It's a pleasure to have author M. J. Rose here today. She's sharing a postcard of Paris from the year 1894 to give you a few clues about her exciting new release The Witch of Painted Sorrows. Be sure to enter her fantastic giveaway contest at the end of this post.
Postcard no. 2
Postcard no. 2
Postmark
Paris, France 1894
We
waited until midnight to visit the nightclub called Hell. We’d heard that they enacted rituals there.
Deep underground, on certain nights of the week, it was said there was carnage.
On other nights miracles were preformed.
Like
everything else in Paris that year, the sexual innuendos that swirled were as
powerful as the perfume the courtesans at the table next to us wore. The two women were both dripping in pearls,
whispering and pointing. I looked at the man they were singling out. He was too
thin and too ugly but he had the most brilliant blue eyes.
They
said he had almost died and that a woman had brought him back from the dead and
he was still under her spell. When I asked they who had that ability they
said Sandrine knows… but has never told
anyone.
That
name again! Sandrine! Who is she? Where can we find her?
*~*~*
The
Witch of Painted Sorrows
M.J.
Rose
Genre: Gothic – Erotic
Publisher: Atria/S&S
Date of Publication: March 17 2015
ISBN-10: 147677806X
ASIN: B00LD1ONBC
Number of pages:384
Book Description:
New York socialite Sandrine
Salome flees an abusive husband for her grandmother's Paris mansion, but what
she finds there is even more menacing. The house, famous for its lavish art
collection and elegant salons, is closed and under renovation. Her grandmother
insists it's too dangerous to visit but Sandrine defies her — an unexplainable
force is drawing her home.
There she meets Julien Duplessi,
a mesmerizing architect, who introduces her to the City of Lights — its art
world, forbidden occult underground, nightclubs — and to her own untapped
desires.
From a mysterious fire at the
Palais Garnier opera house, to a terrifying accident at the Eiffel tower and
classes with Gustav Moreau at the École des Beaux-Arts, Sandrine's experiences
awaken her passions. Among the bohemians and demi-monde, Sandrine uncovers her
erotic nature as a lover and painter.
Then more ominous influences
threaten — her husband is tracking her down and something insidious is taking
hold, changing Sandrine, altering her. She's overcome by the spirit of La Lune,
a witch, a legendary sixteenth-century courtesan, and an unsung artist in her
own right, who exposes Sandrine to a darkness that could be a gift or a curse.
This is Sandrine's "wild
night of the soul," her odyssey in the magnificent city of Paris, of art,
love and witchery, and not until she resolves a tragic love story and family
curse will she be free of the ghost's possession.
Effortlessly absorbing and richly
imagined, with sumptuous detail and spellbinding suspense, The Witch of Painted
Sorrows conjures the brilliance and intrigue of Belle Époque Paris and
illuminates the fine line
Available at Amazon BN iTunes IndieBound
Excerpt
Paris, France April
1894
I did not cause the
madness, the deaths, or the rest of the tragedies any more than I painted the
paintings. I had help, her help. Or perhaps I should say she forced her help on
me. And so this story—which began with me fleeing my home in order to escape my
husband and might very well end tomorrow, in a duel, in the Bois de Boulogne at
dawn—is as much hers as mine. Or in fact more hers than mine. For she is the
fountainhead. The fascination. She is La Lune. Woman of moon dreams, of
legends and of nightmares. Who took me from the light and into the darkness.
Who imprisoned me and set me free.
Or is it the other way
around?
"Your
questions," my father always said to me, "will be your saving grace.
A curious mind is the most important attribute any man or woman can possess.
Now if you can just temper your impulsiveness..."
If I had a curious
mind, I'd inherited it from him. And he'd nurtured it. Philippe Salome was on
the board of New York City's Metropolitan Museum of Art and helped found the
American Museum of Natural History, whose cornerstone was laid on my fifth
birthday.
I remember sitting atop
my father's shoulders that day, watching the groundbreaking ceremony and
thinking the whole celebration was for me. He called it "our museum,"
didn't he? And for much of my life I thought it actually did belong to us,
along with our mansion on Fifth Avenue and our summerhouse in Newport. Until it
was gone, I understood so little about wealth and the price you pay for it. But
isn't that always the way?
Our museum's vast halls
and endless exhibit rooms fascinated me as much as they did my father—which
pleased him, I could tell. We'd meander through exhibits, my small hand in his
large one, and he'd keep me spellbound with stories about items on display. I'd
ask for more, always just one more, and he'd laugh and tease: "My
Sandrine, does your capacity for stories know no bounds?"
But it pleased him, and
he'd always tell me another.
I especially loved the
stories he told me about the gems and fate and destiny always ending them by
saying: "You will make your own fate, Sandrine, I'm sure of it."
Was my father right? Do
we make our own destiny? I think back now to the stepping-stones that I've
walked to reach this moment in time.
Were the incidents of
my making? Or were they my fate?
