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Ironskin

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Ironskin Cover

ISBN13: 9780765330598
ISBN10: 0765330598
Condition: Standard
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Excerpt

Chapter 1

A HOUSE CRACKED AND TORN

 

The moor was grey, battlefield grey. It had been five years since the last fey was seen, but out here Jane could almost imagine the Great War still raged on. Grey mist drifted through the blackened trees, recalling the smoke from the crematory kilns. That was a constant smell in the last months of the war.

Jane smoothed her old pea coat, shook the nerves and fatigue from her gloved fingers. Shed been up since dawn, rattling through the frostbitten February morning on smoky iron train and lurching motorcar, until now she stood alone on the moor, looking up at an ink black manor house that disappeared into the grey sky.

The manor had been darkly beautiful once, full of odd minarets, fanciful gargoyles, and carved birds and beasts.

A chill ran down her spine as she studied the design of the house. You didnt have to be an architecture student to recognize who had drawn up the plans for it. It was clear in the imprint of every tower and flying buttress, clear in the intricate blue glass windows, clear in the way the gargoyles seemed to ready their wings to swoop down on you.

The fey had designed this.

The frothy structures were still perfect on the south end of the building, on the carriage house. On the north the house had war damage. It had been bombed, and now only the skeleton remained, the scraggly black structure sharp and jagged, mocking its former grace and charm.

Just like me, Jane thought. Just like me.

The iron mask on her face was cold in the chill air. She wrapped her veil more tightly around her face, tucked the ends into the worn wool coat. Helens best, but her sister would have better soon enough. Jane leapfrogged the bits of metal and broken stone to reach the front door, her T-strap leather shoes slipping on bits of mud, the chunky heels skidding on wet moss. She reached straight up to knock, quick, quick, before she could change her mind—and stopped.

The doorknocker was not a pineapple or a brass hoop, but a womans face. Worse—a grotesque mockery of a woman, with pouched eyes, drooping nose, and gaping mouth. The knocker was her necklace, fitted close under her chin like a collar. An ugly symbol of welcome. Was this, too, part of the fey design?

Jane closed her eyes.

She had no more options. Shed worn out her welcome at her current teaching position—or, rather, her face had worn out her welcome for her. Her sister? Getting married and moving out. There had been more jobs for women, once, even women with her face. But then the war ended and the surviving men came slowly home. Wounded, weary men, grim and soul-scarred. One by one they convalesced and tried to reinsert themselves into a semblance of their former lives. One such would be teaching English at the Norwood Charity School for Girls instead of Jane.

Jane stuffed her hands into the coats patch pockets (smart with large tortoiseshell buttons; her sister certainly had taste), touched the clipping she knew by heart.

Governess needed, country house, delicate situation. Preference given to applicant with intimate knowledge of the childs difficulties. Girl born during the Great War.

Delicate and difficulties had drawn Janes attention, but it was the phrase Girl born during the Great War that had let Jane piece the situation together. A couple letters later, shed been sure she was right.

And thats why she was here, wasnt she? It wasnt just because she had no other options.

It was because she could help this girl.

Jane glared at the hideous doorknocker, grabbed it, and banged it on the door. Shed made it this far, and she wasnt going to be scared off by ornamental hardware.

The door opened on a very short, very old person standing there in a butlers livery. The suit suggested a man, but the long grey braid and dainty chin—no, Jane was sure it was a woman. The butlers face was seamed, her back, rounded. But for all that, she had the air of a scrappy bodyguard, and Jane wouldnt have been surprised if that lump in her suit coat was a blackjack or iron pipe, hidden just out of sight.

The butlers bright eyes flicked to Janes veil, glimmered with interested that Jane could not parse. She tapped her fingers on her bristly chin, grinned with sharp teeth. “An ye be human, enter,” the butler said formally, and so Jane crossed the iron threshold and entered the manor.

It was darker inside than out. The round foyer had six exits. The front door and the wide stairs opposite made up two. The other four were archways hung with heavy velvet curtains in dark colors: garnet and sapphire on the left, forest green and mahogany on the right. Worn tapestries hung on the stone walls between the curtains, dampening the thin blue of a fey-lit chandelier. Fey technology had mostly disappeared from the city as the lights and bluepacks winked out one by one and could not be replaced. It was back to candles and horses—though some who were both wealthy and brave were trying the new gaslights and steam-cars. Some who were merely brave were attempting to retrofit the bluepack motorcars with large devices that burned oil and let off a terrible smell—like the car that had brought her from the station. The housekeeper must have husbanded the chandelier lights carefully to make it last so long, when all fey trade had vanished.

