2008, ISBN: 9780307381750

edizione con copertina rigida

Vintage Books. Good. 5.08 x 1.62 x 7.79 inches. Paperback. 2006. 618 pages. Cover worn <br>What is it to be human? This question, as in Birdsong, is at the heart of Human Traces. … Altro …

Vintage Books. Good. 5.08 x 1.62 x 7.79 inches. Paperback. 2006. 618 pages. Cover worn <br>What is it to be human? This question, as in Birdsong, is at the heart of Human Traces. The story begin s in Brittany where a young, poor boy somehow passes his medical exams and goes to Paris, where he attends the lectures of Charcot , the Parisian neurologist who set the world on its head in the 1 870s. With a friend, he sets up a clinic in the mysterious mounta in district of Carinthia in south-east Austria. If The Girl at t he Lion d'Or was a simple three-movement symphony, Birdsong an op era, Charlotte Gray a complex four-movement symphony and On Green Dolphin Street a concerto, then Human Traces is a Wagnerian gran d opera. From the Hardcover edition. Editorial Reviews Review Faulks is beyond doubt a master. -Financial Times One of the mos t impressive novelists of his generation. -Sunday Telegraph From the Hardcover edition. About the Author Sebastian Faulks is bes t known for his French trilogy, The Girl at the Lion d'Or, Birdso ng and Charlotte Gray. He has also worked extensively as a journa list. From the Hardcover edition. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permi ssion. All rights reserved. I An evening mist, salted by the wes tern sea, was gathering on the low hills - reed-spattered rises r unning up from the rocks then back into the gorse- and bracken-co vered country - and on to the roads that joined the villages, whe re lamps and candles flickered behind the shutters of the grey st one houses. It was poor country - so poor, remarked the Curé, who had recently arrived from Angers, that the stones of the shore c alled out for God's mercy. With the mist came sputtering rain, ma de invisible by the extinguished light, as it exploded like flung gravel at the windows, while stronger gusts made the shivering p ine trees shed their needles on the dark, sanded earth. Jacques Rebière listened to the sounds from outside as he looked through the window of his bedroom; for a moment, a dim moon allowed him t o see clouds foaming in the darkness. The weather reminded him, o ften, that it was not just he, at sixteen years old, who was youn g, but all mankind: a species that took infant steps on the drift s and faults of the earth. Between the ends of his dirtied finge rs, Jacques held a small blade which, over the course of several days, he had whetted to surgical sharpness. He pulled a candle cl oser. From downstairs he could hear the sound of his father's voi ce in reluctant negotiation. The house was at the top of a narro w street that ran off the main square of Sainte Agnès. Behind it, the village ended and there were thick woods - Monsieur Rebière' s own property - where Jacques was meant to trap birds and rabbit s and prevent other villagers doing likewise. The garden had an o rchard of pear and apple trees whose fruits were collected and se t to keep in one of the outbuildings. Rebière's was a house of ma ny stores: of sheds with beaten earth underfoot and slatted woode n shelves; of brick-floored cellars with stone bins on which the cobwebs closed the access to the bottles; of barred pantry and la tched larder with shelves of nuts and preserved fruits. The keys were on a ring in the pocket of Rebière's waistcoat. Although bor n no more than sixty years earlier, he was known as 'old Rebière' , perhaps for the arthritic movement of his knees, when he heaved himself up from his chair and straightened the joints beneath hi s breeches. He preferred to do business standing up; it gave the transaction a temporary air, helping to convince the other party that bargaining time was short. Old Rebière was a forester who w orked as the agent for a landowner from Lorient. Over the years h e had done some business on his own account, acquiring some parce ls of land, three cottages that the heirs did not want to keep, s ome fields and woodland. Most of his work was no more than that o f bailiff or rent collector, but he liked to try to negotiate pri vate deals with a view to becoming a businessman in his own right . Born in the year after Waterloo, he had lived under a republic, three kings and an emperor; twice mayor of the local town, he ha d found it made little difference which government was in Paris, since so few edicts devolved from the distant centre to his own B reton world. The parlour of the house had smoke-stained wooden p anelling and a white stone chimneypiece decorated with the carved head of a wild boar. A small fire was smouldering in the grate a s Rebière attempted to conclude his meeting with the notary who h ad come to see him. He never invited guests into his study but pr eferred to speak to them in this public room, as though he might later need witnesses to what had passed between them. His second wife sat in her accustomed chair by the door, sewing and listenin g. Rebière's tactic was to say as little as possible; he had foun d that silence, accompanied by pained inhalation, often induced n ervousness in the other side. His contributions, when they were u navoidable, were delivered in a reluctant murmur, melancholy, ful l of a weariness at a world that had obliged him to agree terms s o self-wounding. 'I am not a peasant,' he told his son. 'I am no t one of those men you see portrayed at the theatre in Paris, who buries his gold in a sock and never buys a bonnet for his wife. I am a businessman who understands the modern world.' From upsta irs, Jacques could still hear his father's business murmur. It wa s true that he was not a peasant, though his parents had been; tr ue too, that he was not the miser of the popular imagination, tho ugh partly because the amount of gold he had to hoard was not gre at enough: forty years of dealing had brought him a modest return , and perhaps, thought Jacques, this was why his father had forbi dden him to study any further. From the age of thirteen, he had b een set to work, looking after the properties, mending roofs and fences, clearing trees while his father travelled to Quimper and Vannes to cultivate new acquaintances. Jacques looked back to hi s table, not wanting to waste the light of the wax candle he had begged from Tante Mathilde in place of the dingy ox-tallow which was all his father would allow him. He took the blade and began, very carefully, to make a shallow incision in the neck of a frog he had pinned, through its splayed feet, to the untreated wood. H e had never attempted the operation before and was anxious not to damage what lay beneath the green skin, moist from the saline in which he had kept it. The frog was on its front, and Jacques's b lade travelled smoothly up over the top of its head and stopped b etween the bulging eyes. He then cut two semicircular flaps to jo in at the nape of the neck and pushed back the pouches of peeled skin, with their pearls of eyes. Beneath his delicate touch he co uld see now that there was little in the way of protection for th e exposed brain. He took out a magnifying glass. What is a frog' s fury? he thought, as he gazed at the tiny thinking organ his kn ife had exposed. It was beautiful. What does it feel for its spaw n or its mate or the flash of water over its skin? The brain of a n amphibian is a poor thing, the Curé had warned him; he promised that soon he would acquire the head of a cow from the slaughterh ouse, and then they would have a more instructive time. Yet Jacqu es was happy with his frog's brain. From the side of the table he took two copper wires attached at the other end to a brass rod t hat ran through a cork which was in turn used to seal a glass bot tle coated inside and out with foil. 'Jacques! Jacques! It's tim e for dinner. Come to the table!' It was Tante Mathilde's voice; clearly Jacques had not heard the notary depart. He set down the electrodes and blew out the candle, then crossed the landing to the top of the almost-vertical wooden staircase and groped his wa y down by the familiar indentations of the plaster wall. His gran dmother came into the parlour carrying a tureen of soup, which sh e placed on the table. Rebière and his wife, known to Jacques as Tante Mathilde, were already sitting down. Rebière drummed his kn ife impatiently on the wood while Grandmère ladled the soup out w ith her shaking hand. 'Take a bowl out to . . .' Rebière jerked his head in the direction of the door. 'Wait,' said Grand-mère. 'There's some rabbit, too.' Rebière rolled his eyes with impatie nce as the old woman went out to the scullery again and returned with a second bowl that she handed to Jacques. He carried both di shes carefully to the door and took a lantern to light his way ou t into the darkness, watching his feet on the shiny cobbles of th e yard. At the stable, he set down the food and pulled back the t op half of the door; he peered in by the light of the flame and f elt his nostrils fill with a familiar sensation. 'Olivier? Are y ou there? I've brought dinner. There's no bread again, but there' s soup and some rabbit. Olivier?' There was a sudden noise from the horse, like the rumbling clatter of a laden table being overt urned, as she shifted in the stall. 'Olivier? Please. It's raini ng. Where are you?' Wary of the horse, who lashed out with her h ind legs if frightened, Jacques freed the bolt of the door himsel f and made his way into the ripe darkness of the stable. Sitting with his back to the wall, his legs spread wide apart on the dun g-strewn ground, was his brother. 'I've brought your dinner. How are you?' Jacques squatted down next to him. Olivier stared st raight ahead, as though unaware that anyone was there. Jacques to ok his brother's hand and wrapped the fingers round the edge of t he soup bowl, noticing what could be smears of excrement on the n ails. Olivier moved his head from side to side, thrusting it back hard against the stable wall. He muttered something Jacques coul d not make out and began to scrape at his inner forearm as if try ing to rid himself of a bothersome insect. Jacques took a spoonf ul of the soup and held it up to Olivier's face. Gently, he prise d open his lips and pushed the metal inwards. It was too dark to see how much went into his mouth and how much trickled down his t angled beard. 'They want me to come, they keep telling me. But w hy should I go, when they know everything already?' 'Who, Olivie r? Who does?' Their eyes met. Jacques felt himself summed up and dismissed from Olivier's mental presence. 'Are you cold? Do you want more blankets?' Olivier became earnest.'Yes, yes, that's i t, you've got to keep warm, you've to wrap up now the winter's co ming. Look. Look at this.' He held up the frayed horse blanket be neath which he slept and examined it closely, as though he had no t seen it before or had suddenly been struck by its workmanship. Then his vigour was quenched again and his gaze became still. J acques took his hand. 'Listen, Olivier. It's nearly a year now th at you've been in here. Do you think you could try again? Why don 't you come out for a few minutes? I could help.' 'They don't wa nt me.' 'You always say that. But perhaps they'd be happy to hav e you back in the house.' 'They won't let me go.' Jacques nodde d. Olivier was clearly talking of a different 'they', and he was too frightened to contradict or to press him. He had been a child when Olivier, four years the older, started to drift away from h is family; it began when, previously a lively and sociable youth, he took to passing the evenings alone in his room studying the B ible and drawing up a chart of 'astral influences'. Jacques was f ascinated by the diagrams, which Olivier had done in his clever d raughtsman's hand, using pens he had taken from the hôtel de vill e, where he worked as a clerk. Jacques's experiences had usually come to him first through the descriptions of Olivier, who natur ally anticipated all of them. Mathematics at school were a jumble of pointless signs, he said, that made you want to cry out; bein g beaten by the master's ruler on the knuckles hurt more than bei ng kicked on the shin by the broody mare. Olivier had never been to Paris, but Vannes, he told Jacques, was so huge that you got l ost the moment you let your concentration go; and it was full of women who looked at you in a strange way. When changes came to yo ur body, Olivier said, you noticed nothing, no hairs bursting the skin, no wrench in your voice; the only difference was that you felt urgent, tense, all the time, as though about to leap a strea m or jump from a high rock. Olivier's chart of astral influences therefore looked to Jacques like another early glimpse of a univ ersal human experience granted to him by his elder brother. Olivi er had been right about everything else: in Vannes, Jacques kept himself orientated at all times, like a dog sniffing the wind; he liked mathematics, though he saw what Oliver had meant. He avoid ed the master's beatings. 'Where is God in this plan?' he had sa id, pointing with his finger. 'I see the planets and their influe nce and this character, here, whatever his name is. But in the Bi ble, it says that-' 'God is here, in your head.And here.' Olivie r pointed to the chart. 'But it's a secret.' 'I don't understand ,' said Jacques. 'If this is Earth here, this is Saturn, and here are the rings of Jupiter and this is the body you've discovered, the one that regulates the movements of people, then what are th ese lines here? Are these the souls of the dead going up to Heave n?' 'Those are the rays of influence. They emanate from space, f ar beyond anything we can see. These are what control you.' 'Ray s?' 'Of course. Like rays of light, or invisible waves of sound. The universe is bombarded with them.You can't hear them.You can' t see them.' 'Does everyone know about them? All grown-ups?' 'N o.' 'How do you know about them? Who told you?' 'I have been to ld.' Jacques looked away. Over the weeks, he discovered that Oli vier's system of cosmic laws and influences was invulnerably coge nt; there was in fact something of the weary sage in his manner w hen he answered yet another of Jacques's immature questions about it, while its ability to adapt made it i, Vintage Books, 2006, 2.5, Ebury Press. Good. 5 x 0.82 x 7.6 inches. Paperback. 