Greco-Roman mythology and the mystery of the vanished Roanoke colony collide in this epic adventure filled with sapphic longing and female rage—a debut novel for fans of Madeline Miller, Jennifer Saint, and Natalie Haynes. Before, Scopuli. It has been centuries since Thelia made the mistake that cost her the woman she loved—Proserpina, the goddess of spring. As the handmaidens charged with protecting Proserpina when she was kidnapped, Thelia and her sisters are banished to the island of Scopuli and cursed to live as sirens—winged half-woman, half-bird creatures. In luring sailors to their deaths with an irresistible song, the sisters hope to gain favor from the gods who could free them. But then ships stop coming, and Thelia fears a fate worse than the Underworld. Just as time begins to run out, a voice emerges, Proserpina’s voice, and what she asks of Thelia will spark a dangerous quest for their freedom. Now, Roanoke. Thelia can’t bear to reflect on her last moments in Scopuli. After weeks drifting at sea alone, Thelia’s renewed human body—a result of her last devastating sacrifice on Scopuli—is close to death. Luckily, an unfamiliar island appears on the horizon: Roanoke. Posing as a princess arriving on a sailboat filled with riches, Thelia infiltrates the small English colony. It doesn’t take long for her to realize that this place is dangerous, especially for women. As she grows closer to a beautiful settler who mysteriously resembles her former love, Thelia formulates a plan to save her sisters and enact revenge on the violent men she’s come to despise. But is she willing to go back to Scopuli and face the consequences of her past decisions? And will Proserpina forgive her for all that she’s done? Told in alternating timelines, Those Fatal Flowers is a powerful, passionate, and wildly cathartic love letter to femininity and the monstrous power within us all. “A delight, delivering the kind of cathartic and justified female rage I crave . . . Shannon Ives weaves lyrical prose that catches the attention and never lets go.” —Gabriela Romero Lacruz, #1 Sunday Times bestselling author of The Sun and the Void “Ives skillfully blends old and new legends while lovingly crafting a nuanced cast of women characters. The result is perfect for fans of Madeline Miller and Jennifer Saint.” — Publishers Weekly “This lush, visceral debut is a queer form of time travel.” —Eilish Quin, author of Medea Shannon Ives writes from the deep, dark woods of Vermont. She graduated with honors from the University of Iowa with a BA in anthropology and a minor in Latin. Her studies focused on myth, religion, and magic—themes that she continues to explore in her writing. Her work strives to capture the beauty in the grotesque and how traditional power structures perpetuate violence. More often than not, you’ll find her characters behaving badly; they are monsters, after all. Those Fatal Flowers is her debut novel. 1 Now When my eyes crack open, the world is veiled in shadow. It’s a darkness I remember, the same shade as the pit that swallowed Proserpina, and it’s just as cold. After all these years, did the Underworld finally claim me? I brush my lips with trembling fingers and find no coin for passage placed between my teeth. But the relief that swells in my chest at this fact is crushed by the memory of climbing into my small boat. If I’m dead, I died alone. Shapes slowly emerge against that inky blackness: a billowing white fabric, so much like Proserpina’s gowns, with hundreds of tiny lights blinking into existence behind it. My mouth falls open in awe, remembering the sight of her in that pool surrounded by fireflies. But I taste salt on my tongue, and the illusion is shattered. It’s not my long-lost love descending to greet me at the Underworld’s gates. It’s a sail swelling with a fresh gust of wind, and behind it, a blanket of stars. There are some familiar faces in the constellations, although they twinkle down without offering any hope. So I’m still alive. Nothing delights the gods more than a cruel twist of destiny, so the Fates must have been gleeful as they wove and apportioned my life’s thread. A tragedy written across centuries, full of more despair than a single human life can hold. And now Morta’s shears finally tease along its fibers. The old goddess is surely salivating as her sisters press beside her, their shared eye wide with anticipation as they wait for my final, most humiliating moment to reveal itself. That will be when the blades clamp down, when the stars go dark. The moon emerges from behind a veil of clouds, as if Luna’s decided to revel in my plight. She’s already over halfway full again. When I left, she was a sliver in the sky, barely more than a dark void in the heavens, but I’ve been in this boat long enough to watch her swell into a perfect circle and then fall back into shadow once more. One precious full moon lost to the sea, and my second only a little over a we