The Beautiful (The Beautiful #1)(110)

A huge thank-you to all the amazing book bloggers, readers, and book lovers from all over the world. I cannot do what I do without you.

To Jessica Khoury for the stunning map and the gorgeous emblem. It’s my desktop, and I am in awe of your talent and consummate professionalism.

To Daniel José Older for the New Orleans expertise, the notes, and endless support. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

To Alwyn for your precious emails and your enthusiasm and all the help perfecting my sad attempts at French. You are a delight and one of the most genuinely kind people I know. I adore you.

To Rosh, JJ, and Lemon: when I think of all the memories we’ve already made, I smile at everything destined to come. Thank you for gracing me with your love and endless talent.

To Sabaa for cheering with me, crying with me, reading with me, and inspiring me every day. And for watching The Two Towers Extended Edition and knowing every line by heart, just like me. Your friendship is a gift beyond measure.

To Gio Mannucci for all the help with the Italian. I love how this career has reconnected us in such a wonderful way.

To Carrie Ryan and Brendan Reichs for all the Cantina lunches, advice, and laughter. QC represent!

To my assistant Emily Williams: thank you for being the most organized person I know and keeping me—and my hare-brained ideas!—on track.

To Maggie Kane, Heather Baror-Shapiro, and the wonderful team at IGLA: thank you for all your endless work and unceasing professionalism.

To Elaine: I am so lucky to have a chosen sister like you. Thank you for fixing all the Spanish in the book and sending me curse-laden text messages at 3:00 a.m. and for loving New Orleans like I do. There is no one I’d rather gallivant down Dumaine with, searching for a tarot card reader or our next foodie fix.

To Erica, Ian, Chris, and Izzy: I love you all so much, and am so grateful to call you family. To my parents—Umma, Dad, Mama Joon, and Baba Joon—thank you for all your love and for always putting my books where everyone can see them, front-facing in bookstores.

To Omid, Julie, Navid, Jinda, Evelyn, Isabelle, Andrew, Ella, and Lily: thank you for our family and for all the times you never fail to show up and cheer for me. I’m so proud to share in this life with you.

And to Vic: for the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention, and for the way you make me smile even when you’re not there, thank you, to the stars and back. There is no better man than you.





TURN THE PAGE FOR AN EXCERPT OF RENéE AHDIEH’S FLAME IN THE MIST





The Beginning

In the beginning, there were two suns and two moons.

The boy’s sight blurred before him, seeing past the truth. Past the shame. He focused on the story his uba had told him the night before. A story of good and evil, light and dark. A story where the triumphant sun rose high above its enemies.

On instinct, his fingers reached for the calloused warmth of his uba’s hand. The nursemaid from Kisun had been with him since before he could remember, but now—like everything else—she was gone.

Now there was no one left.

Against his will, the boy’s vision cleared, locking on the clear blue of the noon sky above. His fingers curled around the stiff linen of his shirtsleeves.

Don’t look away. If they see you looking away, they will say you are weak.

Once more, his uba’s words echoed in his ears.

He lowered his gaze.

The courtyard before him was draped in fluttering white, surrounded on three sides by rice-paper screens. Pennants flying the golden crest of the emperor danced in a passing breeze. To the left and right stood grim-faced onlookers—samurai dressed in the dark silks of their formal hakama.

In the center of the courtyard was the boy’s father, kneeling on a small tatami mat covered in bleached canvas. He, too, was draped in white, his features etched in stone. Before him sat a low table with a short blade. At his side stood the man who had once been his best friend.

The boy sought his father’s eyes. For a moment, he thought his father looked his way, but it could have been a trick of the wind. A trick of the perfumed smoke curling above the squat brass braziers.

His father would not want to look into his son’s eyes. The boy knew this. The shame was too great. And his father would die before passing the shame of tears along to his son.

The drums began to pound out a slow beat. A dirge.

In the distance beyond the gates, the boy caught the muffled sound of small children laughing and playing. They were soon silenced by a terse shout.

Without hesitation, his father loosened the knot from around his waist and pushed open his white robe, exposing the skin of his stomach and chest. Then he tucked his sleeves beneath his knees to prevent himself from falling backward.

For even a disgraced samurai should die well.

The boy watched his father reach for the short tantō blade on the small table before him. He wanted to cry for him to stop. Cry for a moment more. A single look more.

Just one.

But the boy remained silent, his fingers turning bloodless in his fists. He swallowed.

Don’t look away.

His father took hold of the blade, wrapping his hands around the skein of white silk near its base. He plunged the sword into his stomach, cutting slowly to the left, then up to the right. His features remained passive. No hint of suffering could be detected, though the boy searched for it—felt it—despite his father’s best efforts.