2004. 301 pages. Cover worn.<br>After an idyllic provincial 70s childho od, the 80s took Andrew Collins to London, art school and the cla ssic student experience. Crimping his hair, casting aside his soc ks and sporting fingerless gloves, he became Andy Kollins purveyo r of awful poetry, disciple of moany music and wannabe political activist. What follows is a universal tale of trainee hedonism, g irl trouble, wasted grants and begging letters to parents. Edit orial Reviews From the Inside Flap After an idyllic 70s childhoo d, the 80s took the author to art school. He crimps his hair, spo rts fingerless gloves, and becomes Andy Kollins purveyor of awful poetry, disciple of moany music, and wannabe political activist. About the Author Andrew Collins began his journalistic career a t the NME and went on to edit Q magazine. He has written for Sele ct, The Observer, GQ, New Statesman and is now Radio Times Film E ditor. He has hosted Radio 4's Back Row, won a Sony Gold award fo r Collins & Maconie's Hit Parade on Radio 1 with Stuart Maconie a nd presents Teatime on BBC 6 Music. He was an EastEnders scriptwr iter and his first sitcom, Grass, co-written with Simon Day, prem iered on BBC in 2003. Author of Still Suitable For Miners, offici al biography of Billy Bragg, and Friends Reunited, he co-wrote an d performed Lloyd Cole Knew My Father on stage and for radio. Ex cerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. ONE The L ong Way ROCKERS ARE GETTING COOL FEET If you want to look like a rock star this summer, fellas, throw your socks away. Most of Du ran Duran seem to favour the sockless look. Even Echo and the Bun nymen's moody Ian McCulloch has chucked away his socks. I was so impressed that I tried it over the weekend and all I can say is t hat it has to be the most uncomfortable fashion yet invented! Jo hn Blake's Bizarre column, The Sun, 28 July 1983 'Dave Griffiths doesn't go out looking like that!' Mum snipes, slamming the cutl ery drawer to underline her point. We're having one of our free and frank exchanges of views, becoming ever more frequent as my n eed for fumbled self-expression increases. I'm on my way out to c ollect Sally for tonight's big party. Why does she always wait un til I'm on my way out to challenge me? Why do all mums do that? I n the old house at Winsford Way you could get from the stairs to the front door without passing the kitchen ('I'm off out, won't b e late, bye!' slam). Not at Kestrel Close. The kitchen's between the stairs and the door, like a sentry box. 'I don't want to loo k like Dave Griffiths,' I protest. Dave Griffiths is my ultra-str aight friend who is leaving sixth form not for university but the RAF. Where's Dad when you need him to arbitrate? He usually drie s as she washes. 'I sometimes wish you were Dave Griffiths,' she shouts. Ah good, she's strayed into fantasy. I give her an eye-r olling look of derision and reach for the door handle. The argume nt is over. I have won the battle, and so, in her mind, has Mum. 'Won't be late, bye!' slam. I was, to be fair to Mum, beginning to put my head above the parapet in fashion terms that year. I w ore my hair increasingly blow-dried and lacquered, in deference t o Ian McCulloch and Robert Smith and other pop peacocks whose aro matic, dark music I'd fallen in love with on Switch or The Tube. Boots on the Market Square did brisk business with their gender-u nspecific green hair gel that year. Black pumps were de rigueur, even when it got too chilly to wear them sensibly sans chausette. October was the reluctant start of the sock season, by which tim e I'd be off. There is something about me in plentiful Truprint photos from the time that suggests I am not content merely to be part of a group that stands out from the crowd. Either my jeans a re rolled higher than everybody else's, or I am wearing my hair s pikier, or the sleeves have been more roughly hacked from my T-sh irt for that Bono soldier-of-fortune effect. And no one else seem s to be wearing fingerless gloves. You couldn't play the drums i n fingerless gloves, more's the pity. The local band I drummed fo r and gigged with had risen from the ashes of a previous band, Ab solute Heroes. We were called, with no hint of embarrassment, Ske tch For Dawn, after a Durutti Column track that bassist Craig and I particularly loved. All four of us in the band backcombed our hair to varying degrees, as did the knot of kids who came to see us play at the Black Lion in town. In fact, only Dave Griffiths s tayed completely square, as if he were perhaps in the pay of my m um. It was a Northampton thing. Provincial, Middle English, subu rban, it was fertile soil for the sombre flowering of a generatio n too young to have experienced punk first-hand and too far away from the nearest city to affect New Romanticism. A tartan cape an d jodhpur ensemble would have got you kicked in down town, and pe rhaps rightly so. It was all right for the actual New Romantics - they lived in London and got taxis. Their look and lifestyle was never going to translate to Northampton. But second-hand overcoa ts, check shirts and cheap hair gel? Bring them on. You needed n othing much to do and nowhere much to go in order to get a fix on this moody new music's A-level-friendly ennui. Minor chords and wailing vocals, it was a custom-made soundtrack for our wannabe d isaffected, misunderstood years. The movement's Beatles and Stone s, The Cure and Echo & the Bunnymen, were in the process of going awkwardly overground in 1983 - fixtures suddenly of Top of the P ops and Smash Hits - but their sartorial influence was, it seems, much more heavily felt outside London. Macs, multiple T-shirts a nd heavy fringes were anything but the uniform of an ostracised c ult in Northampton. They were everywhere, or seemed to be. Though big hair and outdoor slippers were not welcome at the town's onl y notable nightclub, Cinderellas, we successfully colonised selec t pubs and newly minted wine bars and kept our overcoats on, howe ver hot it got. Cinderellas - or Cinderella Rockefellers, to use its full, disagreeably aspirational title - remained off-limits. Until, that is, it opened its doors to the great unsocked by adv ertising its first ever Alternative Night. This meant no door pol icy, and Northampton's raincoat brigade jumped at the chance actu ally to see inside the place. They were playing 'Mad World' by Te ars For Fears- an approved record- as we pushed through about the third set of silver-laminated double-doors, but the mythical Cin derellas was no better than a hotel disco really. And no bigger e ither- once you'd taken into account the ubiquitous mirrored surf aces. It was not a wild success. The dance floor was too keen and obvious and needy, with its pulsing floor and flashing lights an d remained forbiddingly empty for much of the night. On reflectio n, we preferred the dour ambience of the Masonic Hall. Northampt on's more conservative soul boys, who were legion, might have con sidered us avant garde- actually, poofy's more accurate- but desp ite an isolated attack on Richie Ford at a house party after a De ntist Chair gig, violence rarely broke out. If you wore a tie you were, in our parlance, a 'rugby player': you went to Cinderellas and lived out the unfolding Eighties dream of chrome and money; if you wore the ripped-off hem of a T-shirt wrapped round your wr ist as a kind of bangle-cum-bandage, you went to a house party in one of the terraced streets near the Racecourse and feigned exis tential doom. Nobody got hurt. One member of our big-haired circ le, John Lewis, had made a premature break for it at Weston Favel l. Mistaking the relative laissez faire of sixth form for real fr eedom, he turned up to school one morning with his hair intricate ly beaded into plaits, like some Vivienne Westwood clone out of T he Face. He looked a bit silly- he looked bloody stupid - but the rest of us would have defended to the death his right to do so. He was promptly sent home by Mr Cole to reconsider his position. I now realise that what we were doing that summer was pretending to be students. Which, apart from Squadron Leader Griffiths, is what most of us were about to be. If by throwing away our socks w e were trying to look like rock stars, then it was the type of ro ck star who looked like a student! Why? Because student life, wit h all its imagined freedoms and possibilities and subsidy, is as aspirational to fifth- and sixth-formers as Cinderellas is to rug by players. It meant leaving home, wearing second-hand clothes an d attempting to become an interesting but sensitive individual - another Eighties dream for some of us. The Metro is neatly parke d outside and Sally and I quietly decorate the dark shallows of t he Masonic Hall. I don't know if it's the weight of expectation, but tonight it's just not working. Too many interchangeable sixth -form parties have been held here, each with the same, almost Mas onic codes and practices, the same cliques and sarcastic catchphr ases, the same dash for the dance floor when 'our' music comes on . The evening seems destined to be fogged with the same mood of a nticlimax as the informal buffet. Celebration brought down with t he anxiety of major change. A tyre exploded in Bert Tilsley's fa ce on Coronation Street tonight. He might die. But nobody's talki ng about it- we're too cool for that. The talk is of Ian McCulloc h on Top of the Pops and Richie Ford getting beaten up for trying to look a bit like Ian McCulloch. I might have been at that ill- fated house party if me and Sally hadn't been babysitting my sist er. I might have had my head kicked in. I lean towards Sally as ' Billie Jean' starts to fade out. 'You OK? Let me know when you w ant to make a move,' I ask in the quiet voice reserved for talkin g to your girlfriend amid a larger group. Of late, it's increasi ngly me who wants to make a move, and Sally who wants to stay. T he sixth form marked the start of what we view as 'serious relati onships'- Craig went out with Jo, I went out with Jo, Neil went o ut with Liz, Mick went out with Lynsey, Craig went out with Lynse y, Craig went out with Jo's sister, I went out with Jo's sister, Pete always looked like he'd go out with Het but never actually d id. We've grown used to couples becoming the prime unit within ou r gang. That's cool, as long as they don't interfere with our cat chphrases. We drink cider or Fosters or Britvic for the drivers a nd dance to whatever approved records the DJ has. Tonight's bash is called the Hello Goodbye Party, in that it sees off one year of maroon blazers and welcomes another. I'm ready to say goodbye. Sally wants to say hello for a bit longer. Our conversation is curtailed when we hear the frenetic opening guitar on 'The Back o f Love'. Our siren call, we all rise reflexively and head to the floor for the allotted three minutes of elbows-out raincoat danci ng. It ends with that sustained chord. We repair to the edges of the hall. It's back to Shalamar. I return to pretending I'm havi ng a good time and manage to sustain it for another half-hour bef ore subtly renewing my theme. 'Ready to go?' My Great Escape mo od is hardly alleviated by the fact that it seems I'm the only on e who's spotted a couple of blokes from the gang who reportedly j umped Richie. They're not in the sixth form, nor are they about t o be (it is, after all, for poofs), but they got in to the party somehow, skulking in their white shirts and Sta-Prest trousers. M y desire to go is heightened. 'Why do you want to go so early?' Sally looks at me slightly pityingly. 'It's your party.' I retur n to my previous tactic, made a little more nervous by the scent of imminent violence. Eventually Sally will give in and I'll dri ve us both home 'the long way' in Mum's Metro - putting the clock back to nought to conceal the extra miles. A detour for snatched , self-educating sex, seats reclined on an unlit lane near Billin g Aquadrome in sniffing distance of the sewage farm. Meanwhile, u ntil then, the party grinds informally on, unapproved records boo ming out in the main hall as we suck our drinks to make them last . 'Shall we go?' 'OK.' While today is supposed to be the first day of the rest of my life, tomorrow is the first day of the res t of Sally's. She turns sixteen. Which means that after seven mon ths of going out- four of those taking 'the long way'- she'll be legal. She's been a tender but mature fifteen, so mature in fact that we never really considered what we were doing on a fairly re gular basis as illegal. I was simply her biggest thrill, and she was mine. We first got off with each other at the fag end of a h ouse party at the end of 1982. I had no reason to believe that th e girl underneath me on the floor of Alan's flat would turn out t o be my first proper girlfriend. Sally seemed, on the face of it, to be like the others: a doll-eyed, big-skirted schoolgirl with whom I could wetly snog and fitfully grope until we tired of writ ing each other's initials on our exercise books. And our relation ship was textbook term-time training-bra love, the kind I'd grown to know. Barely thought through, it was in truth more that we ha d the right look and listened to the same music than any real kis met. But the weeks went by. And the months. Sally and I started m arking anniversaries. It was a sweet-natured, well-meant, mutuall y rewarding, highly decorative relationship, the first for both o f us with any staying power, and certainly our first with anythin g even approaching sex. Trading Young Ones catchphrases and Bauh aus lyrics like a couple of boys and sharing a penchant for big h air and espadrilles and latterly, each other's bones, Sally and I were working out fine; 1983 had our name on it. We were a founda tion course in young love. Then comfort set in. Comfort and conf ormity. I hadn't expected staying in to become so attractive so s oon in my life, having spent most of puberty trying to get out, b ut romantic security- and a warm body on tap- tend to keep you in doors. This is the great irony of teenage love: when you're singl e you go out in order to find somebody to go out with and then, w hen you have, you stay in with them. So take away the homework, the curfew and the fact that sex could only last as long as we da red and it was like a marriage. SCENES FRO, Ebury Press, 2004, 2.5, Crown. Good. 6.42 x 1.49 x 9.53 inches. Hardcover. 2008. 400 pages. Ex-library.