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Andrew White

The Spirit Bares Its Teeth

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This instant New York Times bestseller is a visceral Victorian gothic horror of a young autistic trans boy who can commune with spirits, forced into a haunted sanitorium.
Mors vincit omnia. Death conquers all.
London, 1883. The Veil between the living and dead has thinned. Violet-eyed mediums commune with spirits under the watchful eye of the Royal Speaker Society, and sixteen-year-old Silas Bell would rather rip out his violet eyes than become an obedient Speaker wife. According to Mother, he'll be married by the end of the year. It doesn't matter that he's needed a decade of tutors to hide his autism; that he practices surgery on slaughtered pigs; that he is a boy, not the girl the world insists on seeing.
After a failed attempt to escape an arranged marriage, Silas is diagnosed with Veil sickness—a mysterious disease sending violet-eyed women into madness—and shipped away to Braxton's Sanitorium and Finishing School. The facility is cold, the instructors merciless, and the students either bloom into eligible wives or disappear. So when the ghosts of missing students start begging Silas for help, he decides to reach into Braxton's innards and expose its rotten guts to the world—as long as the school doesn't break him first.
Este livro está indisponível
331 páginas impressas
Detentor dos direitos autorais
Bookwire
Publicação original
2024
Ano da publicação
2024
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Citações

  • Anastasiya Mukhinafez uma citaçãomês passado
    I almost miss it. The knowledge that something was there with me, hyperaware of danger, keeping me safe. But it wasn’t keeping me safe, was it? It was only ever torturing me, reminding me of what my tutors said, making sure that I remained frozen and afraid like a prey animal. Just like a rabbit
  • Anastasiya Mukhinafez uma citaçãomês passado
    I do not look like my parents’ perfect violet-eyed daughter.

    Good
  • Anastasiya Mukhinafez uma citaçãomês passado
    Father,” she says, “bring help. O rivers, if you have divinity, destroy my shape by changing it.” She glances over her shoulder at me; her cheeks are pink. “That’s not the exact translation, but it’s clunky if you phrase it literally. It’s from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Daphne and Apollo.”

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