Fantasy
![Alexis Hall - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B00ESZWVQE.jpg)
Mortal Follies: A Novel (The Mortal Follies series)
A young noblewoman must pair up with an alleged witch to ward off a curse in this irresistible sapphic romance from the bestselling author of Boyfriend Material.
"Fresh and delightful . . . All the interpersonal drama of Jane Austen meets all the complex treachery of Greek mythology."-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
It is the year 1814, and life for a young lady of good breeding has many difficulties. There are balls to attend, fashions to follow, marriages to consider, and, of course, the tiny complication of existing in a world swarming with fairy spirits, interfering deities, and actual straight-up sorcerers.
Miss Maelys Mitchelmore finds her entry into high society hindered by an irritating curse. It begins innocuously enough with her dress slowly unmaking itself over the course of an evening at a high-profile ball, a scandal she narrowly manages to escape.
However, as the curse progresses to more fatal proportions, Miss Mitchelmore must seek out aid, even if that means mixing with undesirable company. And there are few less desirable than Lady Georgiana Landrake-a brooding, alluring young woman sardonically nicknamed "the Duke of Annadale"-who may or may not have murdered her own father and brothers to inherit their fortune. If one is to believe the gossip, she might be some kind of malign enchantress. Then again, a malign enchantress might be exactly what Miss Mitchelmore needs.
With the Duke's help, Miss Mitchelmore delves into a world of angry gods and vindictive magic, keen to unmask the perpetrator of these otherworldly attacks. But Miss Mitchelmore's reputation is not the only thing at risk in spending time with her new ally. For the reputed witch has her own secrets that may prove dangerous to Miss Mitchelmore's heart-not to mention her life.
"Fresh and delightful . . . All the interpersonal drama of Jane Austen meets all the complex treachery of Greek mythology."-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
It is the year 1814, and life for a young lady of good breeding has many difficulties. There are balls to attend, fashions to follow, marriages to consider, and, of course, the tiny complication of existing in a world swarming with fairy spirits, interfering deities, and actual straight-up sorcerers.
Miss Maelys Mitchelmore finds her entry into high society hindered by an irritating curse. It begins innocuously enough with her dress slowly unmaking itself over the course of an evening at a high-profile ball, a scandal she narrowly manages to escape.
However, as the curse progresses to more fatal proportions, Miss Mitchelmore must seek out aid, even if that means mixing with undesirable company. And there are few less desirable than Lady Georgiana Landrake-a brooding, alluring young woman sardonically nicknamed "the Duke of Annadale"-who may or may not have murdered her own father and brothers to inherit their fortune. If one is to believe the gossip, she might be some kind of malign enchantress. Then again, a malign enchantress might be exactly what Miss Mitchelmore needs.
With the Duke's help, Miss Mitchelmore delves into a world of angry gods and vindictive magic, keen to unmask the perpetrator of these otherworldly attacks. But Miss Mitchelmore's reputation is not the only thing at risk in spending time with her new ally. For the reputed witch has her own secrets that may prove dangerous to Miss Mitchelmore's heart-not to mention her life.
Editorial Reviews
"Alexis Hall can always be counted on to deliver a sweet and compelling historical romance that explores the paths that queer people forged to find love. Mortal Follies more than satisfies."-NPR
"[Mortal Follies] is a lovely, pitch-perfect romance, with an alternate Regency setting that is well developed and has tremendous charm. . . . Part historical, part fantasy, all top-notch queer romance."-Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
"[Mortal Follies] proves a fresh and delightful addition to the queer romance canon. . . . All the interpersonal drama of Jane Austen meets all the complex treachery of Greek mythology. Full of adventure, chaos, magic, and lust, this will enthrall Hall's fans and new readers alike."-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"From the book's puckish narrator-whose sly observations on humanity add another layer of humor to the story-to the whimsically wonderful, witty writing that evokes Jane Austen and Oscar Wilde, Hall . . . [creates] an effervescent, genre-blurring romantic confection that will be utterly irresistible to fans of Patricia C. Wrede, Caroline Stevermer, Mary Robinette Kowal, and Zen Cho."-Booklist
"[Mortal Follies] is a lovely, pitch-perfect romance, with an alternate Regency setting that is well developed and has tremendous charm. . . . Part historical, part fantasy, all top-notch queer romance."-Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
"[Mortal Follies] proves a fresh and delightful addition to the queer romance canon. . . . All the interpersonal drama of Jane Austen meets all the complex treachery of Greek mythology. Full of adventure, chaos, magic, and lust, this will enthrall Hall's fans and new readers alike."-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"From the book's puckish narrator-whose sly observations on humanity add another layer of humor to the story-to the whimsically wonderful, witty writing that evokes Jane Austen and Oscar Wilde, Hall . . . [creates] an effervescent, genre-blurring romantic confection that will be utterly irresistible to fans of Patricia C. Wrede, Caroline Stevermer, Mary Robinette Kowal, and Zen Cho."-Booklist
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1
When Miss Mitchelmore arrived at Lady Etheridge's ball, she was resplendent in a gown of silver French gauze over a silken slip, her hair styled à la Grecque and decorated with roses. She caught even my eye, and I sometimes find it a little tricky to tell mortals apart. Which, I'll admit, may have caused the tiniest of problems in the past.