<br>In ancient Egypt, a forgotten princess must overcome her family's past and remake history. The winds of change are blowing through Thebes. A devastating palace fire has killed the Eighteenth Dynasty's royal family-all with the except ion of Nefertari, the niece of the reviled former queen, Nefertit i. The girl's deceased family has been branded as heretical, and no one in Egypt will speak their names. A relic of a previous rei gn, Nefertari is pushed aside, an unimportant princess left to ru n wild in the palace. But this changes when she is taken under th e wing of the Pharaoh's aunt, then brought to the Temple of Hatho r, where she is educated in a manner befitting a future queen. S oon Nefertari catches the eye of the Crown Prince, and despite he r family's history, they fall in love and wish to marry. Yet all of Egypt opposes this union between the rising star of a new dyna sty and the fading star of an old, heretical one. While political adversity sets the country on edge, Nefertari becomes the wife o f Ramesses the Great. Destined to be the most powerful Pharaoh in Egypt, he is also the man who must confront the most famous exod us in history. Sweeping in scope and meticulous in detail, The H eretic Queen is a novel of passion and power, heartbreak and rede mption. Editorial Reviews From Publishers Weekly The intricacie s of the ancient Egyptian court are brought to life in Moran's fa scinating tale of a princess's rise to power. Nefertari, niece of the famed heretic queen Nefertiti, becomes part of the court of Pharaoh Seti I after her family is deposed, and she befriends Ram esses II, the young crown prince. When Ramesses is made co-monarc h, he weds Iset, the granddaughter of a harem girl backed by Seti 's conniving sister, Henuttawy, the priestess of Isis. As Neferta ri's position in the court becomes tenuous, she realizes that she , too, wants to marry Ramesses and enlists the help of Seti's oth er sister, Woserit. But when Nefertari succeeds in wedding Ramess es, power struggles and court intrigues threaten her security, an d it is questionable whether the Egyptian people will accept a he retic descendant as their ruler or if civil war will erupt. Moran (Nefertiti) brings her characters to life, especially Nefertari, who helped Ramesses II become one of the most famous of Egyptian pharaohs. Nefertari's struggles to be accepted as a ruler loved as a leader and to secure her family's position throughout eterni ty are sure to appeal to fans of historical fiction. (Sept.) Cop yright ® Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier I nc. All rights reserved. From Booklist Moran, author of Nefertit i (2007), continues to plow the fertile terrain of ancient Egypt to produce evocative historical fiction. Nefertari, niece of the infamous Queen Nefertiti, is the only member of her reviled and d eposed dynasty to survive a devastating fire. When young Nefertar i falls in love with Ramesses, heir to the Egyptian throne, the s parks really begin to fly. Though many are opposed to the union, the young lovers defy the court of public opinion and marry, sett ing the fervent tone that will characterize their royal union thr ough years of war, rebellion, and exodus. Set against a colorful backdrop of court intrigue, jealous rivalries, and internal and e xternal power struggles, this authentically detailed slice of Egy ptaniawill appeal to fans of Christian Jacq's Ramses series. --Ma rgaret Flanagan Review Nefertari tells her story simply, humbly, and in a clear voice that will attract readers. -Romantic Times Moran's careful attention to detail and her artful storytelling skills bring these people to vivid life, imbuing ancient history with suspense and urgency. -Boston Globe Performing deft feats o f Egyptian magic, Michelle Moran transforms stone-cold history-fr om-hieroglyphs into gripping narrative, peopled by unforgettable characters seething with conflict and passion. I couldn't stop re ading, but I didn't want this book to end. -Robin Maxwell, author of Mademoiselle Boleyn Michelle Moran breathes new life into th e faded paintings on tomb walls, bringing Ramesses, Nefertari, an d the whole panoply of ancient Egyptian splendor to vivid, bustli ng, page-turning life. -Lauren Willig, author of The Secret Hist ory of the Pink Carnation Authentic, captivating, and beautifull y rendered, Michelle Moran's The Heretic Queen brings to vivid li fe the ancient courts and distant vistas of New Kingdom Egypt. A fascinating read. -Susan Fraser King, author of Lady Macbeth Th e Heretic Queen is a real page-turner! A heady, ancient Egyptian brew of magic and mystery; history, murder, and palace intrigue a s well as romance. I read this enthralling novel in one sitting. -India Edghill, author of Wisdom's Daughter A marvelous read. M oran renders the arcane Egypt of hieroglyphs and foundering monum ents into a breathing world whose characters we care deeply about . I read it in a trice and wished there was more. -Erika Mailman , author of The Witch's Trinity The Heretic Queen is historical fiction at its best. Michelle Moran seamlessly incorporates accur ate details into a story full of suspense, intrigue, and tenderne ss that's impossible to put down until you've reached the last pa ge. An absolute triumph! -Tasha Alexander, author of A Fatal Wal tz About the Author MICHELLE MORAN is the author of the national bestselling novel Nefertiti. She lives in California with her hu sband and a garden of more than two hundred roses. Excerpt. ® Re printed by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Pharaoh of Upper Egypt Thebes, 1283 bc Stay still, Paser admonished fir mly. Although Paser was my tutor and couldn't tell a princess wha t to do, there would be extra lines to copy if I didn't obey. I s topped shifting in my beaded dress and stood obediently with the other children of Pharaoh Seti's harem. But at thirteen years old , I was always impatient. Besides, all I could see was the gilded belt of the woman in front of me. Heavy sweat stained her white linen, trickling down her neck from beneath her wig. As soon as R amesses passed in the royal procession, the court would be able t o escape the heat and follow him into the cool shade of the templ e. But the procession was moving terribly slow. I looked up at Pa ser, who was searching for an open path to the front of the crowd . Will Ramesses stop studying with us now that he's to become co regent? I asked. Yes, Paser said distractedly. He took my arm an d pushed our way through the sea of bodies. Make way for the prin cess Nefertari! Make way! Women with children stepped aside until we were standing at the very edge of the roadway. All along the Avenue of Sphinxes, tall pots of incense smoked and burned, filli ng the air with the sacred scent of kyphi that would make this, a bove all days, an auspicious one. The brassy sound of trumpets fi lled the avenue, and Paser pushed me forward. The prince is comin g! I see the prince every day, I said sullenly. Ramesses was the only son of Pharaoh Seti, and now that he had turned seventeen, he would be leaving his childhood behind. There would be no more studying with him in the edduba, or hunting together in the after noons. His coronation held no interest for me then, but when he c ame into view, even I caught my breath. From the wide lapis colla r around his neck to the golden cuffs around his ankles and wrist s, he was covered in jewels. His red hair shone like copper in th e sun, and a heavy sword hung at his waist. Thousands of Egyptian s surged forward to see, and as Ramesses strode past in the proce ssion, I reached forward to tug at his hair. Although Paser inhal ed sharply, Pharaoh Seti laughed, and the entire procession came to a halt. Little Nefertari. Pharaoh patted my head. Little? I puffed out my chest. I'm not little. I was thirteen, and in a mon th I'd be fourteen. Pharaoh Seti chuckled at my obstinacy. Littl e only in stature then, he promised. And where is that determined nurse of yours? Merit? In the palace, preparing for the feast. Well, tell Merit I want to see her in the Great Hall tonight. We must teach her to smile as beautifully as you do. He pinched my cheeks, and the procession continued into the cool recesses of th e temple. Stay close to me, Paser ordered. Why? You've never mi nded where I've gone before. We were swept into the temple with the rest of the court, and at last, the heavy heat of the day was shut out. In the dimly lit corridors a priest dressed in the lon g white robes of Amun guided us swiftly to the inner sanctum. I p ressed my palm against the cool slabs of stone where images of th e gods had been carved and painted. Their faces were frozen in ex pressions of joy, as if they were happy to see that we'd come. B e careful of the paintings, Paser warned sharply. Where are we g oing? To the inner sanctum. The passage widened into a vaulted chamber, and a murmur of surprise passed through the crowd. Grani te columns soared up into the gloom, and the blue tiled roof had been inlaid with silver to imitate the night's glittering sky. On a painted dais, a group of Amun priests were waiting, and I thou ght with sadness that once Ramesses was coregent, he would never be a carefree prince in the marshes again. But there were still t he other children from the edduba, and I searched the crowded roo m for a friend. Asha! I beckoned, and when he saw me with our tu tor, he threaded his way over. As usual, his black hair was bound tightly in a braid; whenever we hunted it trailed behind him lik e a whip. Although his arrow was often the one that brought down the bull, he was never the first to approach the kill, prompting Pharaoh to call him Asha the Cautious. But as Asha was cautious, Ramesses was impulsive. In the hunt, he was always charging ahead , even on the most dangerous roads, and his own father called him Ramesses the Rash. Of course, this was a private joke between th em, and no one but Pharaoh Seti ever called him that. I smiled a greeting at Asha, but the look Paser gave him was not so welcomin g. Why aren't you standing with the prince on the dais? But the ceremony won't begin until the call of the trumpets, Asha explai ned. When Paser sighed, Asha turned to me. What's the matter? Are n't you excited? How can I be excited, I demanded, when Ramesses will spend all his time in the Audience Chamber, and in less tha n a year you'll be leaving for the army? Asha shifted uncomforta bly in his leather pectoral. Actually, if I'm to be a general, he explained, my training must begin this month. The trumpets blare d, and when I opened my mouth to protest, he turned. It's time! T hen his long braid disappeared into the crowd. A great hush fell over the temple, and I looked up at Paser, who avoided my gaze. What is she doing here? someone hissed, and I knew without turnin g that the woman was speaking about me. She'll bring nothing but bad luck on this day. Paser looked down at me, and as the priest s began their hymns to Amun, I pretended not to have heard the wo man's whispers. Instead, I watched as the High Priest Rahotep eme rged from the shadows. A leopard's pelt hung from his shoulders, and as he slowly ascended the dais, the children next to me avert ed their gaze. His face appeared frozen, like a mask that never s tops grinning, and his left eye was still red as a carnelian ston e. Heavy clouds of incense filled the inner sanctum, but Rahotep appeared immune to the smoke. He lifted the hedjet crown in his h ands, and without blinking, placed it on top of Ramesses's golden brow. May the great god Amun embrace Ramesses the Second, for no w he is Pharaoh of Upper Egypt. While the court erupted into wil d cheers, I felt my heart sink. I fanned away the acrid scent of perfume from under women's arms, and children with ivory clappers beat them together in a noise that filled the entire chamber. Se ti, who was now only ruler of Lower Egypt, smiled widely. Then hu ndreds of courtiers began to move, crushing me between their belt ed waists. Come. We're leaving for the palace! Paser shouted. I glanced behind me. What about Asha? He will have to find you la ter. Dignitaries from every kingdom in the world came to the pal ace of Malkata to celebrate Ramesses's coronation. I stood at the entrance to the Great Hall, where the court took its dinner ever y night, and admired the glow of a thousand oil lamps as they cas t their light across the polished tiles. The chamber was filled w ith men and women dressed in their finest kilts and beaded gowns. Have you ever seen so many people? I turned. Asha! I exclaimed . Where have you been? My father wanted me in the stables to pre pare- For your time in the military? I crossed my arms, and when Asha saw that I was truly upset, he smiled disarmingly. But I'm here with you now. He took my arm and led me into the hall. Have you seen the emissaries who have arrived? I'll bet you could spe ak with any one of them. I can't speak Shasu, I said, to be cont rary. But every other language! You could be a vizier if you wer en't a girl. He glanced across the hall and pointed. Look! I fol lowed his gaze to Pharaoh Seti and Queen Tuya on the royal dais. The queen never went anywhere without Adjo, and the black-and-whi te dog rested his tapered head on her lap. Although her iwiw had been bred for hunting hare in the marshes, the farthest he ever w alked was from his feathered cushion to his water bowl. Now that Ramesses was Pharaoh of Upper Egypt, a third throne had been plac ed next to his mother. So Ramesses will be seated off with his p arents, I said glumly. He had always eaten with me beneath the da is, at the long table filled with the most important members of t he court. And now that his chair had been removed, I could see th at my own had been placed next to Woserit, the High Priestess of Hathor. Asha saw this as well and shook his head. It's too bad y ou can't sit with me. What will you ever talk about with Woserit? Nothing, I suspect. At least they've placed you across from He nuttawy. Do you think she might speak with you now? All of Thebe s was fascinated with Henuttawy, not because she was one of Phara oh Seti's two younger sisters, but because there was no one in Eg ypt with such mesmerizing beauty. Her lips were carefully painted to match the red robes of the goddess Isis, and only the High Pr iestess was allowed to wear that vivid color. As a child of seven I had been fascinated by th, Crown, 2008, 2.5<