The most difficult
steps I took were after certain people died. No deaths were caused by me, but
at the same time, none would have occurred were it not for me.
So many deaths. The
first was on the morning of my fifteenth birthday, when I saw a boy beaten and
tragically die because of our harmless kisses. The next was the night almost
ten years later, when I heard the prelude to my father's death and learned the
truth about Benjamin, my husband. And then there were more. Each was an end-ing
that, ironically, became a new beginning for me.
The one thing I am now
sure of is that if there is such a thing as destiny, it is a result of our
passion, be that for money, power, or love. Passion, for better or worse. It
can keep a soul alive even if all that survives is a shimmering. I've even seen
it. I've been bathed in it. I've been changed by it.
*********
Four months ago I snuck
into Paris on a wet, chilly January night like a criminal, hiding my face in my
shawl, taking extra care to be sure I wasn't followed.
I stood on the stoop of
my grandmother's house and lifted the hand-shaped bronze door knocker and let
it drop. The sound of the metal echoed inside. Her home was on a lane blocked
off from rue des Saints-Pères by wide wooden double doors. Maison de la Lune,
as it was called, was one of a half dozen four-story mid-eighteenthcentury
stone houses that shared a courtyard that backed up onto rue du Dragon. Hidden
clusters like this were a common configuration in Paris.These small enclaves
offered privacy and quiet from the busy city. Usually the porte cochère was
locked and one had to ring for the concierge, but I'd found the heavy doors
ajar and hadn't had to wait for service.
I let the door knocker
fall again. Light from a street lamp glinted off the golden metal. It was a
strange object. Usually on these things the bronze hand's palm faced the door.
But this one was palm out, almost warning the visitor to reconsider requesting
entrance.
I was anxious and
impatient. I'd been cautious on my journey from New York to Southampton and
kept to my cabin. I'd left a letter telling Benjamin I'd gone to visit friends
in Virginia and assumed that once he returned and read it, it would be at least
a week before he'd realize all was not what it seemed. One thing I had known
for certain—he would never look for me in France. It would be inconceivable to
Benjamin that any wife of his could cross the ocean alone.
Or so I assured myself
until my husband's banking associate, William Lenox, spotted me on board. When
he expressed surprise I was traveling by myself, I concocted a story but was
worried he didn't believe me. My only consolation was that we had docked in
England and I had since crossed the channel into France. So even if Benjamin
did come looking, he wouldn't know where I'd gone.
That very first night
in Paris, as I waited for my grandmother's maid to open the door, I knew I had
to stop thinking of what I had run away from. So I refocused on the house I
stood before and as I did, felt an overwhelming sense of belonging, of being
welcome. Here I would be safe.
Reviews
April Indie Next List
March Library Reads List
Big Spring Books – Amazon
#1 Historical Fiction for 2015 -
Goodreads
"This bell époque thriller is a
haunting tale of obsessive passions." —People Magazine
"Provocative, erotic, and
spellbindingly haunting...will have the reader totally mesmerized
cover-to-cover....a 'must-have' novel." —Suspense Magazine
"A haunting tale of erotic love....
M.J. Rose seamlessly weaves historical events throughout this story filled with
distinctive characters that will keep the reader captivated to the end."
—Examiner.com
"Rose has a talent for compelling
writing, and this time she has outdone herself. Fear, desire, lust and raw
emotion ooze off the page." —Associated Press
"Haunting tale of possession."
—Publishers Weekly
"Rose's new series offers her
specialty, a unique and captivating supernatural angle, set in an intriguing
belle epoque Paris — lush descriptions, intricate plot and mesmerizing
storytelling. Sensual, evocative, mysterious and haunting." —Kirkus
About
the Author:
New York Times Bestseller, M.J.
Rose grew up in New York City mostly in the labyrinthine galleries of the
Metropolitan Museum, the dark tunnels and lush gardens of Central Park and
reading her mother's favorite books before she was allowed. She believes
mystery and magic are all around us but we are too often too busy to notice...
books that exaggerate mystery and magic draw attention to it and remind us to
look for it and revel in it.
Rose's work has appeared in many
magazines including Oprah Magazine and she has been featured in the New York
Times, Newsweek, WSJ, Time, USA Today and on the Today Show, and NPR radio.
Rose graduated from Syracuse University, spent the '80s in advertising, has a
commercial in the Museum of Modern Art in NYC and since 2005 has run the first
marketing company for authors - Authorbuzz.com
The television series PAST LIFE,
was based on Rose's novels in the Reincarnationist series. She is one of the
founding board members of International Thriller Writers and currently serves,
with Lee Child, as the organization's co-president.
Rose lives in CT with her husband
the musician and composer, Doug Scofield, and their very spoiled and often
photographed dog, Winka.
Newsletter: http://goo.gl/AjJRo9
Website: http://mjrose.com/
Tour
giveaway
3 $25 Amazon gift certificates
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