For much of the evening I watched her from across the room while an elderly colonel opined to me at length regarding the French emperor. It was not, as you may imagine, a topic about which I cared in the slightest. See above regarding my difficulty distinguishing mortals from one another, even short Corsicans. Eventually I extricated myself from the conversation by enchanting him with a slight but persistent itching between the shoulder blades.
Thus freed, I found myself following the pretty Miss Mitchelmore. I am, amongst other things, a collector of stories, and my instincts told me that she was either the kind of lady who did interesting things or the kind to whom interesting things happened. Or, at a pinch, the kind to whom they could be made to happen. I am not above interfering in mortal affairs if it seems truly necessary, or if it would be mildly entertaining.
Initially it seemed the evening would be a profound disappointment. Miss Mitchelmore danced with several gentlemen, but never twice with the same one. She conversed with a number of ladies but said nothing that might be scandalous. There was, however, something strange about her gown. After her first dance I noticed a tear in the hem. After the second I caught sight of a stray thread trailing from her glove and saw petals falling from her hair. I should at this point make clear to the reader that the lady's dress, while fine, was decidedly not of fairy manufacture. The works of my people have a wholly undeserved reputation for coming apart unexpectedly or transforming into leaves and cobwebs at the slightest provocation. In fact, such disasters tend to require considerable provocation. The problem is that mortals are exceedingly provoking.
But on this evening, at this ball, Miss Mitchelmore's dress was most certainly dissolving into something. A snag here, a run there-it swiftly added up to a problem that first she, and then the general assembly, could not ignore. The loss of a headdress might be explained away as youthful high spirits, but by the time her gloves had frayed to the elbows it was clear she was in no fit state to be in mixed company. And since in her present circumstances mixed company could scarcely be avoided, she was, to put it bluntly, f***ed.
To her credit, but my disappointment, she did not panic. I have, over the centuries, seen a number of mortals deprived unexpectedly of clothing (there are some jokes, after all, which never fall out of fashion) and their responses are almost always hilarious. But once Miss Mitchelmore's skirts had begun to go the way of the rest of her ensemble, she retreated quietly to the garden and took shelter behind an ornamental bush.
I followed her, of course. Slipping my mortal guise, I became first a shadow, then a sparrow, then a raindrop on a chestnut leaf. I have a fondness for scenes of mortal misadventure, especially those that befall preposterously, and I had the sense that this lady's life was soon to become extremely preposterous.
Not having had the foresight to bring a needle, thread, and several yards of spare fabric to a society ball, Miss Mitchelmore's efforts to conceal the dishevelment of her garments were growing increasingly futile. The fine cloth of the dress was crumbling beneath her fingers, and it was not long before she stood alone in the dark attired only in her corset, stockings, and chemise. Having been raised never to curse, she heaved a sigh and kicked a pebble.
Some minutes passed, during which she recovered a little of her composure but none of her clothing. Her dilemma was a simple one. She could return to the party in her undergarments and suffer the immediate loss of her status and reputation. Or she could wait in the garden until somebody found her and suffer the mildly delayed loss of her status and reputation.
Poor Miss Mitchelmore. She was, by any measure, having a pisser of an evening.
