By Cate Tiernan
The Balefire coven has attempted and did not mirror the unique ceremony that bestowed immortality upon them centuries in the past. a few have been hoping to eventually die, others to find new reaches of strength. Twins Clio and Thais weren't convinced what to anticipate, yet now they're compelled to confront a hidden enemy who nonetheless desires them lifeless. furthermore, they're dealing with the affection they either believe for a similar individual, who has ultimately made his selection. Readers who gobbled the 1st 3 books during this thrill-ride sequence might be demise to work out what occurs subsequent, and they'll be rewarded with a stunning flip of occasions that not anyone will expect!
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Additional info for A Necklace of Water (Balefire, Book 4)
Only Oleg had heard their cries for each other. Only Oleg knew their silent grief that they could not join. He remembered Novgorod only vaguely, where he was born, where he had been a boy, briefly. It did not seem to Oleg that he could have been a boy long. Surely he would remember more of it, if it had been an important time. He had only images, as though he had once gone on vacation there—snapshots, postcards, souvenirs. He was born, properly, when they left, wafting like tea-steam through Vienna, Naples, and into New York.
He would be watching the small of her back now, where her silver-black shirt fell away into a mess of carefully arranged silk ropes and tin chains. He would watch her angles under the strings, the crease of her legs beneath an immodest skirt, her lips moving against the glass. The little wet fog of her breath. She could almost tell what he looked like without turning her head: good black suit, a little too small, clutching his briefcase like a talisman, probably a little gray at the temples, no rings on his hands.
But how intricate and sweet were the figures she inscribed in the margins of his books! What sort of bookbinder could he have been without her, her infinite variation, her obsessive knowledge of ink? She did not hear the tiger-books, but she smelled the trees of India and the terror of cuttlefish in her finger bowls full of black and violet and brown, no less vivid than oil paint. Together, they rarely needed to speak as he cut the pages and wrapped the boards in coppery silk, as he set the type in their ancient printing press: a truculent old dragon in the corner of the kitchen where they had had the stove removed to make room for it.