by Corrine Cella (@corrineonawhim)
Adult Historical Fantasy
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Query
I’m thrilled to present my queer historical fantasy novel THE TARNISHED GENTLEMEN (94,000 words) set in the golden age of Bar Harbor’s exclusive luxury resorts. Perfect for fans of C. G. Drews, Katabasis meets Bad Summer People in this story about rich boys doing stupid things like summoning demons.
With the turn of the 20th century, musicians become magicians as they find their instruments better suited to summoning demons, but after a disastrous demon summoning leaves his muse dead, prodigy violinist Maximilian Wainwright trades in his bow for textbooks. Grieving over his loss, he latches onto an ill-fated friendship with his classmate Braxton, a beguiling pianist with an interest in a legendary sonata capable of granting any wish. As their research evolves from theoretical to deadly, they uncover a sinister truth: there is always a price to be paid. Things go from bad to ruinous before their research is finished when a disagreement with Braxton expels Maximilian from university and, to his family’s horror, into gossip headlines.
When they are reunited next summer in Bar Harbor, the premiere island escape for the rich and famous, Maximilian is hell-bent on destroying all traces of the sonata, even if that means proposing a deal with his friend-turned-foe whose obsession with demons has veered murderous. But when the boys inadvertently summon not one, but two unhappy demons, and a body turns up not long after, Maximilian must navigate a thorny friendship and a treacherous social landscape to uncover what Braxton’s hiding.
As all eyes turn to him as the most likely suspect, Maximilian will have to decide whether he’s willing to place his trust in the person who has already betrayed him once before. But digging up the past in a small town claimed by the fashionable and powerful costs dearly when everyone has secrets fit to kill for. It may even cost him his soul.
I’m an alumna of The Yale Writers’ Workshop where I received personal mentorship from R. F. Kuang, and I’ve been in contact with The Bar Harbor Historical Society who has contributed to my research for this novel. I graduated from Northeastern University with a B.S. in Computer Science, and when I’m not plotting books, I’m working as an indie game developer coding a cozy bookshop management game.
Thank you for your time and consideration.
First Five Pages
CHAPTER 1
Bar Harbor, Maine
AUGUST 1906
4 YEARS AGO
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I straightened the silk blue cravat my sisters had forced upon me, double-checked the clasps on my violin case, and prayed no one would ask me to play it tonight. Bad luck, especially with such a pivotal performance tomorrow, but I was pressed upon to bring it so there it sat on the carriage seat beside me. The ride up to the cottage offered the perfect view of the fresh lawn rolling out to a patch of sand lapped up by the water, the yacht bobbing at the end of the weathered pier, and the rough winds blowing in over the rock beds carrying the slightest hint of soot from a passing steamboat. We slotted neatly into the line parading up to the front. Hooves and wheels and heels crunched the gravel pathway shooting beneath the oak branches hugging the entrance. Every guest had donned their sharpest suits and feathered hats to raise a final toast to another summer well spent.
Ahead of us, a group of red-faced adolescents crammed into a wagon hooted with laughter as one of their own toppled onto the ground in a heated rush to get inside. Scattered flickering lights that seemed woven into the trimmed hedges like small yellow rosebuds flew at them. Fireflies. They flapped their little wings and buzzed around the stone tower, and once they finished, they dropped to the ground and lit up the steps to the arched entryway in two waving lines. The new arrivals erupted into applause, and I made my way inside. None of them were who I was looking for.
For my peers just shy of eighteen years, waiting to get shipped off to university and solidify careers or wedding engagements, summering in Bar Harbor was a season of excess and excuses. It was all around pleasantly diverting. But tonight, I could not settle my nerves long enough to benefit.
Overlapping conversation punctuated by peals of laughter and clinking glasses lingered in the halls. I plucked a smuggled vintage from one of the silver trays hovering by the wall, and the bubbly champagne left a welcome burn on my tongue. I stared blankly at the tray as it continued to float past me in mid-air. Another one of the magician’s works at play, courtesy of their cursed partnership.
The last ball of the season was well underway, and I could hardly imagine a more perfect waste of musical talents than to translate months of dedication and practice into conjuring up a novel manner in which to serve skewered meatballs. That sweeping wonder which once filled me at the sight of every impossible feat had died a thousand small deaths with every shove into mundanity. At least the fireflies required some measure of creative insight. Art should be for art’s sake, not for resting on one’s laurels and summoning demons to do the things people were too lazy to commit themselves to, or heaven forbid, efficiency.
That was not how greatness was achieved. But no party of the fashionable set was complete without a magician to add their sparkle.
I raised the bottle in toast of another lost soldier, a dry laugh escaping me. Most members of high society may be fascinated by their shiny party tricks, but I saw magic for what it truly was. A farce.