2009, ISBN: 9780307381750

edizione con copertina rigida

Definitions. Very Good. 5.08 x 0.79 x 7.8 inches. Paperback. 2009. 326 pages. <br>Intriguing and captivating.-Celia Rees, author of Witch Child WRONGED. HANGED. ALIVE? (AND TRUE!)… Altro …

Definitions. Very Good. 5.08 x 0.79 x 7.8 inches. Paperback. 2009. 326 pages. <br>Intriguing and captivating.-Celia Rees, author of Witch Child WRONGED. HANGED. ALIVE? (AND TRUE!) Anne can't move a muscle, can't open her eyes, can't scream. She lies immobile in the darkness, unsure if she'd dead, terrified she's buried alive , haunted by her final memory-of being hanged. A maidservant fals ely accused of infanticide in 1650 England and sent to the scaffo ld, Anne Green is trapped with her racing thoughts, her burning n eed to revisit the events-and the man-that led her to the gallows . Meanwhile, a shy 18-year-old medical student attends his first dissection and notices something strange as the doctors prepare their tools . . . Did her eyelids just flutter? Could this corpse be alive? Beautifully written, impossible to put down, and meti culously researched, Newes from the Dead is based on the true sto ry of the real Anne Green, a servant who survived a hanging to aw aken on the dissection table. Newes from the Dead concludes with scans of the original 1651 document that recounts this chilling m edical phenomenon. Newes from the Dead is a 2009 Bank Street - B est Children's Book of the Year. Editorial Reviews From School Library Journal Grade 8 Up--A grabber of a premise: It's England, 1650, and as the dissection of an ill-fated 22-year-old servant woman newly unstrung from the gallows begins, the participants de tect the cadaver's eyes flickering. Hooper alternates perspective from Anne (the not-actually-dead corpse), who flashes back to ex plain how she ended up there, to that of a young intellectual att endee of the dissection, a sympathetic stutterer named Robert. An ne's story, rife with gruesome scenes of Puritan-era life (e.g., a rat-infested prison, a bloody miscarriage in a dirty privy) tru mps Robert's drier account of the discourse among various disting uished intellectuals of the day, unless readers are well versed i n the period's historical details (e.g., when Christopher Wren is teased for his poor poetry). The resulting back-and-forth of the two narrators makes for a poorly paced read, but the pervasive s ense of injustice and indignity is vibrant enough to buoy readers through to the unexpectedly positive ending. Loosely based on a true story--hence the title, taken from broadsides published at t he time--with a decidedly unromantic view of the era, this is a m ust-read for teens learning about Cromwell and the Puritan revolu tion, or for young feminists who appreciate narratives about the treatment of women in history.--Rhona Campbell, Washington, DC Pu blic Library Copyright Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title. Excerpt. Re printed by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One It is v ery dark when I wake. This isn't frightening in itself, because m ost of the year I rise in darkness, Sir Thomas insisting that as much of the house as possible be put in order before any of the f amily is about. It is the quality of the darkness that is strange ; blacker than black, soft and close about me. I go to turn my head toward the window, to see if any streaks of light can be see n in the sky, but my head doesn't move! I try again, and again. I lift my hand-or try to-but it doesn't want to obey me either. It must be that I am deeply asleep, in some sort of trancelike st ate, and aware that I'm dreaming. I think I will just waitfor it to pass so I may rise, dress, and go about my household duties. The waiting continues, and I feel nothing: neither cold nor warm , hungry nor replete. I just sense the blackness and soaring empt iness, but this is not too unpleasant. Some time later, though I cannot tell how long, I perceive movement across the backs of my eyes: four blurry white streaks, moving and gliding in the blackn ess. The streaks are feathery soft and remind me of doves, or of the soft, enveloping wings of angels. The blurry shapes dance acr oss my eyelids, but when I try to stop them, to endeavor to focus on one and see if I can spy a shining halo or a gold harp, I fin d it impossible. I would like it to be angels that I dream of, for I know that would be very lucky. The Reverend Coxeter told us that. He said that no matter whether you are a scullery wench or a lord in his castle, you are truly blessed if you dream of ange ls. I have tried to dream of them ever since I heard that, but ha ve never succeeded. Suddenly I remember something and want to s cream with terror, and the blackness loses its velvety softness a nd takes on an aspect of such vast and unknown fears that the ang els disappear. What I have remembered is this: the last time I sa w the Reverend Coxeter 'twas not in church, but in a bleak yard i n the icy rain, and he was entreating the Lord to have mercy on m e, preserve my soul, and convey me quickly to paradise. Behind hi m had stood a great crowd of people, a man wearing a black hood, and a mighty wooden scaffold from which hung a heavy, knotted rop e. And it was for me that all these were waiting, for I was . . . was about to be hanged. A terrifying thought comes to me: If t his happened, am I now dead? No, I cannot be, for surely I can he ar my heart thumping within me and echoing through my ears. Then is this the state that they tell us about in the Bible? Is this p urgatory? I struggle to think, and recall that purgatory is sai d to be a painful state, with tortuous fires that cleanse the sou l and bring it to righteousness. But how long does it last, this purgatory? A very long time, I think-thousands of years. My sta te is not painful now, though, so perhaps it might not be too ter rible to be in purgatory. If it just means lying here quietly in the dark, it might be quite bearable. There would be no rising at two in the morning on washing day to soak the linen, no more scr ubbing of the kitchen range until my hands bleed, no more going w ithout food for breaking a plate and being unable to sleep for hu nger. No more of that, either-that which Geoffrey Reade sought. A s I think on this, I feel a shadow pass over my soul and know, wi thout being sure of the circumstances, that he is inexplicably co nnected to my fate. I leave this thought atremble in the air an d move on. Yes, I could, perhaps, bear purgatory. What I cannot b ear . . . what I won't contemplate is . . . no, no! I won't let t hat thought in. But it comes anyway: What I could not bear, dare not consider, is the possibility that I'm not dead, but merely oc cupying a coffin, having been buried alive. I'm of a sudden des perate to come out of the trance I must be in, for surely-oh, sur ely-I am still in the little bedroom I share with Susan, and only deeply asleep. I urge myself on. In my mind's eye I picture myse lf pushing back my coarse blanket, swinging my legs out of the be d, and rising up, but though the urge is there, though I think I can perceive my muscles trembling with the effort to work, nothin g happens and no part of me moves. I concentrate harder. Maybe sitting up is asking too much of my body. It will be enough if I can move my hand, feel what's around me: the straw mattress benea th me and the blanket on top. Once I know that I'm safe in my bed , I'll be content to lie here longer. I realize then that inste ad of being in my usual sleeping position, curled up like a wood louse, I'm lying straight and still with my hands crossed over my breasts. But this is not the usual manner in which I go to sleep . . . My limbs are not working, but my mind is going ahead, wh irling on a dance, showing me images of the effigy in St. Mary's: a stone woman lying with her arms crossed over her cold stone bo dy. Indeed! That's how they lay out the dead! I'm so disturbed by this image that for a moment I forget to breathe. I open my ey es; close them again. It makes no difference to the quality of th e darkness. In fact I don't know if I'm opening my eyes or just d reaming I am. Am I asleep or awake? Alive or dead? Am I already a cadaver? My heart contracts with terror; there is a pain behin d my eyes where I long to cry and a choking in my throat, but it seems that even crying is denied me. I begin to count to calm mys elf down. It is what I learned to do when Master Geoffrey was-but no, I cannot think on that yet. I wonder if this state, this c ondition of mine, is punishment for what I have done, for they ar e very hard with all who commit sin now, and I have heard of wome n who have fornicated being tied on a ducking stool and dropped i nto a pond, and those who have stolen being whipped around the vi llage behind a cart. I have never heard of anyone being buried al ive, though. I am very, very frightened. If I find out that I a m buried, I'll claw at the wood that surrounds me, scratch the wa lls of my coffin, and break out. But what will I do then? If I'm a buried corpse, then I'm under six feet of earth and will never get free. Best to die quickly perhaps, to clamp my lips together, stop myself from drawing breath, and perish. In the blackness behind my eyes I try to see the blurry shapes again and turn them into comforting angels, but I cannot. Instead, chunks of my life come crowding in, clamoring to be heard, asking that they be con sidered in order to make sense of what's happened to me. So to start. It seems to me that going to work for Sir Thomas Reade was the beginning of it all, for that was how I came to be acquainte d with his grandson and heir, Master Geoffrey Reade. His name evo kes a terror, but I don't want to think why. Not yet. It is ahead of me though, a source of shadows in my head, waiting to be expl ored. But surely not all my recollections of that household are painful? There must be some that are not, I think, and I scuttle through my mind, throwing up memories like fallen leaves, lookin g for the bright ones. I have been working for the Reades since I was but a young child and, this titled family being the most n oble in the area, 'tis thought a great honor to serve in their ho usehold. They own several estates in the county of Oxfordshire, a nd at first I worked for them at Barton Manor, a vast dwelling in Steeple Barton, the village where I was born. This village conta ins about a hundred people, who mostly work on the land, and is a small but ancient place with farms and cottages, bakers and blac ksmiths. At one time it also contained a gracefully ordered churc h, but that was before Cromwell's men tore down its altar rails a nd broke its windows and pretty statues to turn it into a bare me eting house. Being well taught by my ma as to cleaning, washing , and the making of soaps and scented waters, I began working at Barton Manor as a scullery maid. This meant that I was the lowest person in the household and had to heed the wishes of everyone, which-if two persons had opposing wishes-was sometimes very diffi cult. I soon got to know the ways of the Reades, however, learned how to walk softly about the house so as not to disturb them, to bob a neat curtsy, and to discourse with lowered head if address ed by a member of the family. I can remember some good days then, for life seemed easier in the old house, and we servants had an amount of freedom. In Maytime there was always a pole on the vill age green to be danced around with ribbands. In the summer we'd w hile away hours cherry-picking in the orchard and gathering soft fruit-raspberries, strawberries, and mulberries-eating as much as we collected in our baskets. Later in the year, when the harvest was in, there would be a dance in the servants' hall, with a fid dler paid for by Mr. Peakes, the butler, with his own money, and we'd have a merry time dancing most of the night. We always sang as we worked at fruit picking or scrubbing or scouring: old songs we'd learned from home and ballads that the pedlars sold, and so my first two years with the Reades, before the war started, pass ed quite pleasantly, for I was but a child then, and my wants wer e few. The big house, however, Barton Manor, was burned to the ground during an early battle in the Civil War, and two of Sir Th omas's sons died during this skirmish, for they fought for King C harles-which was to say they fought for the losing side. When I t hink of our King Charles, he that was beheaded, I suddenly recall a bright memory that concerns that good man. On one particular d ay Lady Mary, Sir Thomas's wife, bade all the servants line up to gether in the great hall, saying she wished to speak to us on a m atter of great importance. There were about twenty of us: cooks, housemaids, laundry maids, dairy maids, ostlers, footmen, butlers , and valets, and you can be sure that on that day we were all lo oking our neatest and best. Milady stood halfway up the stairs, w here she could see everyone, and told us that two very important personages were coming to the house and everything had to be faul tless for their visit. The house was to be seen at the peak of pe rfection, the evening meal was to consist of the rarest and most extravagant items, the musical entertainment to be the most delig htful, the wines and sweetmeats the most delicious, and the whole household must work together to achieve this end. Every aspect of the house must be immaculate and we must fill our visitors wi th wonder, said Lady Mary. We must show them that even in remote Oxfordshire we are able to be hospitable. However, she went on to say, all this perfection had to be achieved as if by magic, for- apart from the waiting men who would serve the food-the servants were not to be seen going about their duties at any time. If we w ere seen, we would be dismissed in an instant. Why should that be? I asked one of the housemaids the following week as I flew be tween the innumerable jobs to be done before these feted guests a rrived. Why are we not to be seen? It's not so much they must n ot see us, she said, but we who must not see them. Why then, wh o are they? You goose, she said, 'tis King Charles and Queen He nrietta who are coming. Did you not know that? I shook my head. But no one can know they are here, for there is money on their heads. I must have looked at her stupidly because she added, T here's to be a war, haven't you heard? And it's to be called a ci vil war-that is, 'twill not be fought with France or Spain this t ime, but between ourselves and across our own lands. And the figh t will be between those who are for the king, and those who are f or parliament. And we are for the king? I asked. Of, Definitions, 2009, 3, Crown. Good. 6.42 x 1.49 x 9.53 inches. Hardcover. 