by Nadine Flint (@nadineflintbooks)
New Adult Fantasy
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Query
For fans of Rebecca Ross’ Divine Rivals, MYTH, MUSE, MAGICIAN (90,000 words New Adult fantasy) is The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern meets Peaky Blinders and features 1920s-tinted grit and glamour; slow-burn, star-crossed romance; and a cut-throat crime war set against the backdrop of a stage magician’s competition.
Etta Hughes wants three things: a permanent job, her younger sister’s acceptance into seamstress school, and to never be found by their mother—a crime family matriarch who’ll kill Etta for her familial magic. But after the loss of yet another temporary position, an eviction notice, and her sister’s looming school fees, Etta turns to the one resource she swore she’d never use: her magical ability to weave illusions with her voice.
Sam Wright wants nothing to do with his family’s illegal, lucrative business, the underground manufacturing of magic-gifting alcohol. When the competition of a lifetime is announced—one where the prize is both a much-coveted stage magician’s apprenticeship and an exorbitant amount of cash—Sam is determined to seize this opportunity as his way out of the family.
Shortly after both Sam and Etta secure positions as contestants, Sam’s father learns of his son’s ruse. He strikes a two-part bargain with Sam—Sam can stay in the competition if he investigates the depletion of his family’s magical product, but if he loses, he must step into his role as successor in the business. Forced to perform on stage together, the competition intensifies between Sam and Etta, and so too does their undeniable attraction. But when Sam discovers Etta is the missing member of a rival family, and her magic is the key to the dwindling supply of magical alcohol, he must decide whether to hand her over to his criminal family to secure his win, or follow his heart, keep her secret, and risk losing the competition—and his freedom.
I’m an alumni of Adrienne Young’s Writing With the Soul workshop, and more than 16,000 readers follow me on Instagram, where I highlight fantasy book reviews and recommendations. MYTH, MUSE, MAGICIAN is inspired by my many childhood years spent in the dance community both on stage and in the wings, as well as my own experiences with anxiety and OCD.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
First Five Pages
The spirits cursed me with the installation of Mr. Morris’ candlestick telephone.
The seemingly endless thread of silk bites through my fingers as I wind it onto the bobbin. Dust motes float in tired beams from the closed textile factory windows, far too high for anyone to reach. Far too high for any sip of fresh air. Within the humid heat and constant whir of machinery, women sit in rows and rows and rows, their heads down, eyes trained on the task in front of them. No one dares a word for fear of being labeled inefficient—the term that gets you fired.
I’ve lost count of the spools I’ve wrapped this morning, my skin now paper-thin and marred with cracks. Hunger cramps at my hollow stomach, the time for lunch long-past. The usual hour dwindles as only minutes remain to eat and rush home to cover my hands with a thin layer of the glycerine-rosewater cream I can’t afford, rather than visiting the ducks at the pond. With the bite of late Autumn, it’s not long until they fly south.
And still, that relentless, tinny ring.
If Mr. Morris says it’s still work time, then it’s still work time. The others had drilled into me on my first day. There are a number of rules. Of etiquette. You are just a temporary worker. But should you perform with speed, and abide by the rules, that may change.
And with permanence comes a raise and a steady paycheque. Assurance that Pip and I have a roof over our heads. That Pip stays in school.
That she never ends up here.
Sweat beads at my neck and my stomach gurgles. My sandwich, decidedly not eaten, waits for me in my purse. But I can’t leave until Mr. Morris unlocks the door.
The blatant ring of the telephone cuts through the warehouse and straight to my eardrums once again. Mr. Morris’ was the last factory on the block to install the new technology this past month. On the walk to work this morning, whispers of a devastating shipping issue at the docks last night was all anyone could talk about. Apparently, some of Mr. Morris’ textile supplies were on that shipment, and so the vibrating metal bell rings with little reprieve. Mr. Morris hasn’t left his office since nine o’clock.
And my teeth have been on edge since.
“Psst, Henrietta,” the girl next to me says. Winnie. Mr. Morris’ niece. She drops a wrapped peppermint and a flyer on my desk, her cosmetic-gloved hand lingering there a moment. Two. My envy over her gloves tastes sour on my tongue.
“I want to show you something,” Winnie says.
I check over my shoulder.
The chipped wooden motif of the clock above Mr. Morris’ station reveals the metal case beneath, and the minute-hand points just past the bold-painted six. Thirty-two minutes past twelve. Thirty-two minutes past the time he leaves for lunch. Thirty-two minutes past the time he walks across the concrete floors, with a clack in his step and a pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Thirty-two minutes past the time he ignores the rail-thin women curled over his beloved textiles.
Unless they’re talking. Then he’ll notice. Then he’ll ensure we aren’t an inefficiency in his textile-fabricating machine.
But the office door remains shut, sealed off from the rest of us.
Except for that spirits-damned ringing.
I snatch the candy Winnie dropped on the desk, pop it in my mouth and shove the wrapper in my pocket. The burst of peppermint cuts through the stale heat and the smell of too many bodies in an enclosed space. I hold the thread once more but jut my chin.