“Ill take your coat. That way for the artist,” said the little butler, and she gestured at the first doorway on the left, the garnet-red curtains.

“No, Ive come for the governess position,” said Jane, but the butler was already retreating through the sapphire curtains with Janes coat and pasteboard suitcase, grey braid swinging. In that padded room her words died the second they fell from her lips.

Her steps made no noise as she walked over to draw back the curtain. It was not a hallway, but a small chamber, papered in the same deep garnet and lit with one flickering candle.

On the walls were rows of masks.

Jane stared. The masks were as grotesque as the doorknocker. Each was uniquely hideous, and yet there was a certain similarity in the way the glistening skin fell in bags and folds. Clearly they were all made by the same artist, but what sort of man would create these monstrosities—and who would buy them? They would fit a person, but surely no one would wear them, even for a whimsy like that masked cocktail party Helen had attended. In the flickering oil light they looked hyper-real, alive. Like something fey from the old days, before trade had given way to war. She lifted her veil to see more clearly, reached up to touch one sagging cheek.

“Do you like my collection?”

Jane jumped back, wrapping her veil close.

A man stood in the curtained entrance. The garnet folds swung around him as he stepped inside, stared down at her. He was very close and very tall in that narrow room, and his eyes were in shadow.

“Do people actually buy these?” she said, and was aghast at having blurted out something so rude.

But he didnt look offended. “Youd be surprised,” he said, still studying her. He was not handsome, not as Helen would describe it—not soft and small-nosed, no ruddy cheeks and chin. He was all angles, the bones of his cheek and jaw plainly visible, and his hair leaped skyward as if it would not stay flat.

Jane tugged on the corner of the veil. She knew how much the gauze did and didnt cover. The folds of the white veil obscured the details of her iron half-mask, but they didnt hide that it existed. She caught them all looking, men, women, children. They stared into her veil, fascinated, appalled, trying not to get caught.

But he was staring into her eyes.

Jane marshaled her thoughts. “Im here from the city,” she said. “I need a job.” She had not planned to state it so baldly, but he and his leering masks threw her from her stride, and now the words were confused. They stumbled from her tongue, and she felt awkward and stupidly young, though she had been making her own living for nearly five years.

She especially felt foolish when he nodded and said, “I know. I bargained with old Peter to pick you up. Only reliable chap in town, when it comes to venturing out to Silver Birch.”

“Oh,” she said. Her driver. Of course. “Yes, thank you.”

“I wouldve sent the motorcar, but were down to the last full-size bluepack, and after that…” He shrugged.

“No horses?”

“They dont take to this house very well. The forest makes them skittish.” He crossed his arms, his sleeve brushing her bare elbow. She had put on her best dress—a patterned navy one with short ruffled sleeves, though she had regretted it frequently in the cold and again now. Almost spring was the worst—the last cold and wet of winter when you were dying for bare arms and sunshine. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Ive been working as a teacher,” she said, “and before that I was a governess. My strength is literature and composition, but Ive taught all subjects. I speak three languages and I know how to help your—”

“I know,” he said. “I saw your curriculum vitae before. I wrote you about it. I want to know about you.”

Her ruined cheek burned, hot under the iron. It was both at the implication that shed said something foolish, and at the idea that he wanted to know her. The embarrassment was quickly consumed by anger, always close at hand since that day during the war. “What more do you need to know? You received my letters of recommendation.”

He scratched his chin, studying her closely. “In five years youve had four positions. Each one praised your knowledge, punctuality, and morals to the skies. Yet each one let you go.”

She was white-hot inside her veil. Anger at the families who dismissed her, anger at the returning soldiers who took her positions, anger at him for probing her injuries. Barely trusting herself to speak, she said, “Yes.”

“Let me see,” he said, and before she could stop him he lifted her white veil and pulled it away from her face, revealed her to the small red room.

The iron mask covered her ruined cheek. It fit around one eye, crept over her temple where flecks of the fey shrapnel had hit. The hammered iron was held in place by leather straps that buckled around her head. And right now, with the rage that consumed her at his actions, it was probably leaking bits of orange light around the edges, as if Jane herself were on fire.

“How could you—!”

“I needed to know.” He was looking at her as if something entirely unexpected had landed on his doorstep. “Whats your curse and why cant I sense it?”