To become a magician, one must first become a musician. However, only the most mediocre performers, those jealous of those with real talent who succeeded in finding true patrons of the arts who recognized their worth, turned to demons to elevate themselves into good financial standing. Access to magic made them content in their inadequacy. Dependent.
Pathetic.
At least if I failed to acquire a patron tomorrow, I would never suffer the same fate. No, I would be forced to give music up for good and join the family business as my father wanted. Musicians be damned, in more ways than one.
So long as all went well with my performance tomorrow, I would never have to choose between using my talents for such distasteful things or watching them waste away. My dreams were finally within my reach. There was just the issue of one small matter to sort first.
Clutched in my hand, illuminated by the moonlight streaking past the tall windows, was an ivory card adorned in swooping script.
An invitation. Our footman had handed it to me earlier that day.
Friday. Gardens. Midnight. I have something to show you. Bring your violin! -B
Warmth bubbled up from the pit of my stomach, a heady mix of alcohol and nerves. Tonight was my last chance. I was going to confess to my dearest friend, and I was not nearly intoxicated enough yet to endure it.
I ducked inside the ballroom, letting myself be swallowed by the tide of hungry guests making a beeline to the serving bar. Blaring trumpets charged through the chatter, while cigar smoke tainted with blue whiffs of opium curled above the craning necks of heiresses whispering in tight alcoves. Fresh-faced debutantes swept their long lace skirts across the hardwood floor, their dance cards dangling from their wrists. In the dining room, a dashing doctor surrounded by an ensemble of young ladies nursing his ego shared a drink with a shrewd diplomat. And in the billiard room, I caught a glimpse of my sister Prudence fluttering around her husband as he lost the last of his poker chips to the lucky scion of a newspaper empire.
I found gossip columnists gushing over governors, silent film stars belting their hearts out alongside opera singers, but no sign of Bertie. I took out my pocket watch, the attached silver chain gleaming in the dim light as it clicked open.
It was time to go, but I was still baffled as to what exactly to say. It was not as though I had ever done this before. I could only hope the answer might be found in the form of liquid courage.
I tipped back another flute of champagne, and wandered towards the gardens.
“Maximilian!” A woman with short auburn hair—not Bertie—was waving at me from the patio. Unlike the powdered faces around her, bright rouge dotted her cheeks and painted her lips a dark red.
Evalyn Walsh was an absolute gem, but a Midwest mining heiress with an iron-willed personality was not someone I was equipped to bear at the moment. Her hair and jewelry might change on a dime, but she was terribly stubborn when she wanted to be, and right now, entertaining Evalyn’s whims for the evening was the last thing I needed. She could be quite the blabbermouth when left to her own devices.
I pretended not to have seen her, but she was already untangling herself from her dance partner. She grabbed a hold of her skirts and raced up the stone steps. The layers of pearls draped around her neck bounced as her white laced up boots thumped against the floor. She narrowly avoided stomping on the toes of another guest, although I didn’t think she took notice.
“There you are.” She looped her arm through my own, stalling my escape. “Where have you been tucked away? I searched high and low for you!”
“And here I thought you were only present to catalog every manner of jewel to procure for your collection. I’m truly honored.”
“Indeed, you make for a very fine jewel.”
I let out a weak laugh, unable to hide my grin even as I shook my head. Her wit was always a welcome reprieve in this pit of propriety, but this was not the time to indulge in idle gossip. She had traveled all this way for my performance, though. I couldn’t simply ignore my friend. “I trust Bar Harbor is living up to your expectations?”
“The art captures nature’s likeness well enough, and the parties are a delight even when the people are decidedly not. Present company excluded.” She narrowed her eyes at the violin on my back. “Although I confess, I was under the impression your performance was taking place in the morning.”
“Correct.” I carefully extracted my arm. “And if you’ll excuse me, I must steal away to practice.”
“This is hardly the time or place,” she scolded. “I will not stand idly by while you work yourself into an early grave.”
“I didn’t realize practicing violin was such a dangerous pursuit.” I cursed my luck when she began following me. Separating myself was proving more difficult than anticipated.
She rounded in front of me. “This is a night for celebration, not rehearsals! Surely you can put down your violin for one night. One mistake never killed anyone.”
“Leave him be, Evalyn,” a third voice drawled. Ned broke away from a gaggle of sportsmen and slipped between us, bumping me aside with his shoulder. “If he wants to be a killjoy, I say let him! Who are we mere mortals to stand in the way of such greatness? Remind me, what is it they say in your line of work for good luck?”
“Oh, I know! Break a leg,” Evalyn chirped.
“Yes, how ghastly! It is my sincere wish that you break all your legs.”
“How generous of you.” I sent Evalyn a knowing look. She grinned back. We both knew Ned was in love with her, but we disagreed on whether that was something to be thrilled by. I couldn’t fathom how she tolerated the man, but if he wanted her attention, he was more than welcome to have it.