This is historical fiction to devour, Horowitz says.
Nobody does it like Kate Mosse.
So whats all the buzz about?
Credit: Ruth Crafer
HeresThe Burning Chambers official synopsis: Nineteen-year-old Minou Joubert receives an anonymous letter at her fathers bookshop.
Sealed with a distinctive family crest, it contains just five words:She knows that you live.
For fans of juicy historical fiction, this one might just develop into their next obsession.
Minotaur Books
Read on below, and pre-orderThe Burning Chambersahead of its June 18 releasehere.
History is our teacher.
How the carillon of the Cathedral of Saint-Nazaire stumbled between the eleventh and twelfth note of the scale.
The citadel was rooted in the past, in thrall to its own history.
The lower town, the new Carcassonne, had its sights set on the future.
A wooden hoop wobbled into Minous path.
Merci, the child said, giggling and darting back behind her mothers skirts.
A memory of herself at eight years old, doing her lessons at the kitchen table in the afternoon.
The sun streaming in through the open back door, lighting her slate and chalks.
Her mothers clear voice, patient, turning learning into a wonderful story.
Two major roads running north to south, and east to west like this and this.
Florence drew the outline of the town on a sheet of paper.
Then, here, smaller streets in between.
It looks like the shape of a cross.
A Cathar cross, so it does.
The first people went to live in the Bastide in the year twelve hundred and sixty-two.
A city of refugees, of honest people put forcibly from their homes.
At first the Bastide lived in the grand shadow of the fortified citadel.
But, little by little, the new Carcassonne began to thrive.
Wool and linen and silks.
Carcassonne on the hill was eclipsed by Carcassonne on the plain.
What does eclipsed mean?
Minou had asked, and shed been rewarded with her mothers smile.
It means overshadowed, Florence replied.
In the Bastide, different trades set up their shops in different streets.
The apothecaries and notaries in one place, the rope makers and wool merchants in another.
The printers and booksellers favoured rue du Marche.
Minou set her sights on the day ahead, then walked into the Grande Place.
Even during Lent, the place was a riot of colour and commerce on market day.
She tried to take pleasure in the spectacle.
But, in truth, despite the bustling and convivial atmosphere, her spirits were troubled.
A chill wind was blowing through the Languedoc.
Bernard Joubert was a faithful Catholic, adhering to the old ways from habit as much as piety.
It had been his wife who had both a skill for business and an enquiring mind to match it.
Tolerance ran in her veins as steady and true as her Languedocien blood.
God is greater than anything man can comprehend.
Forgives all our sins.
He expects no more than for us each to do our best to serve Him.
Florences instincts had been right and the business had thrived.
At least it had.
Some weeks ago, the shutters of their bookshop had been daubed with crude accusations of blasphemy.
Bernard had tried to dismiss it as the work of idle fools, stirring up mischief for mischiefs sake.
Minou hoped he was right.
Her mother would have faced the challenge with fortitude.
The business was struggling and receipts were down.
His shutters, cracked and in need of oil, were rusted shut.
She had not seen him for days.
Minou stood in front of their blue-painted door and took a deep breath.
She told herself that of course the familiar facade would look as it always did.
Why should it not?
The door would be locked and untampered with.
The shutters would be unmolested.
The sign b joubert livres achat et vente would be hanging from the metal hooks on the stone wall.
There would be no repeat of the attack some weeks previously.
The knot in her chest vanished.
There was no sign of malice or disorder, no evidence of interference.
Everything looked just as it had when she had taken her leave the previous afternoon.
Another cold one, I warrant.
Monsieur Sanchezs eldest son was standing on the corner of rue du Grand Seminaire, waving at her.
He was lusty and strong, but simple minded.
A child in a mans body.
Good morning, Charles, she called back.
He carried on with a smile on his broad face and a sparkle in his flattened eyes.
A cruel wind blows in February, he said.
Cold, cold and cold again .
Set to be fair all day, or so say the clouds.
Thin strands of flat white cloud, like ribbon, overlaid the rising pink sun.
He put his finger to his lips.
Clouds have secrets, sshh, if we but have the wit to listen.
Set to be fair all day!
To work, she said, and stepped inside.
She went through to the small room at the rear of the shop to fetch the tinder box.
The printing press stood silent, the trays of iron letters beside it, unused now for several weeks.
Minou wiped it clean with her finger.
Would she ever hear the rattle of the press again?
Her father had lost interest even in reading, let alone in printing.
With the taper, she lit a fresh candle upon the counter, then the lamps.
She picked it up.
Heavy paper of good quality; black ink, but in a rough hand and crude block letters.
She never received personal letters.
Everyone she knew, with the exception of her estranged uncle and aunt in Toulouse, lived in Carcassonne.
In any case, she was always known by her nickname, Minou, never Marguerite.
Minou turned the letter over.
The letter was sealed with a family insignia, though the seal was cracked.
Had she damaged it when she picked it up?
Below that was an inscription too small to read without the aid of a magnifying glass.
In the liminal space between one breath and the next, Minou felt something shimmer inside her.
Bona nueit, bona nueit .
Braves amics, pica mieja-nueit
Cal finir velhada.
Minou fetched the paper knife from the counter, slipped the tip beneath the fold and broke the seal.
Inside was a single sheet of paper which looked to have been used before.
At the top, the writing was obscured with what looked like soot.
she knows that you live.
What did it mean?
Were the words a threat or a warning?
Then the brass bell above the door rang, clattering into the silence of the shop.
The days work had begun.