“Its rage, since you asked so politely. And you cant sense it because Im ironskin.” “Wearing ironskin,” she had said the first few months, but soon enough shed dropped the verb, imitating the other scarred children at the foundry. “The iron mask stops the fey curse. The rage cant leak through.” Jane tore the veil from his hands and flung it over her face, but it was far too late. He stopped her from tucking the cloth down her collar.

“Leave it,” he said. “You wont be veiled here.” He gestured for her to precede him out of the room. His hand dropped as if it were going to guide the small of her back, but then it did not. It would be too forward of him, but perversely, she was hurt.

In five years she could list on one hand the people who had intentionally touched her.

Jane emerged into the round blue-lit foyer, half-thinking he was going to ask her to leave and not return. Despite her desperation—perhaps it would be for the best. To be stranded here in this house that reeked of fey, with this man who ripped down her barriers, who loomed over her with unreadable eyes … perhaps it would be easier if he dismissed her now.

But he pointed her up the wide stairs. “Come meet Dorie,” he said.

The wide stairs led, logically enough, to the second floor, though Jane knew that “logical” was not a given with fey architecture. Not human logic, anyway. She followed his lead, unpinning her hat with its veil from her carefully crimped hair. Her straight dark hair did not hold crimps well, and there was little enough of it to see between the leather straps for the mask and the hat—still, Jane had tried to look her best today.

At the top of the landing was a suite of playroom and bedroom, and there was a small girl sitting on the playroom floor, dancing her doll in a ray of sunshine.

Jane was so distracted by the sudden appearance of sunshine in the grey house, on the grey moor, that it took her several blinks to notice something that made her stomach lurch.

Dorie was not touching the doll.

Jane willed her feet to stay where they were, though every inch of her screamed to run.

How could this little girl be doing something only the fey could do? Was this child no human, but a fey in disguise, ready to attack at any second? Panic shrieked inside her, she clutched her hat as if to tear it to shreds—but again she willed herself: Stay.

Mr. Rochart reached down and confiscated the doll. “In this house we use our hands,” he said. The dolls porcelain hands wrestled with his grip; the porcelain legs kicked his chest. “Dorie!” he said, and the doll flopped over his arm, unmoving.

“Mother,” said Dorie.

He leaned to Janes ear. “Calling it Mother is a fancy I cant shake from her,” he said.

“They do look alike.” Jane would not back away from this girl, though the sharp sense of something fey made her queasy, made her wounded cheek blaze. She had expected a girl with a simple curse, damaged like herself, like the others she had known at the foundry—a girl with red streaks on her arm who leaked despair, a boy with a scarred back who filled everyone who came near with a lust for violence. That child she couldve helped, in the same way that the foundry had helped her: through acceptance and ironskin.

She did not understand this girl.

“She is not … like me,” Jane said. “She is not cursed?”

“Shes cursed, sure enough,” said Mr. Rochart. “But she is not like you. I had heard that there were people like you, hit by fey shrapnel in the Great War, scarred with a curse that everyone around them feels. But she has no scar. And her curse is not like yours. Merely…,” and he gestured at the doll that had been dancing in the air.

Jane was all at sea. It was all wrong that this tiny mite should wave her hands and have power dance behind them, should be able to make Jane recall the talents of the frightening, relentless fey.

Not to mention the creepiness of calling this doll with its waving porcelain hands “Mother.” True, the strange Mother doll did look like Dorie. They had similarly perfect features: button noses, rosebud mouths, rouged cheeks. The doll had painted crimped yellow hair—Dorie had blond ringlets.

But at least there was life behind Dories blue eyes. And not behind the dolls glass ones. Both things were a blessing.

“I see,” Jane said. She stood her ground and kept her trembling fingers in her coat pockets.

Dorie studied Jane. “Your face is funny,” she announced, displaying tiny white teeth.

“I have to wear iron on my cheek to keep other people from getting infected,” said Jane, though she knew this explanation would go over the girls head. She was sure she had been told that Dorie was five, but even minus the curse, Dorie was unlike any five-year-old shed met.

Already bored, Dorie turned away. She clacked her tongue rhythmically, sketched the air in time to it. Dots and swirls of blue light flickered behind her fingers.

The last time Jane saw that blue light was on a battlefield with her brother. She breathed, she swayed—she refused to run.

Mr. Rocharts hand came up as if he would steady her, but then he stepped back, his hands dropping. Twice was not etiquette, twice meant he did not want to touch her, and she was ice-cold inside. “We have tried a dozen governesses over the last year,” he said. “None lasted a week. They all claimed it was not us—”

But Jane knew these words and they softened something inside of her. “It was them,” she finished. “They were summoned home unexpectedly. Something urgent came up—a sickly mother, a dying aunt.”