“What’s this?” I ask. The paper depicts a man hanging upside down, suspended by a rope tied around his ankles. Flames reach towards his head in ravenous whorls.
Winnie shifts her chair closer to mine, the scrape against the floor stiffening my spine. “There are posters all over town.” She loosens the belt of her black apron and takes out a metal compact and her lipstick. Without hesitation, she paints on a deep red, cupid’s bow lip. “The Magician’s Theatre is looking for new acts. And the public is invited to watch. You mentioned that sister of yours loves costumes,” she says. “I thought maybe we could go together? It could be fun.”
My hands tremble with dread, and I grip the silk to hide their shaking. Though paycheques are supposed to come this week, I’m behind on rent and Pip needs new shoes.
And what if my magic gets out?
Chills shudder from my chest. Not here. Needle down my arms. Please, not now.
The cold reaches my fingertips. I rub them together. As if the very thought of my magic has summoned it here, along with these symptoms I cannot hide.
Not now not now not now.
Winnie’s stomach gurgles beside me, wrenching me from this spiral if but for a moment. As if in sympathy, mine echoes hers. Winnie arcs her perfectly manicured brow at me, those green eyes incredulous.
My belly clenches. “I just need some lunch.” Though the thought now brings roiling waves to my middle.
Finally, Mr. Morris emerges from his office in his grey pinstriped suit, cane in hand. But not the kind for walking.
I lower my gaze to the thread before me. His steps reverberate up to my jaw as he struts through the factory rows.
Winnie shakes her head in amusement, her curled bob swishing with the movement. She swivels in her seat, and waves.
Waves.
“What are you doing?” I whisper through gritted teeth.
“Getting us our lunch break.”
But I’m not Winnie. I can’t just wave down Mr. Morris and ask. It’s best if I’m invisible, and if that’s not possible, at least camouflaged into the background. A mere speck.
Winnie’s not a temp.
And she doesn’t have magic.
“Winnie—” My heart beats in my ears and my breaths come too loud. I smooth my hair, the strands getting stuck in the cracks of my fingertips. Though I’m ice within, sweat clams my palms. Worn wool sticks to my skin as I wipe my hands on my skirt.
Mr. Morris’ steps echo in our direction, the cane tapping on every other step. My stomach falls to my feet. Winnie doesn’t resume her work. She just sits. Patiently.
Inefficiently.
“Mr. Morris,” her tone paints a vivid image of her saccharine smile. “Have you had lunch yet? It’s almost quarter to one! You must be starved, with how hard you’re working.”
But if Mr. Morris processes her words, he disregards them. “How many bobbins of silk have you produced this morning?”
“More than you,” she jokes. “But I’ve reached the allotted target.”
Mr. Morris smirks. “It’s good your father ensured you had examples of hard work, Winnie.” He taps his cane one, two, three times. “The door is unlocked. You may go for lunch.”
Winnie rises, then tucks in her chair at her desk. “Thank you, Uncle.” She walks down the aisle but not before giving me a wink. I look away, my gaze trained on my work but my eyes unable to focus on the task.
Bobbins click. Ladies whisper. Laughter rises from somewhere ahead of me.
But Mr. Morris’ presence looms beside me, still. “Miss Hughes,” he says.
Ice bites at the back of my neck. I look up. Meet his stare. He adjusts his grey wool flat cap, though the shadows only accentuate the tired half-moons below his eyes.
He’s just checking my work. Ensuring I’ve met my morning quota.
A frigid chill furrows down my spine and I pray it won’t reach my legs. Not here. Not now. I’m taking too long to answer. My thoughts come both too fast and too slow and my vision blurs at the edges. Five things you can hear…
I blow out a breath. “Yes, Mr. Morris?”
He lowers into Winnie’s seat. The scent of tobacco clings to him. It turns my stomach. It’s the only thing I remember about my father.
Before he left.
“How long have you been here, Henrietta?”
I don’t miss how he uses my first name. Fifty-eight days. “Just shy of two months, sir.” The urge to rub my hands threatens, as if the ritual movement would stop this conversation from happening. Stop the constant unease clamping my ribs. Rather, the cold spirals, tight, and my muscles tense. Pain sears my right side and I bite my tongue before a cry can slip out.
If I sit, just so, it won’t be so bad. The conversation won’t be, either. I can get through this. Pay attention.
Mr. Morris taps his cane on the chair leg. “Then I think today is your last.”
Bitter cold slices at my shoulder blades. Did he just say last? “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“It’s nothing personal, Miss. Hughes.” He pushes to stand then pulls a paper from his breast pocket and drops it on my table.
Notice of Termination.
“You should take your belongings with you.”
“I don’t understand.” My chest tightens, pulling my breaths short. “I can work harder, sir. I can stay late.” My nails pierce my palms. Anything to distract from the inevitable end of this conversation. “I can work through lunch. On Saturdays.”
I have rent to pay. Groceries to buy.
And Pip.