Cat Valente, author of New York Times bestselling book, The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making debuts The Girl Who Ruled Fairyland—For a Little While, on Tor.com. Read on! (The gorgeous art seen here is by illustrator Ana Juan)
In which a young girl named Mallow leaves the  country for the city, meets a number of Winds, Cats, and handsome folk,  sees something dreadful, and engages, much against her will, in  Politicks of the most muddled kind.
History is a funny little creature. Do you remember  visiting your old Aunt that autumn when the trees shone so very yellow,  and how she owned a striped and unsocial cat, quite old and fat and  wounded about the ears and whiskers, with a crooked, broken tail? That  cat would not come to you no matter how you coaxed and called; it had  its own business, thank you, and no time for you. But as the evening  wore on, it would come and show some affection or favor to your Aunt, or  your Father, or the old end-table with the stack of green coasters on  it. You couldn’t predict who that cat might decide to love, or who it  might decide to bite. You couldn’t tell what it thought or felt, or how  old it might really be, or whether it would one day, miraculously,  decide to let you put one hand, very briefly, on its dusty head.
History is like that. Click to read more »

Cat Valente, author of New York Times bestselling book, The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making debuts The Girl Who Ruled Fairyland—For a Little While, on Tor.com. Read on! (The gorgeous art seen here is by illustrator Ana Juan)

In which a young girl named Mallow leaves the country for the city, meets a number of Winds, Cats, and handsome folk, sees something dreadful, and engages, much against her will, in Politicks of the most muddled kind.

History is a funny little creature. Do you remember visiting your old Aunt that autumn when the trees shone so very yellow, and how she owned a striped and unsocial cat, quite old and fat and wounded about the ears and whiskers, with a crooked, broken tail? That cat would not come to you no matter how you coaxed and called; it had its own business, thank you, and no time for you. But as the evening wore on, it would come and show some affection or favor to your Aunt, or your Father, or the old end-table with the stack of green coasters on it. You couldn’t predict who that cat might decide to love, or who it might decide to bite. You couldn’t tell what it thought or felt, or how old it might really be, or whether it would one day, miraculously, decide to let you put one hand, very briefly, on its dusty head.

History is like that. Click to read more »

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