2008. 400 pages. Ex-library.<br>In ancient Egypt, a forgotten princess must overcome her family's past and remake history. The winds of change are blowing through Thebes. A devastating palace fire has killed the Eighteenth Dynasty's royal family-all with the except ion of Nefertari, the niece of the reviled former queen, Nefertit i. The girl's deceased family has been branded as heretical, and no one in Egypt will speak their names. A relic of a previous rei gn, Nefertari is pushed aside, an unimportant princess left to ru n wild in the palace. But this changes when she is taken under th e wing of the Pharaoh's aunt, then brought to the Temple of Hatho r, where she is educated in a manner befitting a future queen. S oon Nefertari catches the eye of the Crown Prince, and despite he r family's history, they fall in love and wish to marry. Yet all of Egypt opposes this union between the rising star of a new dyna sty and the fading star of an old, heretical one. While political adversity sets the country on edge, Nefertari becomes the wife o f Ramesses the Great. Destined to be the most powerful Pharaoh in Egypt, he is also the man who must confront the most famous exod us in history. Sweeping in scope and meticulous in detail, The H eretic Queen is a novel of passion and power, heartbreak and rede mption. Editorial Reviews From Publishers Weekly The intricacie s of the ancient Egyptian court are brought to life in Moran's fa scinating tale of a princess's rise to power. Nefertari, niece of the famed heretic queen Nefertiti, becomes part of the court of Pharaoh Seti I after her family is deposed, and she befriends Ram esses II, the young crown prince. When Ramesses is made co-monarc h, he weds Iset, the granddaughter of a harem girl backed by Seti 's conniving sister, Henuttawy, the priestess of Isis. As Neferta ri's position in the court becomes tenuous, she realizes that she , too, wants to marry Ramesses and enlists the help of Seti's oth er sister, Woserit. But when Nefertari succeeds in wedding Ramess es, power struggles and court intrigues threaten her security, an d it is questionable whether the Egyptian people will accept a he retic descendant as their ruler or if civil war will erupt. Moran (Nefertiti) brings her characters to life, especially Nefertari, who helped Ramesses II become one of the most famous of Egyptian pharaohs. Nefertari's struggles to be accepted as a ruler loved as a leader and to secure her family's position throughout eterni ty are sure to appeal to fans of historical fiction. (Sept.) Cop yright ® Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier I nc. All rights reserved. From Booklist Moran, author of Nefertit i (2007), continues to plow the fertile terrain of ancient Egypt to produce evocative historical fiction. Nefertari, niece of the infamous Queen Nefertiti, is the only member of her reviled and d eposed dynasty to survive a devastating fire. When young Nefertar i falls in love with Ramesses, heir to the Egyptian throne, the s parks really begin to fly. Though many are opposed to the union, the young lovers defy the court of public opinion and marry, sett ing the fervent tone that will characterize their royal union thr ough years of war, rebellion, and exodus. Set against a colorful backdrop of court intrigue, jealous rivalries, and internal and e xternal power struggles, this authentically detailed slice of Egy ptaniawill appeal to fans of Christian Jacq's Ramses series. --Ma rgaret Flanagan Review Nefertari tells her story simply, humbly, and in a clear voice that will attract readers. -Romantic Times Moran's careful attention to detail and her artful storytelling skills bring these people to vivid life, imbuing ancient history with suspense and urgency. -Boston Globe Performing deft feats o f Egyptian magic, Michelle Moran transforms stone-cold history-fr om-hieroglyphs into gripping narrative, peopled by unforgettable characters seething with conflict and passion. I couldn't stop re ading, but I didn't want this book to end. -Robin Maxwell, author of Mademoiselle Boleyn Michelle Moran breathes new life into th e faded paintings on tomb walls, bringing Ramesses, Nefertari, an d the whole panoply of ancient Egyptian splendor to vivid, bustli ng, page-turning life. -Lauren Willig, author of The Secret Hist ory of the Pink Carnation Authentic, captivating, and beautifull y rendered, Michelle Moran's The Heretic Queen brings to vivid li fe the ancient courts and distant vistas of New Kingdom Egypt. A fascinating read. -Susan Fraser King, author of Lady Macbeth Th e Heretic Queen is a real page-turner! A heady, ancient Egyptian brew of magic and mystery; history, murder, and palace intrigue a s well as romance. I read this enthralling novel in one sitting. -India Edghill, author of Wisdom's Daughter A marvelous read. M oran renders the arcane Egypt of hieroglyphs and foundering monum ents into a breathing world whose characters we care deeply about . I read it in a trice and wished there was more. -Erika Mailman , author of The Witch's Trinity The Heretic Queen is historical fiction at its best. Michelle Moran seamlessly incorporates accur ate details into a story full of suspense, intrigue, and tenderne ss that's impossible to put down until you've reached the last pa ge. An absolute triumph! -Tasha Alexander, author of A Fatal Wal tz About the Author MICHELLE MORAN is the author of the national bestselling novel Nefertiti. She lives in California with her hu sband and a garden of more than two hundred roses. Excerpt. ® Re printed by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Pharaoh of Upper Egypt Thebes, 1283 bc Stay still, Paser admonished fir mly. Although Paser was my tutor and couldn't tell a princess wha t to do, there would be extra lines to copy if I didn't obey. I s topped shifting in my beaded dress and stood obediently with the other children of Pharaoh Seti's harem. But at thirteen years old , I was always impatient. Besides, all I could see was the gilded belt of the woman in front of me. Heavy sweat stained her white linen, trickling down her neck from beneath her wig. As soon as R amesses passed in the royal procession, the court would be able t o escape the heat and follow him into the cool shade of the templ e. But the procession was moving terribly slow. I looked up at Pa ser, who was searching for an open path to the front of the crowd . Will Ramesses stop studying with us now that he's to become co regent? I asked. Yes, Paser said distractedly. He took my arm an d pushed our way through the sea of bodies. Make way for the prin cess Nefertari! Make way! Women with children stepped aside until we were standing at the very edge of the roadway. All along the Avenue of Sphinxes, tall pots of incense smoked and burned, filli ng the air with the sacred scent of kyphi that would make this, a bove all days, an auspicious one. The brassy sound of trumpets fi lled the avenue, and Paser pushed me forward. The prince is comin g! I see the prince every day, I said sullenly. Ramesses was the only son of Pharaoh Seti, and now that he had turned seventeen, he would be leaving his childhood behind. There would be no more studying with him in the edduba, or hunting together in the after noons. His coronation held no interest for me then, but when he c ame into view, even I caught my breath. From the wide lapis colla r around his neck to the golden cuffs around his ankles and wrist s, he was covered in jewels. His red hair shone like copper in th e sun, and a heavy sword hung at his waist. Thousands of Egyptian s surged forward to see, and as Ramesses strode past in the proce ssion, I reached forward to tug at his hair. Although Paser inhal ed sharply, Pharaoh Seti laughed, and the entire procession came to a halt. Little Nefertari. Pharaoh patted my head. Little? I puffed out my chest. I'm not little. I was thirteen, and in a mon th I'd be fourteen. Pharaoh Seti chuckled at my obstinacy. Littl e only in stature then, he promised. And where is that determined nurse of yours? Merit? In the palace, preparing for the feast. Well, tell Merit I want to see her in the Great Hall tonight. We must teach her to smile as beautifully as you do. He pinched my cheeks, and the procession continued into the cool recesses of th e temple. Stay close to me, Paser ordered. Why? You've never mi nded where I've gone before. We were swept into the temple with the rest of the court, and at last, the heavy heat of the day was shut out. In the dimly lit corridors a priest dressed in the lon g white robes of Amun guided us swiftly to the inner sanctum. I p ressed my palm against the cool slabs of stone where images of th e gods had been carved and painted. Their faces were frozen in ex pressions of joy, as if they were happy to see that we'd come. B e careful of the paintings, Paser warned sharply. Where are we g oing? To the inner sanctum. The passage widened into a vaulted chamber, and a murmur of surprise passed through the crowd. Grani te columns soared up into the gloom, and the blue tiled roof had been inlaid with silver to imitate the night's glittering sky. On a painted dais, a group of Amun priests were waiting, and I thou ght with sadness that once Ramesses was coregent, he would never be a carefree prince in the marshes again. But there were still t he other children from the edduba, and I searched the crowded roo m for a friend. Asha! I beckoned, and when he saw me with our tu tor, he threaded his way over. As usual, his black hair was bound tightly in a braid; whenever we hunted it trailed behind him lik e a whip. Although his arrow was often the one that brought down the bull, he was never the first to approach the kill, prompting Pharaoh to call him Asha the Cautious. But as Asha was cautious, Ramesses was impulsive. In the hunt, he was always charging ahead , even on the most dangerous roads, and his own father called him Ramesses the Rash. Of course, this was a private joke between th em, and no one but Pharaoh Seti ever called him that. I smiled a greeting at Asha, but the look Paser gave him was not so welcomin g. Why aren't you standing with the prince on the dais? But the ceremony won't begin until the call of the trumpets, Asha explai ned. When Paser sighed, Asha turned to me. What's the matter? Are n't you excited? How can I be excited, I demanded, when Ramesses will spend all his time in the Audience Chamber, and in less tha n a year you'll be leaving for the army? Asha shifted uncomforta bly in his leather pectoral. Actually, if I'm to be a general, he explained, my training must begin this month. The trumpets blare d, and when I opened my mouth to protest, he turned. It's time! T hen his long braid disappeared into the crowd. A great hush fell over the temple, and I looked up at Paser, who avoided my gaze. What is she doing here? someone hissed, and I knew without turnin g that the woman was speaking about me. She'll bring nothing but bad luck on this day. Paser looked down at me, and as the priest s began their hymns to Amun, I pretended not to have heard the wo man's whispers. Instead, I watched as the High Priest Rahotep eme rged from the shadows. A leopard's pelt hung from his shoulders, and as he slowly ascended the dais, the children next to me avert ed their gaze. His face appeared frozen, like a mask that never s tops grinning, and his left eye was still red as a carnelian ston e. Heavy clouds of incense filled the inner sanctum, but Rahotep appeared immune to the smoke. He lifted the hedjet crown in his h ands, and without blinking, placed it on top of Ramesses's golden brow. May the great god Amun embrace Ramesses the Second, for no w he is Pharaoh of Upper Egypt. While the court erupted into wil d cheers, I felt my heart sink. I fanned away the acrid scent of perfume from under women's arms, and children with ivory clappers beat them together in a noise that filled the entire chamber. Se ti, who was now only ruler of Lower Egypt, smiled widely. Then hu ndreds of courtiers began to move, crushing me between their belt ed waists. Come. We're leaving for the palace! Paser shouted. I glanced behind me. What about Asha? He will have to find you la ter. Dignitaries from every kingdom in the world came to the pal ace of Malkata to celebrate Ramesses's coronation. I stood at the entrance to the Great Hall, where the court took its dinner ever y night, and admired the glow of a thousand oil lamps as they cas t their light across the polished tiles. The chamber was filled w ith men and women dressed in their finest kilts and beaded gowns. Have you ever seen so many people? I turned. Asha! I exclaimed . Where have you been? My father wanted me in the stables to pre pare- For your time in the military? I crossed my arms, and when Asha saw that I was truly upset, he smiled disarmingly. But I'm here with you now. He took my arm and led me into the hall. Have you seen the emissaries who have arrived? I'll bet you could spe ak with any one of them. I can't speak Shasu, I said, to be cont rary. But every other language! You could be a vizier if you wer en't a girl. He glanced across the hall and pointed. Look! I fol lowed his gaze to Pharaoh Seti and Queen Tuya on the royal dais. The queen never went anywhere without Adjo, and the black-and-whi te dog rested his tapered head on her lap. Although her iwiw had been bred for hunting hare in the marshes, the farthest he ever w alked was from his feathered cushion to his water bowl. Now that Ramesses was Pharaoh of Upper Egypt, a third throne had been plac ed next to his mother. So Ramesses will be seated off with his p arents, I said glumly. He had always eaten with me beneath the da is, at the long table filled with the most important members of t he court. And now that his chair had been removed, I could see th at my own had been placed next to Woserit, the High Priestess of Hathor. Asha saw this as well and shook his head. It's too bad y ou can't sit with me. What will you ever talk about with Woserit? Nothing, I suspect. At least they've placed you across from He nuttawy. Do you think she might speak with you now? All of Thebe s was fascinated with Henuttawy, not because she was one of Phara oh Seti's two younger sisters, but because there was no one in Eg ypt with such mesmerizing beauty. Her lips were carefully painted to match the red robes of the goddess Isis, and only the High Pr iestess was allowed to wear that vivid color. As a child of seven I had been fascinated by th, Crown, 2008, 2.5<