“You wouldnt believe the number of dying aunts in this country,” he said. And even—he smiled, and Jane saw laughter light behind his shadowed eyes. Then they closed off again, watching the blue lights flicker.

Jane took a breath. Took the smooth-faced doll from his arms and handed it to Dorie. The floating lights vanished as Dorie grabbed the doll and held it close. “Pretty Mother,” she said, burrowing her face into its cloth body.

“She likes pretty things,” Mr. Rochart said. “Her mother was the same way.” Silently he crossed to the window, looking out into the black-branched forest that crept up the grounds of Silver Birch Hall as if it would swallow the house. In the sunlight she saw that his slacks, though fine once, were worn along the crease and at his knees.

“She is gone, then?” Jane said softly. Unbidden she neared him, him and that wide window onto the choking forest. To live here would mean to live in its dark and tangled grip.

Mr. Rochart nodded. “The last month of the war.” The words landed like carefully placed stones, a heavy message grown no lighter with repetition. “She was killed and taken over by a fey. She was pregnant with Dorie.”

Jane sucked air across her teeth. The mother killed, the daughter still unborn—no wonder this child was different from any shed ever seen. Her heart went out to the two of them.

Mr. Rochart turned to Jane, looking down, down. In the filtered light through the window she could finally see his eyes. They were amber, clear and ancient, a whole history trapped inside of them just as real amber trapped insects. He reached to take her hand; she knew he wouldnt—but then he did. “Will you help us?”

She had not been touched like that, not simply like that, since the first year of the war. Unbidden, she recalled the last boy to touch her: a bakers apprentice shed loved, with blond hair and a smile of gentle mischief. She was fourteen, and hed invited her to her first dance, taken her waist, whisked her around the piano and out into the garden, where her stockings had splattered with spring mud. Someones mother had stumbled on them laughing together and sternly ordered them back inside.…

A touch and an unwanted memory should not influence her decision, but in truth her decision was already made. It was made from the moment she saw Dorie, from the moment she saw the clipping, perhaps even from the moment almost exactly five years ago when she knelt by her brothers body on the battlefield, blood dripping from her chin. If this man would take her on, she would bend all her will to the task. She would help this girl. She would help them.

“I will stay,” she said. “I will start now. This morning.”

Relief flooded his eyes—almost too much. He pressed her hand and was gone from the room before Jane could decide what it meant.

 

Copyright © 2012 by Christine Marie Connolly

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Average customer rating based on 2 comments:

Candace @ LoveyDoveyBooks, December 13, 2012 (view all comments by Candace @ LoveyDoveyBooks)
Just like its gripping cover, Ironskin stopped me in place with dark mystery and a struggling, yet determined, heroine. Tina Connolly weaves a story with clever skill and fairy-tale appeal, a story that will regale and haunt minds long after its closing.

Connolly grips and threads readers through the remnants of the terrible war between fey and humans while also focusing on Jane's conflicts, ranging from the depths of beauty to a mysterious romantic interest. While lightly steampunk, Ironskin is heavy with supernatural intrigue. Jane Eliot's cheek is scarred and fey-cursed. The iron mask that covers the whole of one side of her face not only hides her deformity, but also the fey powered rage that reaches out to any surrounding her. Jane has an extensive presence and feels so much like a non-fictional person, someone filled with grief over the past, heavy with worry over present trials. She struggles with being on the outside of normal, self-conscious of the mask. For all her deep contemplations of who she is versus who she would like to be, Jane has a strength identifiable from the outset of the novel. A strength that grows as Jane works through what she wants and faces the dangerous fey she believed were gone forever.

Jane works as a governess to the daughter of Edward Rochart. She's charged with teaching Dorie to stop using her fey-curse, moving objects without using her hands. The task proves to be more strenuous than she expected, yet Jane is set on helping Dorie and comes to learn more about fey, the fey-cursed, and the war that started it all. The plot moves smoothly and with purpose, every action leading to revelations that will cause chills to shiver across the reader's spine. From all that has been seen of fairies and magic nothing will surprise readers as much as Connolly's take on such elusive creatures. Fey are infamous for their nefarious desire to take over human bodies, dead of course, but their attraction to physical beauty and extraordinary talent takes the top spot for filling hearts with trepidation. A tale of empowerment and control, Ironskin will segue into a sequel even more haunting and mysterious!

