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There's evil-a coming from up on the hill
If the Mist doesn't get you, the Agromonds will.
—From an old Anglavian rhyme
EXCERPT:
Thunder roared, and lightning speared down. In its brief flashes, Jemma could see more shadows gathering. They looked like pale Mordsprites, small, bedraggled, skeletal. She lengthened her stride, but the ground was slick and she slipped, slamming face down in black mud. Hauling herself to her feet yet again, she came face to face with one of the shadows.
It was not a Mordsprite at all, but the gray silhouette of a child, a sunken-cheeked, hollow-eyed boy of no more than five, his ragged arms reaching out to her through the Mist.
Jemma stood petrified, her heart pounding as he swayed closer, oblivious to the chaos raining down around him. Others closed in behind him, a straggling band of waifs, all moving in the same direction.
Toward her.
PRAISE:
"Fast, creepy fun. A bit of The Addams Family, a bit of dark fantasy, and a boatload of monsters and magic make this read a ghoulish delight." - Stefan Bachmann, author of The Peculiar
About The Flame in the Mist:
The sun never shines in the land of Anglavia. Its people live within a sinister mist created by their rulers, the cruel Agromond family. The Agromonds' control is absolute; no one dares defy them. But things are about to change, for the youngest of them is not like the others...
Fiery-headed Jemma has always felt like the family misfit, and is increasingly disturbed by the dark goings-on at Agromond Castle. The night before her thirteenth birthday, Jemma discovers the terrifying reason why: She is not who she thinks she is, and the Agromonds have a dreadful ritual planned for her birthday—a ritual that could kill her.
But saving her skin is just the first of Jemma's ordeals. Ghosts and outcasts, a pair of crystals, a mysterious book, an ancient Prophecy—all these gradually reveal the truth about her past, and a destiny far greater and more dangerous than any she could imagine.
With her trusted friend, Digby, and her two telepathic golden rats, Noodle and Pie, Jemma faces enemies both human and supernatural. But in the end, she and her untapped powers might be the only hope for a kingdom in peril.
About Kit
Kit Grindstaff was born near London, and grew up in the rolling countryside of England. After a brush with pop stardom (under her maiden name, Hain), she moved to New York and embarked on her successful career as a pop song writer. Kit now lives with her husband in the rolling countryside of Pennsylvania, where she still writes songs as well as children's books. The Flame In The Mist is her first novel.
Find Kit:
INTERVIEW WITH SHADE AGROMOND from THE
FLAME IN THE MIST.
I’m sitting at my desk preparing
for the interview, when a dark shape sweeps into the room. From the corner of
my eye it could easily be mistaken for a storm cloud, except that it has arms
and legs. I sense a gaze boring into me. I turn, and there, sitting on my most
comfortable chair, is a girl of about fourteen or fifteen. Her black hair hangs
like curtains on either side of her face, shadowing it, but somehow her eyes
manage to pierce through.
Shade: Well, what is it you want to talk about? It had better not be
about Jemma. I’m sick of her.
YABH: No, I want to talk about you,
and perhaps a little about your twin, Feo.
Shade: Feo? Why? I have twice his power, and more.
YABH: Oh, I’m sure you do. Your
reputation is…well, anyway, thank you for coming today, Shade. And welcome.
Shade: Welcome? I don’t feel welcome. Not when you bring up Feo in the first sentence. And this room
is dreadful. Far too small. Not what I’m used to at all. You might at least
have found some tapestries to hang about the place so that I’d feel more at
home.
YABH: By “home”, in case my readers
don’t know, you mean Agromond Castle, right? Tell us a bit about—
Shade: Yes, Agromond Castle! Where else?
YABH: Of course. Silly of me.
Shade: Very silly. I trust your readers aren’t as idiotic. Now, ask
your questions. And be quick about it. It’s almost Repast time, and I'm hungry.
YABH: Repast? Some of our readers might not know—
Shade: Repast! Luncheon! Food! Call it what you
will.
YABH: Um…right. So. Agromond
Castle. It was built by your ancestors, Mordrake and Mordana, hundreds of years
ago, wasn’t it? Tell us a bit about them, and why they also created the Mist.