2008, ISBN: 9780307381750

Viking. Good. 5.5 x 1 x 7.5 inches. Hardcover. 1994. 200 pages. <br>In a voice both innocent and wise, touchingly remi niscent of Anne Frank's, Zlata Filipovic's diary has a… Altro …

Viking. Good. 5.5 x 1 x 7.5 inches. Hardcover. 1994. 200 pages. <br>In a voice both innocent and wise, touchingly remi niscent of Anne Frank's, Zlata Filipovic's diary has awoken the c onscience of the world. Now thirteen years old, Zlata began her d iary just before her eleventh birthday, when there was peace in S arajevo and her life was that of a bright, intelligent, carefree young girl. Her early entries describe her friends, her new skis, her family, her grades at school, her interest in joining the Ma donna Fan Club. And then, on television, she sees the bombs falli ng on Dubrovnik. Though repelled by the sight, Zlata cannot conce ive of the same thing happening in Sarajevo. When it does, the wh ole tone of her diary changes. Early on, she starts an entry to D ear Mimmy (named after her dead goldfish): SLAUGHTERHOUSE! MASSAC RE! HORROR! CRIMES! BLOOD! SCREAMS! DESPAIR! We see the world of a child increasingly circumscribed by the violence outside. Zlata is confined to her family's apartment, spending the nights, as t he shells rain down mercilessly, in a neighbor's cellar. And the danger outside steadily invades her life. No more school. Living without water and electricity. Food in short supply. The onslaugh t destroys the pieces she loves, kills or injures her friends, vi sibly ages her parents. In one entry Zlata cries out, War has not hing to do with humanity. War is something inhuman. In another, s he thinks about killing herself. Yet, with indomitable courage an d a clarity of mind well beyond her years, Zlata preserves what s he can of her former existence, continuing to study piano, to fin d books to read, to celebrate special occasions - recording it al l in the pages of this extraordinary diary. Editorial Reviews F rom Publishers Weekly A graphic firsthand look at the war in Sara jevo by a Croatian girl whose personal world has collapsed, this vivid, sensitive diary sounds an urgent and compelling appeal for peace. Filipovic begins her precocious journal in autumn 1991 as a contented 10-year-old preoccupied with piano and tennis lesson s and saturated with American movies, TV shows, books and rock mu sic. Soon the bombs start falling; her friends are killed by shra pnel or snipers' bullets; her family's country house burns down, and they subsist on UN food packages, without gas, electricity or water, as thousands of Sarajevans die. Filipovic, whose circle o f friends included Serbs, Croats and Muslims, blames the former Y ugoslavia's politicians for dividing ethnic groups and playing he ll with people's lives. She and her parents escaped to Paris, and her diary, originally published in Croat by UNICEF, was reissued in France and has already been much written about in the U.S. Ph otos not seen by PW. 200,000 first printing; film rights to Unive rsal; first serial to Newsweek; author tour Copyright 1994 Reed Business Information, Inc. From School Library Journal YA-From S eptember 1991 through October 1993, young Zlata Filipovic kept a diary. When she began it, she was 11 years old, concerned mostly with friends, school, piano lessons, MTV, and Madonna. As the dia ry ends, she has become used to constant bombing and snipers; sev ere shortages of food, water, and gas; and the end of a privilege d adolescence in her native Sarajevo. Zlata has been described as the new Anne Frank. While the circumstances are somewhat similar , and Zlata is intelligent and observant, this diary lacks the co mpelling style and mature preceptions that gave Anne Frank's acco unt such universality. The entire situation in the former Yugosla via, however, is of such currency and concern that any first-pers on account, especially one such as this that speaks so directly t o adolescents, is important and necessary. While not great litera ture, the narrative provides a vivid description of the ravages o f war and its effect upon one young woman, and, as such, is valua ble for today's YAs. Susan H. Woodcock, King's Park Library, Burk e, VA Copyright 1994 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Librar y Journal In September 1991, at the beginning of a new school yea r and while war was already as close as Croatia, Filipovic, a ten -year-old girl in Sarajevo began keeping a diary about her school friends, her classes, and her after-school activities. The follo wing spring that childhood world disappeared when the war moved t o Sarajevo. Instead of school and parties, her world came to cons ist of cowering in cellars during the shelling, trying to survive despite intermittent electric power and water supply, and sadnes s: sadness when friends and relatives left the besieged city for a safer area; sadness when those who remained behind were killed; sadness that her childhood had vanished. Filipovic has no intere st in the politics of this war (she dismisses all political leade rs contemptuously as kids) but only in its effects on those close to her. The power of her book lies precisely in its concern with innocence lost. Recommended for popular collections. Marcia L. S prules, Council on Foreign Relations Lib., New York Copyright 199 4 Reed Business Information, Inc. From Booklist Zlata Filipovic of Sarajevo began keeping her diary in 1991, just before her elev enth birthday. Ebullient and accomplished, Zlata recorded the swi rl of activities she avidly pursued, from school to piano lessons , skiing, parties, and watching her favorite TV shows, all Americ an. We immediately sense that Zlata and her family have a deep lo ve for their country, but just as we begin to enjoy Zlata's fine young mind and cheerful disposition, the chaos and terror of war shatter her world. Schools close, socializing becomes too risky, and what was once a cozy home is transformed into a fragile shelt er bereft of electricity or water. In spite of great tragedy and deprivation, Zlata keeps making her lucid diary entries, carefull y chronicling the claustrophobia, boredom, resignation, anger, de spair, and fear war brings. Another birthday passes, and Zlata's observations become even sharper and more searing. The convoys of fleeing citizens remind her of movies she's seen of the Holocaus t; she notices that grief and hardship have made her valiant pare nts haggard and sorrowful; and she can't believe that her clothes no longer fit. How could she be growing when she has so little t o eat? With a precision and vision beyond her years, Zlata writes that the political situation is stupidity in motion, and more ha untingly, life in a closed circle continues. Zlata brings Sarajev o home as no news report can. Her diary was first published by UN ICEF, then released in France; U.S. serial rights have gone to Ne wsweek, and Zlata and her parents will be visiting here this mont h. Donna Seaman From Kirkus Reviews Originally published in Croa t by UNICEF, this is the wartime diary of a Sarajevo girl who has since moved to Paris. Zlata began keeping her diary at the age o f 11, nearly eight months before the shelling of Sarajevo began. A chronicle that begins in September 1991 with Zlata buying schoo l supplies is forced, by March 1993, to reckon with the fact that all ``the schools near me are either unusable or full of refugee s.'' Zlata's voice, understandably, has difficulty maturing at a pace demanded by the events it records, and some passages communi cate more bathos than outrage or insight. But that's history's fa ult, not Zlata's. (First serial rights to Newsweek) -- Copyright ®1994, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved. ., Viking, 1994, 2.75, Crown. Good. 6.42 x 1.49 x 9.53 inches. Hardcover. 2008. 400 pages. Ex-library.<br>In ancient Egypt, a forgotten princess must overcome her family's past and remake history. The winds of change are blowing through Thebes. A devastating palace fire has killed the Eighteenth Dynasty's royal family-all with the except ion of Nefertari, the niece of the reviled former queen, Nefertit i. The girl's deceased family has been branded as heretical, and no one in Egypt will speak their names. A relic of a previous rei gn, Nefertari is pushed aside, an unimportant princess left to ru n wild in the palace. But this changes when she is taken under th e wing of the Pharaoh's aunt, then brought to the Temple of Hatho r, where she is educated in a manner befitting a future queen. S oon Nefertari catches the eye of the Crown Prince, and despite he r family's history, they fall in love and wish to marry. Yet all of Egypt opposes this union between the rising star of a new dyna sty and the fading star of an old, heretical one. While political adversity sets the country on edge, Nefertari becomes the wife o f Ramesses the Great. Destined to be the most powerful Pharaoh in Egypt, he is also the man who must confront the most famous exod us in history. Sweeping in scope and meticulous in detail, The H eretic Queen is a novel of passion and power, heartbreak and rede mption. Editorial Reviews From Publishers Weekly The intricacie s of the ancient Egyptian court are brought to life in Moran's fa scinating tale of a princess's rise to power. Nefertari, niece of the famed heretic queen Nefertiti, becomes part of the court of Pharaoh Seti I after her family is deposed, and she befriends Ram esses II, the young crown prince. When Ramesses is made co-monarc h, he weds Iset, the granddaughter of a harem girl backed by Seti 's conniving sister, Henuttawy, the priestess of Isis. As Neferta ri's position in the court becomes tenuous, she realizes that she , too, wants to marry Ramesses and enlists the help of Seti's oth er sister, Woserit. But when Nefertari succeeds in wedding Ramess es, power struggles and court intrigues threaten her security, an d it is questionable whether the Egyptian people will accept a he retic descendant as their ruler or if civil war will erupt. Moran (Nefertiti) brings her characters to life, especially Nefertari, who helped Ramesses II become one of the most famous of Egyptian pharaohs. Nefertari's struggles to be accepted as a ruler loved as a leader and to secure her family's position throughout eterni ty are sure to appeal to fans of historical fiction. (Sept.) Cop yright ® Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier I nc. All rights reserved. From Booklist Moran, author of Nefertit i (2007), continues to plow the fertile terrain of ancient Egypt to produce evocative historical fiction. Nefertari, niece of the infamous Queen Nefertiti, is the only member of her reviled and d eposed dynasty to survive a devastating fire. When young Nefertar i falls in love with Ramesses, heir to the Egyptian throne, the s parks really begin to fly. Though many are opposed to the union, the young lovers defy the court of public opinion and marry, sett ing the fervent tone that will characterize their royal union thr ough years of war, rebellion, and exodus. Set against a colorful backdrop of court intrigue, jealous rivalries, and internal and e xternal power