The door to the terrace opened and a figure emerged. She was, to Miss Mitchelmore's great relief, a woman, meaning immediate scandal had been averted. Or would have been, were it not for the specific woman it turned out to be. To the wags of the ton the lady was known as the Duke of Annadale. She was not, of course. That had been her father. But he had died somewhat improbably of leprosy a few years prior to the events I presently relate, having been predeceased b...
When Miss Mitchelmore arrived at Lady Etheridge's ball, she was resplendent in a gown of silver French gauze over a silken slip, her hair styled à la Grecque and decorated with roses. She caught even my eye, and I sometimes find it a little tricky to tell mortals apart. Which, I'll admit, may have caused the tiniest of problems in the past.
For much of the evening I watched her from across the room while an elderly colonel opined to me at length regarding the French emperor. It was not, as you may imagine, a topic about which I cared in the slightest. See above regarding my difficulty distinguishing mortals from one another, even short Corsicans. Eventually I extricated myself from the conversation by enchanting him with a slight but persistent itching between the shoulder blades.
Thus freed, I found myself following the pretty Miss Mitchelmore. I am, amongst other things, a collector of stories, and my instincts told me that she was either the kind of lady who did interesting things or the kind to whom interesting things happened. Or, at a pinch, the kind to whom they could be made to happen. I am not above interfering in mortal affairs if it seems truly necessary, or if it would be mildly entertaining.
Initially it seemed the evening would be a profound disappointment. Miss Mitchelmore danced with several gentlemen, but never twice with the same one. She conversed with a number of ladies but said nothing that might be scandalous. There was, however, something strange about her gown. After her first dance I noticed a tear in the hem. After the second I caught sight of a stray thread trailing from her glove and saw petals falling from her hair. I should at this point make clear to the reader that the lady's dress, while fine, was decidedly not of fairy manufacture. The works of my people have a wholly undeserved reputation for coming apart unexpectedly or transforming into leaves and cobwebs at the slightest provocation. In fact, such disasters tend to require considerable provocation. The problem is that mortals are exceedingly provoking.
But on this evening, at this ball, Miss Mitchelmore's dress was most certainly dissolving into something. A snag here, a run there-it swiftly added up to a problem that first she, and then the general assembly, could not ignore. The loss of a headdress might be explained away as youthful high spirits, but by the time her gloves had frayed to the elbows it was clear she was in no fit state to be in mixed company. And since in her present circumstances mixed company could scarcely be avoided, she was, to put it bluntly, f***ed.
To her credit, but my disappointment, she did not panic. I have, over the centuries, seen a number of mortals deprived unexpectedly of clothing (there are some jokes, after all, which never fall out of fashion) and their responses are almost always hilarious. But once Miss Mitchelmore's skirts had begun to go the way of the rest of her ensemble, she retreated quietly to the garden and took shelter behind an ornamental bush.
I followed her, of course. Slipping my mortal guise, I became first a shadow, then a sparrow, then a raindrop on a chestnut leaf. I have a fondness for scenes of mortal misadventure, especially those that befall preposterously, and I had the sense that this lady's life was soon to become extremely preposterous.
Not having had the foresight to bring a needle, thread, and several yards of spare fabric to a society ball, Miss Mitchelmore's efforts to conceal the dishevelment of her garments were growing increasingly futile. The fine cloth of the dress was crumbling beneath her fingers, and it was not long before she stood alone in the dark attired only in her corset, stockings, and chemise. Having been raised never to curse, she heaved a sigh and kicked a pebble.
Some minutes passed, during which she recovered a little of her composure but none of her clothing. Her dilemma was a simple one. She could return to the party in her undergarments and suffer the immediate loss of her status and reputation. Or she could wait in the garden until somebody found her and suffer the mildly delayed loss of her status and reputation.
Poor Miss Mitchelmore. She was, by any measure, having a pisser of an evening.
The door to the terrace opened and a figure emerged. She was, to Miss Mitchelmore's great relief, a woman, meaning immediate scandal had been averted. Or would have been, were it not for the specific woman it turned out to be. To the wags of the ton the lady was known as the Duke of Annadale. She was not, of course. That had been her father. But he had died somewhat improbably of leprosy a few years prior to the events I presently relate, having been predeceased b...