Shade: Ah, Mordana and Mordrake. They were ferocious and beautiful, and
knew how best to rule the people, if
you can call them that, who infest Anglavia. For they are common dross, I tell
you, utter filth, and have no clue what’s good for them. The Mist, as well as…other
things, keeps them in their place so they won’t dare think to rebel. Mord
forbid they were to have any say in how the country is run. We’d be ruined in
no time—but wait a minute, I thought you wanted to talk about me. And yet you make me talk of others!
YABH: Absolutely, I want to talk
about you! But first, you mention “other things” to keep the Anglavian
population in check. What do you mean by that?
Shade (Her eyes narrowing with suspicion): Why, exactly, do you want to know?
YABH: (feeling foolishly brave): I
heard that it has something to do with…with children.
Shade (breathing in through her nostrils and sitting bolt upright): Ha! Is that so? Then you had better take
care from whom you pick up such stories, and watch what drivel comes from your
mouth.
She tosses her head, and I notice a
dark red diamond-shaped birthmark on her face.
Shade: Why are you looking at me like that? You’re looking at my Mark,
are you not? At this, this! The Mark
of Mord, of my ancestor, Mordrake! Mine is far larger than Feo’s, which is no
larger than, than a dung-beetle, and I have worn it proudly my whole life. If
you dare think ill of it…(She leans forward, her eyes narrowing again.)
YABH: I…I don’t think ill of it at
all. It’s very fetching. It makes you look…interesting.
I mean, it’s, it’s vivid and fascinating, and adds to your…dark appeal.
(Shade sits back in her chair, a peculiar
smile twisting across her mouth, as if her lips aren’t used to taking such a
shape.)
Shade: Dark appeal, you say? I like that. It’s mysterious…Yes. I like
that.
YABH (breathing a sigh of relief): Would
you tell our readers what the Mark signifies?
Shade: Signifies? Ha! It’s supposed
to be the Mark of those who will carry on the work of Mord, and keep Anglavia
under our control. But I have come to seriously doubt that it means anything of
the sort, for Jemma bears it too, and she has never shown the slightest inclination—
(Shade stops abruptly and presses
her lips together in a thin line).
YABH: Yes? You were saying? Jemma
has the Mark?
Shade: I told you, I will not talk about her.
YABH: You obviously hate her a lot.
Why?
Shade: Why? She’s pathetic, a weakling, and blanches at the mere
mention of Mist, that’s why! Oh, she thinks she’s so clever, turning moths into
butterflies or dust into sparkles of silver. Sparkles! How childish! Nothing
but party tricks. And those rats!
Ugh, the vile little urine-colored creatures. You never know when they’re going
to appear. She even carries them under her bodice, for Mord’s sake—right next
to her skin! It’s disgusting. Disgusting! They’re probably riddled with disease
and fleas. And their horrid red eyes, glinting like Mama’s rubies—and those
tails! They’re like long worms, the kind that Feo used to eat when he was
little, but oh no, they’re much worse! Noodle and Pie, Noodle and Pie…the very
names! What made her think them up? A message from her stupid dreams, no doubt.
And the way Papa has always favored her—over
me, me! Why, the little—
Shade’s Mark has now become dark
purple with rage, but she suddenly takes a sharp intake of breath, and appears
to calm down, but I hear her teeth grinding.
Shade: You tricked me.
YABH: Who, me? What did I do?
Shade: Into talking about her. You’re
just like Papa, with his Jemma, Jemma, Jem-mah!
Mord take you!
YABH: Hey, what have you done to my
wall? You’ve made a hole in it! How…how did you do that, just by throwing out
your hand like that?
Shade: It’s merely a small Dromfell. Not one that would kill you.
Though I could, if I wanted to.
YABH: Kill…? Um, well, Shade, it’s
been very nice talking to you—
Shade: Not for me, it hasn’t. It’s a good thing for you that I’m hungry
and it’s time to leave, else Mord knows what would have become of you.
Shade leaps to her feet and struts
out of the room without another word. I’m not at all sorry that she doesn’t
even bother to say “Good-bye”.
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