struggles, this authentically detailed slice of Egy ptaniawill appeal to fans of Christian Jacq's Ramses series. --Ma rgaret Flanagan Review Nefertari tells her story simply, humbly, and in a clear voice that will attract readers. -Romantic Times Moran's careful attention to detail and her artful storytelling skills bring these people to vivid life, imbuing ancient history with suspense and urgency. -Boston Globe Performing deft feats o f Egyptian magic, Michelle Moran transforms stone-cold history-fr om-hieroglyphs into gripping narrative, peopled by unforgettable characters seething with conflict and passion. I couldn't stop re ading, but I didn't want this book to end. -Robin Maxwell, author of Mademoiselle Boleyn Michelle Moran breathes new life into th e faded paintings on tomb walls, bringing Ramesses, Nefertari, an d the whole panoply of ancient Egyptian splendor to vivid, bustli ng, page-turning life. -Lauren Willig, author of The Secret Hist ory of the Pink Carnation Authentic, captivating, and beautifull y rendered, Michelle Moran's The Heretic Queen brings to vivid li fe the ancient courts and distant vistas of New Kingdom Egypt. A fascinating read. -Susan Fraser King, author of Lady Macbeth Th e Heretic Queen is a real page-turner! A heady, ancient Egyptian brew of magic and mystery; history, murder, and palace intrigue a s well as romance. I read this enthralling novel in one sitting. -India Edghill, author of Wisdom's Daughter A marvelous read. M oran renders the arcane Egypt of hieroglyphs and foundering monum ents into a breathing world whose characters we care deeply about . I read it in a trice and wished there was more. -Erika Mailman , author of The Witch's Trinity The Heretic Queen is historical fiction at its best. Michelle Moran seamlessly incorporates accur ate details into a story full of suspense, intrigue, and tenderne ss that's impossible to put down until you've reached the last pa ge. An absolute triumph! -Tasha Alexander, author of A Fatal Wal tz About the Author MICHELLE MORAN is the author of the national bestselling novel Nefertiti. She lives in California with her hu sband and a garden of more than two hundred roses. Excerpt. ® Re printed by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Pharaoh of Upper Egypt Thebes, 1283 bc Stay still, Paser admonished fir mly. Although Paser was my tutor and couldn't tell a princess wha t to do, there would be extra lines to copy if I didn't obey. I s topped shifting in my beaded dress and stood obediently with the other children of Pharaoh Seti's harem. But at thirteen years old , I was always impatient. Besides, all I could see was the gilded belt of the woman in front of me. Heavy sweat stained her white linen, trickling down her neck from beneath her wig. As soon as R amesses passed in the royal procession, the court would be able t o escape the heat and follow him into the cool shade of the templ e. But the procession was moving terribly slow. I looked up at Pa ser, who was searching for an open path to the front of the crowd . Will Ramesses stop studying with us now that he's to become co regent? I asked. Yes, Paser said distractedly. He took my arm an d pushed our way through the sea of bodies. Make way for the prin cess Nefertari! Make way! Women with children stepped aside until we were standing at the very edge of the roadway. All along the Avenue of Sphinxes, tall pots of incense smoked and burned, filli ng the air with the sacred scent of kyphi that would make this, a bove all days, an auspicious one. The brassy sound of trumpets fi lled the avenue, and Paser pushed me forward. The prince is comin g! I see the prince every day, I said sullenly. Ramesses was the only son of Pharaoh Seti, and now that he had turned seventeen, he would be leaving his childhood behind. There would be no more studying with him in the edduba, or hunting together in the after noons. His coronation held no interest for me then, but when he c ame into view, even I caught my breath. From the wide lapis colla r around his neck to the golden cuffs around his ankles and wrist s, he was covered in jewels. His red hair shone like copper in th e sun, and a heavy sword hung at his waist. Thousands of Egyptian s surged forward to see, and as Ramesses strode past in the proce ssion, I reached forward to tug at his hair. Although Paser inhal ed sharply, Pharaoh Seti laughed, and the entire procession came to a halt. Little Nefertari. Pharaoh patted my head. Little? I puffed out my chest. I'm not little. I was thirteen, and in a mon th I'd be fourteen. Pharaoh Seti chuckled at my obstinacy. Littl e only in stature then, he promised. And where is that determined nurse of yours? Merit? In the palace, preparing for the feast. Well, tell Merit I want to see her in the Great Hall tonight. We must teach her to smile as beautifully as you do. He pinched my cheeks, and the procession continued into the cool recesses of th e temple. Stay close to me, Paser ordered. Why? You've never mi nded where I've gone before. We were swept into the temple with the rest of the court, and at last, the heavy heat of the day was shut out. In the dimly lit corridors a priest dressed in the lon g white robes of Amun guided us swiftly to the inner sanctum. I p ressed my palm against the cool slabs of stone where images of th e gods had been carved and painted. Their faces were frozen in ex pressions of joy, as if they were happy to see that we'd come. B e careful of the paintings, Paser warned sharply. Where are we g oing? To the inner sanctum. The passage widened into a vaulted chamber, and a murmur of surprise passed through the crowd. Grani te columns soared up into the gloom, and the blue tiled roof had been inlaid with silver to imitate the night's glittering sky. On a painted dais, a group of Amun priests were waiting, and I thou ght with sadness that once Ramesses was coregent, he would never be a carefree prince in the marshes again. But there were still t he other children from the edduba, and I searched the crowded roo m for a friend. Asha! I beckoned, and when he saw me with our tu tor, he threaded his way over. As usual, his black hair was bound tightly in a braid; whenever we hunted it trailed behind him lik e a whip. Although his arrow was often the one that brought down the bull, he was never the first to approach the kill, prompting Pharaoh to call him Asha the Cautious. But as Asha was cautious, Ramesses was impulsive. In the hunt, he was always charging ahead , even on the most dangerous roads, and his own father called him Ramesses the Rash. Of course, this was a private joke between th em, and no one but Pharaoh Seti ever called him that. I smiled a greeting at Asha, but the look Paser gave him was not so welcomin g. Why aren't you standing with the prince on the dais? But the ceremony won't begin until the call of the trumpets, Asha explai ned. When Paser sighed, Asha turned to me. What's the matter? Are n't you excited? How can I be excited, I demanded, when Ramesses will spend all his time in the Audience Chamber, and in less tha n a year you'll be leaving for the army? Asha shifted uncomforta bly in his leather pectoral. Actually, if I'm to be a general, he explained, my training must begin this month. The trumpets blare d, and when I opened my mouth to protest, he turned. It's time! T hen his long braid disappeared into the crowd. A great hush fell over the temple, and I looked up at Paser, who avoided my gaze. What is she doing here? someone hissed, and I knew without turnin g that the woman was speaking about me. She'll bring nothing but bad luck on this day. Paser looked down at me, and as the priest s began their hymns to Amun, I pretended not to have heard the wo man's whispers. Instead, I watched as the High Priest Rahotep eme rged from the shadows. A leopard's pelt hung from his shoulders, and as he slowly ascended the dais, the children next to me avert ed their gaze. His face appeared frozen, like a mask that never s tops grinning, and his left eye was still red as a carnelian ston e. Heavy clouds of incense filled the inner sanctum, but Rahotep appeared immune to the smoke. He lifted the hedjet crown in his h ands, and without blinking, placed it on top of Ramesses's golden brow. May the great god Amun embrace Ramesses the Second, for no w he is Pharaoh of Upper Egypt. While the court erupted into wil d cheers, I felt my heart sink. I fanned away the acrid scent of perfume from under women's arms, and children with ivory clappers beat them together in a noise that filled the entire chamber. Se ti, who was now only ruler of Lower Egypt, smiled widely. Then hu ndreds of courtiers began to move, crushing me between their belt ed waists. Come. We're leaving for the palace! Paser shouted. I glanced behind me. What about Asha? He will have to find you la ter. Dignitaries from every kingdom in the world came to the pal ace of Malkata to celebrate Ramesses's coronation. I stood at the entrance to the Great Hall, where the court took its dinner ever y night, and admired the glow of a thousand oil lamps as they cas t their light across the polished tiles. The chamber was filled w ith men and women dressed in their finest kilts and beaded gowns. Have you ever seen so many people? I turned. Asha! I exclaimed . Where have you been? My father wanted me in the stables to pre pare- For your time in the military? I crossed my arms, and when Asha saw that I was truly upset, he smiled disarmingly. But I'm here with you now. He took my arm and led me into the hall. Have you seen the emissaries who have arrived? I'll bet you could spe ak with any one of them. I can't speak Shasu, I said, to be cont rary. But every other language! You could be a vizier if you wer en't a girl. He glanced across the hall and pointed. Look! I fol lowed his gaze to Pharaoh Seti and Queen Tuya on the royal dais. The queen never went anywhere without Adjo, and the black-and-whi te dog rested his tapered head on her lap. Although her iwiw had been bred for hunting hare in the marshes, the farthest he ever w alked was from his feathered cushion to his water bowl. Now that Ramesses was Pharaoh of Upper Egypt, a third throne had been plac ed next to his mother. So Ramesses will be seated off with his p arents, I said glumly. He had always eaten with me beneath the da is, at the long table filled with the most important members of t he court. And now that his chair had been removed, I could see th at my own had been placed next to Woserit, the High Priestess of Hathor. Asha saw this as well and shook his head. It's too bad y ou can't sit with me. What will you ever talk about with Woserit? Nothing, I suspect. At least they've placed you across from He nuttawy. Do you think she might speak with you now? All of Thebe s was fascinated with Henuttawy, not because she was one of Phara oh Seti's two younger sisters, but because there was no one in Eg ypt with such mesmerizing beauty. Her lips were carefully painted to match the red robes of the goddess Isis, and only the High Pr iestess was allowed to wear that vivid color. As a child of seven I had been fascinated by th, Crown, 2008, 2.5<