*I received a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review*
Also posted on Lovey Dovey Books
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SarahS WondrousReadings, October 1, 2012 (view all comments by SarahS WondrousReadings)
Cursed by the fey war, Jane wears an iron mask to contain the curse and to hide her scar.
She takes up a job for Edward Rochart. Being governess to Mr. Rochart's daughter is not what she thought it would be.


This is a retelling of Jane Eyre, which I have not read, so I can't compare how alike the two are, but I do know what the book is about.


The cover! Yeah it's amazing, but everyone knows how I like my covers! I liked the Gothic atmosphere of it, and the beginning was promising, but it sort of slowed down and went downhill form there. The last half of the book stood at a standstill for me. I was confused and found myself rereading pages back. There was nothing wrong with the heroine Jane. And I liked Dorie somewhat, I liked the interactions between Jane and Dorie. It was the romance didn't do it for me, it was weird and creepy.
I don't know if I'm going to be picking up the next book.


You might enjoy it if you like classics.


Thank you to Tor Books and NetGally for this ARC.
2.5/5 stars
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Product Details

ISBN:
9780765330598
Author:
Connolly, Tina
Publisher:
Tor Books
Subject:
Fantasy - General
Subject:
Science Fiction and Fantasy-Fantasy
Subject:
Fantasy - Historical
Edition Description:
Trade paper
Series Volume:
1
Publication Date:
20121031
Binding:
HARDCOVER
Language:
English
Pages:
304
Dimensions:
8.25 x 5.5 x 1 in

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Product details 304 pages Tor Books - English 9780765330598 Reviews:
"Publishers Weekly Review" by , "Steeped in the gothic tradition and borrowing freely from Jane Eyre, this debut romantic fantasy takes few risks with an old-school tale of love, betrayal, and redemption. Jane Eliot, covering her fey-scarred face with an iron half-mask to prevent her magically induced rage from leaking out, takes a position as a governess at a half-ruined manor house on the moors. Dorie, Jane's charge, is also fey-cursed; her mother, while pregnant, was taken over by the fey during the Great War. Dorie's father, Edward Rochart, broods over Dorie's fate as well as his own dark bargains with the fey who haunt the nearby woods. Emotive eyes are a frequent feature ('There was a well of sorrow in those amber eyes'; 'The waterfall of desire spilled over into her eyes'). The characters are rather modern in their growing appreciation of their fey 'curses,' whose powers they tend to adopt rather than rejecting them in horror, but Connolly provides plenty of discussion of fashion, courtship, and marriage for fans of Victorian gothics. Agent: Ginger Clark, Curtis Brown." Publishers Weekly Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.
"Synopsis" by ,
An enchanting historical fantasy set in an alternate version of the early 1900s, in the aftermath of a war between humans and the fey.
"Synopsis" by ,
TINA CONNOLLY's enchanting debut—IRONSKIN.
 
Jane Eliot wears an iron mask.

It's the only way to contain the fey curse that scars her cheek. The Great War is five years gone, but its scattered victims remain—the ironskin.

When a carefully worded listing appears for a governess to assist with a “delicate situation”—a child born during the Great War—Jane is certain the child is fey-cursed, and that she can help.

Teaching the unruly Dorie to suppress her curse is hard enough; she certainly didn't expect to fall for the girl's father, the enigmatic artist Edward Rochart. But her blossoming crush is stifled by her scars and by his parade of women. Ugly women, who enter his closed studio...and come out as beautiful as the fey.

Jane knows Rochart cannot love her, just as she knows that she must wear iron for the rest of her life. But what if neither of these things are true? Step by step Jane unlocks the secrets of a new life—and discovers just how far she will go to become whole again.

"Synopsis" by ,

Jane Eliot wears an iron mask.

It's the only way to contain the fey curse that scars her cheek. The Great War is five years gone, but its scattered victims remain—the ironskin.

When a carefully worded listing appears for a governess to assist with a “delicate situation”—a child born during the Great War—Jane is certain the child is fey-cursed, and that she can help.

Teaching the unruly Dorie to suppress her curse is hard enough; she certainly didn't expect to fall for the girl's father, the enigmatic artist Edward Rochart. But her blossoming crush is stifled by her scars and by his parade of women. Ugly women, who enter his closed studio...and come out as beautiful as the fey.

Jane knows Rochart cannot love her, just as she knows that she must wear iron for the rest of her life. But what if neither of these things are true? Step by step Jane unlocks the secrets of a new life—and discovers just how far she will go to become whole again.

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