in one of the bottom drawers of Andrew's bookcase, where he keeps the things I've left behind. The water sips me into the deep where I twirl against its pull. Inside the house, the grandfather clock chimes ten times; then, after several languid laps, once more. It is ten thirty. He is late returning from his tennis match with Warren. I scissor myself to the pool's bottom and watch the ribbons of light knit me among them. When I surface, I crawl out to take a dive. With a shimmy, I wriggle the leg openings and bodice of my suit into place. I am tempted to shed the wool -- Imagine his face if he found me with more than my naked toes pointed at the sky. Wouldn't he -- The words fall with my body. A second, then two, of darkness. The light around me becomes gauzy and bright. Did I dive through my thoughts and into the water? What peace, these first moments under the surface when my swimmer lungs haven't started to burn and I have forgotten that time is moving above. An airy-fairy rush fills m