2008, ISBN: 9780307381750

Crown. Good. 6.42 x 1.49 x 9.53 inches. Hardcover. 2008. 400 pages. Ex-library.<br>In ancient Egypt, a forgotten princess must overcome her family's past and remake history. T… Altro …

Crown. Good. 6.42 x 1.49 x 9.53 inches. Hardcover. 2008. 400 pages. Ex-library.<br>In ancient Egypt, a forgotten princess must overcome her family's past and remake history. The winds of change are blowing through Thebes. A devastating palace fire has killed the Eighteenth Dynasty's royal family-all with the except ion of Nefertari, the niece of the reviled former queen, Nefertit i. The girl's deceased family has been branded as heretical, and no one in Egypt will speak their names. A relic of a previous rei gn, Nefertari is pushed aside, an unimportant princess left to ru n wild in the palace. But this changes when she is taken under th e wing of the Pharaoh's aunt, then brought to the Temple of Hatho r, where she is educated in a manner befitting a future queen. S oon Nefertari catches the eye of the Crown Prince, and despite he r family's history, they fall in love and wish to marry. Yet all of Egypt opposes this union between the rising star of a new dyna sty and the fading star of an old, heretical one. While political adversity sets the country on edge, Nefertari becomes the wife o f Ramesses the Great. Destined to be the most powerful Pharaoh in Egypt, he is also the man who must confront the most famous exod us in history. Sweeping in scope and meticulous in detail, The H eretic Queen is a novel of passion and power, heartbreak and rede mption. Editorial Reviews From Publishers Weekly The intricacie s of the ancient Egyptian court are brought to life in Moran's fa scinating tale of a princess's rise to power. Nefertari, niece of the famed heretic queen Nefertiti, becomes part of the court of Pharaoh Seti I after her family is deposed, and she befriends Ram esses II, the young crown prince. When Ramesses is made co-monarc h, he weds Iset, the granddaughter of a harem girl backed by Seti 's conniving sister, Henuttawy, the priestess of Isis. As Neferta ri's position in the court becomes tenuous, she realizes that she , too, wants to marry Ramesses and enlists the help of Seti's oth er sister, Woserit. But when Nefertari succeeds in wedding Ramess es, power struggles and court intrigues threaten her security, an d it is questionable whether the Egyptian people will accept a he retic descendant as their ruler or if civil war will erupt. Moran (Nefertiti) brings her characters to life, especially Nefertari, who helped Ramesses II become one of the most famous of Egyptian pharaohs. Nefertari's struggles to be accepted as a ruler loved as a leader and to secure her family's position throughout eterni ty are sure to appeal to fans of historical fiction. (Sept.) Cop yright ® Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier I nc. All rights reserved. From Booklist Moran, author of Nefertit i (2007), continues to plow the fertile terrain of ancient Egypt to produce evocative historical fiction. Nefertari, niece of the infamous Queen Nefertiti, is the only member of her reviled and d eposed dynasty to survive a devastating fire. When young Nefertar i falls in love with Ramesses, heir to the Egyptian throne, the s parks really begin to fly. Though many are opposed to the union, the young lovers defy the court of public opinion and marry, sett ing the fervent tone that will characterize their royal union thr ough years of war, rebellion, and exodus. Set against a colorful backdrop of court intrigue, jealous rivalries, and internal and e xternal power struggles, this authentically detailed slice of Egy ptaniawill appeal to fans of Christian Jacq's Ramses series. --Ma rgaret Flanagan Review Nefertari tells her story simply, humbly, and in a clear voice that will attract readers. -Romantic Times Moran's careful attention to detail and her artful storytelling skills bring these people to vivid life, imbuing ancient history with suspense and urgency. -Boston Globe Performing deft feats o f Egyptian magic, Michelle Moran transforms stone-cold history-fr om-hieroglyphs into gripping narrative, peopled by unforgettable characters seething with conflict and passion. I couldn't stop re ading, but I didn't want this book to end. -Robin Maxwell, author of Mademoiselle Boleyn Michelle Moran breathes new life into th e faded paintings on tomb walls, bringing Ramesses, Nefertari, an d the whole panoply of ancient Egyptian splendor to vivid, bustli ng, page-turning life. -Lauren Willig, author of The Secret Hist ory of the Pink Carnation Authentic, captivating, and beautifull y rendered, Michelle Moran's The Heretic Queen brings to vivid li fe the ancient courts and distant vistas of New Kingdom Egypt. A fascinating read. -Susan Fraser King, author of Lady Macbeth Th e Heretic Queen is a real page-turner! A heady, ancient Egyptian brew of magic and mystery; history, murder, and palace intrigue a s well as romance. I read this enthralling novel in one sitting. -India Edghill, author of Wisdom's Daughter A marvelous read. M oran renders the arcane Egypt of hieroglyphs and foundering monum ents into a breathing world whose characters we care deeply about . I read it in a trice and wished there was more. -Erika Mailman , author of The Witch's Trinity The Heretic Queen is historical fiction at its best. Michelle Moran seamlessly incorporates accur ate details into a story full of suspense, intrigue, and tenderne ss that's impossible to put down until you've reached the last pa ge. An absolute triumph! -Tasha Alexander, author of A Fatal Wal tz About the Author MICHELLE MORAN is the author of the national bestselling novel Nefertiti. She lives in California with her hu sband and a garden of more than two hundred roses. Excerpt. ® Re printed by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Pharaoh of Upper Egypt Thebes, 1283 bc Stay still, Paser admonished fir mly. Although Paser was my tutor and couldn't tell a princess wha t to do, there would be extra lines to copy if I didn't obey. I s topped shifting in my beaded dress and stood obediently with the other children of Pharaoh Seti's harem. But at thirteen years old , I was always impatient. Besides, all I could see was the gilded belt of the woman in front of me. Heavy sweat stained her white linen, trickling down her neck from beneath her wig. As soon as R amesses passed in the royal procession, the court would be able t o escape the heat and follow him into the cool shade of the templ e. But the procession was moving terribly slow. I looked up at Pa ser, who was searching for an open path to the front of the crowd . Will Ramesses stop studying with us now that he's to become co regent? I asked. Yes, Paser said distractedly. He took my arm an d pushed our way through the sea of bodies. Make way for the prin cess Nefertari! Make way! Women with children stepped aside until we were standing at the very edge of the roadway. All along the Avenue of Sphinxes, tall pots of incense smoked and burned, filli ng the air with the sacred scent of kyphi that would make this, a bove all days, an auspicious one. The brassy sound of trumpets fi lled the avenue, and Paser pushed me forward. The prince is comin g! I see the prince every day, I said sullenly. Ramesses was the only son of Pharaoh Seti, and now that he had turned seventeen, he would be leaving his childhood behind. There would be no more studying with him in the edduba, or hunting together in the after noons. His coronation held no interest for me then, but when he c ame into view, even I caught my breath. From the wide lapis colla r around his neck to the golden cuffs around his ankles and wrist s, he was covered in jewels. His red hair shone like copper in th e sun, and a heavy sword hung at his waist. Thousands of Egyptian s surged forward to see, and as Ramesses strode past in the proce ssion, I reached forward to tug at his hair. Although Paser inhal ed sharply, Pharaoh Seti laughed, and the entire procession came to a halt. Little Nefertari. Pharaoh patted my head. Little? I puffed out my chest. I'm not little. I was thirteen, and in a mon th I'd be fourteen. Pharaoh Seti chuckled at my obstinacy. Littl e only in stature then, he promised. And where is that determined nurse of yours? Merit? In the palace, preparing for the feast. Well, tell Merit I want to see her in the Great Hall tonight. We must teach her to smile as beautifully as you do. He pinched my cheeks, and the procession continued into the cool recesses of th e temple. Stay close to me, Paser ordered. Why? You've never mi nded where I've gone before. We were swept into the temple with the rest of the court, and at last, the heavy heat of the day was shut out. In the dimly lit corridors a priest dressed in the lon g white robes of Amun guided us swiftly to the inner sanctum. I p ressed my palm against the cool slabs of stone where images of th e gods had been carved and painted. Their faces were frozen in ex pressions of joy, as if they were happy to see that we'd come. B e careful of the paintings, Paser warned sharply. Where are we g oing? To the inner sanctum. The passage widened into a vaulted chamber, and a murmur of surprise passed through the crowd. Grani te columns soared up into the gloom, and the blue tiled roof had been inlaid with silver to imitate the night's glittering sky. On a painted dais, a group of Amun priests were waiting, and I thou ght with sadness that once Ramesses was coregent, he would never be a carefree prince in the marshes again. But there were still t he other children from the edduba, and I searched the crowded roo m for a friend. Asha! I beckoned, and when he saw me with our tu tor, he threaded his way over. As usual, his black hair was bound tightly in a braid; whenever we hunted it trailed behind him lik e a whip. Although his arrow was often the one that brought down the bull, he was never the first to approach the kill, prompting Pharaoh to call him Asha the Cautious. But as Asha was cautious, Ramesses was impulsive. In the hunt, he was always charging ahead , even on the most dangerous roads, and his own father called him Ramesses the Rash. Of course, this was a private joke between th em, and no one but Pharaoh Seti ever called him that. I smiled a greeting at Asha, but the look Paser gave him was not so welcomin g. Why aren't you standing with the prince on the dais? But the ceremony won't begin until the call of the trumpets, Asha explai ned. When Paser sighed, Asha turned to me. What's the matter? Are n't you excited? How can I be excited, I demanded, when Ramesses will spend all his time in the Audience Chamber, and in less tha n a year you'll be leaving for the army? Asha shifted uncomforta bly in his leather pectoral. Actually, if I'm to be a general, he explained, my training must begin this month. The trumpets blare d, and when I opened my mouth to protest, he turned. It's time! T hen his long braid disappeared into the crowd. A great hush fell over the temple, and I looked up at Paser, who avoided my gaze. What is she doing here? someone hissed, and I knew without turnin g that the woman was speaking about me. She'll bring nothing but bad luck on this day. Paser looked down at me, and as the priest s began their hymns to Amun, I pretended not to have heard the wo man's whispers. Instead, I watched as the High Priest Rahotep eme rged from the shadows. A leopard's pelt hung from his shoulders, and as he slowly ascended the dais, the children next to me avert ed their gaze. His face appeared frozen, like a mask that never s tops grinning, and his left eye was still red as a carnelian ston e. Heavy clouds of incense filled the inner sanctum, but Rahotep appeared immune to the smoke. He lifted the hedjet crown in his h ands, and without blinking, placed it on top of Ramesses's golden brow. May the great god Amun embrace Ramesses the Second, for no w he is Pharaoh of Upper Egypt. While the court erupted into wil d cheers, I felt my heart sink. I fanned away the acrid scent of perfume from under women's arms, and children with ivory clappers beat them together in a noise that filled the entire chamber. Se ti, who was now only ruler of Lower Egypt, smiled widely. Then hu ndreds of courtiers began to move, crushing me between their belt ed waists. Come. We're leaving for the palace! Paser shouted. I glanced behind me. What about Asha? He will have to find you la ter. Dignitaries from every kingdom in the world came to the pal ace of Malkata to celebrate Ramesses's coronation. I stood at the entrance to the Great Hall, where the court took its dinner ever y night, and admired the glow of a thousand oil lamps as they cas t their light across the polished tiles. The chamber was filled w ith men and women dressed in their finest kilts and beaded gowns. Have you ever seen so many people? I turned. Asha! I exclaimed . Where have you been? My father wanted me in the stables to pre pare- For your time in the military? I crossed my arms, and when Asha saw that I was truly upset, he smiled disarmingly. But I'm here with you now. He took my arm and led me into the hall. Have you seen the emissaries who have arrived? I'll bet you could spe ak with any one of them. I can't speak Shasu, I said, to be cont rary. But every other language! You could be a vizier if you wer en't a girl. He glanced across the hall and pointed. Look! I fol lowed his gaze to Pharaoh Seti and Queen Tuya on the royal dais. The queen never went anywhere without Adjo, and the black-and-whi te dog rested his tapered head on her lap. Although her iwiw had been bred for hunting hare in the marshes, the farthest he ever w alked was from his feathered cushion to his water bowl. Now that Ramesses was Pharaoh of Upper Egypt, a third throne had been plac ed next to his mother. So Ramesses will be seated off with his p arents, I said glumly. He had always eaten with me beneath the da is, at the long table filled with the most important members of t he court. And now that his chair had been removed, I could see th at my own had been placed next to Woserit, the High Priestess of Hathor. Asha saw this as well and shook his head. It's too bad y ou can't sit with me. What will you ever talk about with Woserit? Nothing, I suspect. At least they've placed you across from He nuttawy. Do you think she might speak with you now? All of Thebe s was fascinated with Henuttawy, not because she was one of Phara oh Seti's two younger sisters, but because there was no one in Eg ypt with such mesmerizing beauty. Her lips were carefully painted to match the red robes of the goddess Isis, and only the High Pr iestess was allowed to wear that vivid color. As a child of seven I had been fascinated by th, Crown, 2008, 2.5<

2008, ISBN: 0307381757

[EAN: 9780307381750], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Crown], CONTEMPORARY FICTION,HISTORICAL FICTION, Jacket, 400 pages. Ex-library.In ancient Egypt, a forgotten princess must overcome he… Altro …

[EAN: 9780307381750], Gebraucht, guter Zustand, [PU: Crown], CONTEMPORARY FICTION,HISTORICAL FICTION, Jacket, 400 pages. Ex-library.In ancient Egypt, a forgotten princess must overcome her family's past and remake history. The winds of change are blowing through Thebes. A devastating palace fire has killed the Eighteenth Dynasty's royal family-all with the except ion of Nefertari, the niece of the reviled former queen, Nefertit i. The girl's deceased family has been branded as heretical, and no one in Egypt will speak their names. A relic of a previous rei gn, Nefertari is pushed aside, an unimportant princess left to ru n wild in the palace. But this changes when she is taken under th e wing of the Pharaoh's aunt, then brought to the Temple of Hatho r, where she is educated in a manner befitting a future queen. S oon Nefertari catches the eye of the Crown Prince, and despite he r family's history, they fall in love and wish to marry. Yet all of Egypt opposes this union between the rising star of a new dyna sty and the fading star of an old, heretical one. While political adversity sets the country on edge, Nefertari becomes the wife o f Ramesses the Great. Destined to be the most powerful Pharaoh in Egypt, he is also the man who must confront the most famous exod us in history. Sweeping in scope and meticulous in detail, The H eretic Queen is a novel of passion and power, heartbreak and rede mption. Editorial Reviews From Publishers Weekly The intricacie s of the ancient Egyptian court are brought to life in Moran's fa scinating tale of a princess's rise to power. Nefertari, niece of the famed heretic queen Nefertiti, becomes part of the court of Pharaoh Seti I after her family is deposed, and she befriends Ram esses II, the young crown prince. When Ramesses is made co-monarc h, he weds Iset, the granddaughter of a harem girl backed by Seti 's conniving sister, Henuttawy, the priestess of Isis. As Neferta ri's position in the court becomes tenuous, she realizes that she , too, wants to marry Ramesses and enlists the help of Seti's oth er sister, Woserit. But when Nefertari succeeds in wedding Ramess es, power struggles and court intrigues threaten her security, an d it is questionable whether the Egyptian people will accept a he retic descendant as their ruler or if civil war will erupt. Moran (Nefertiti) brings her characters to life, especially Nefertari, who helped Ramesses II become one of the most famous of Egyptian pharaohs. Nefertari's struggles to be accepted as a ruler loved as a leader and to secure her family's position throughout eterni ty are sure to appeal to fans of historical fiction. (Sept.) Cop yright ® Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier I nc. All rights reserved. From Booklist Moran, author of Nefertit i (2007), continues to plow the fertile terrain of ancient Egypt to produce evocative historical fiction. Nefertari, niece of the infamous Queen Nefertiti, is the only member of her reviled and d eposed dynasty to survive a devastating fire. When young Nefertar i falls in love with Ramesses, heir to the Egyptian throne, the s parks really begin to fly. Though many are opposed to the union, the young lovers defy the court of public opinion and marry, sett ing the fervent tone that will characterize their royal union thr ough years of war, rebellion, and exodus. Set against a colorful backdrop of court intrigue, jealous rivalries, and internal and e xternal power struggles, this authentically detailed slice of Egy ptaniawill appeal to fans of Christian Jacq's Ramses series. --Ma rgaret Flanagan Review Nefertari tells her story simply, humbly, and in a clear voice that will attract readers. -Romantic Times Moran's careful attention to detail and her artful storytelling skills bring these people to vivid life, imbuing ancient history with suspense and urgency. -Boston Globe Performing deft feats o f Egyptian magic, Michelle Moran transforms stone-cold history-fr om-hieroglyphs into gripping narrative, peopled by unforgettable characters seething with conflict and passion. I coul, Books<