Action & Adventure
![Alyssa Wees - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_alyssa_wees.jpg)
Nocturne: A Novel
In this haunting, evocative fantasy set in 1930s Chicago, a talented ballerina finds herself torn between her dreams and her desires when she's pursued by a secretive patron who may be more than he seems.
"An enchanting and lyrical fever dream bursting with dazzling prose and dark romance, Nocturne enthralled me."-Erin A. Craig, New York Times bestselling author of House of Salt and Sorrows
Growing up in Chicago's Little Sicily in the years following the Great War, Grace Dragotta has always wanted to be a ballerina, ever since she first peered through the windows of the Near North Ballet company. So when Grace is orphaned, she chooses the ballet as her home, imagining herself forever ensconced in a transcendent world of light and beauty so different from her poor, immigrant upbringing.
Years later, with the Great Depression in full swing, Grace has become the company's new prima ballerina-though achieving her long-held dream is not the triumph she once envisioned. Time and familiarity have tarnished that shining vision, and her new position means the loss of her best friend in the world. Then she attracts the attention of the enigmatic Master La Rosa as her personal patron and realizes the world is not as small or constricted as she had come to fear.
Who is her mysterious patron, and what does he want from her? As Grace begins to unlock the Master's secrets, she discovers that there is beauty in darkness as well as light, finds that true friendship cannot be broken by time or distance, and realizes there may be another way entirely to achieve the transcendence she has always sought.
"An enchanting and lyrical fever dream bursting with dazzling prose and dark romance, Nocturne enthralled me."-Erin A. Craig, New York Times bestselling author of House of Salt and Sorrows
Growing up in Chicago's Little Sicily in the years following the Great War, Grace Dragotta has always wanted to be a ballerina, ever since she first peered through the windows of the Near North Ballet company. So when Grace is orphaned, she chooses the ballet as her home, imagining herself forever ensconced in a transcendent world of light and beauty so different from her poor, immigrant upbringing.
Years later, with the Great Depression in full swing, Grace has become the company's new prima ballerina-though achieving her long-held dream is not the triumph she once envisioned. Time and familiarity have tarnished that shining vision, and her new position means the loss of her best friend in the world. Then she attracts the attention of the enigmatic Master La Rosa as her personal patron and realizes the world is not as small or constricted as she had come to fear.
Who is her mysterious patron, and what does he want from her? As Grace begins to unlock the Master's secrets, she discovers that there is beauty in darkness as well as light, finds that true friendship cannot be broken by time or distance, and realizes there may be another way entirely to achieve the transcendence she has always sought.
Editorial Reviews
"An enchanting and lyrical fever dream bursting with dazzling prose and dark romance, Nocturne enthralled me."-Erin A. Craig, New York Times bestselling author of House of Salt and Sorrows
"Richly imagined and heartbreakingly told, Nocturne is a lush gothic romance that will dance you dizzy."-Hannah Whitten, New York Times bestselling author of For the Wolf
"No one writes the way Alyssa Wees does, and Nocturne is her latest masterpiece. Like the ballet pulsing at its core, the story is both sinuous and quick on its feet, leading the reader through a labyrinth of emotions that range from the brightest passion to the darkest grief. A powerful, haunting read."-Joan He, New York Times bestselling author of Strike the Zither
"A beautiful nightmare and a fairy tale all at once . . . Wees's lyrical prose swept me away in this unique story about the battle between love and despair. Nocturne is not to be missed."-Evelyn Skye, New York Times bestselling author of The Crown's Game
"In Nocturne, Wees robes the classic story of Beauty and the Beast in lush prose and infinite splendor. It's a fever dream of a novel, surreal and intricate, and enchanting in every way."-Ava Reid, author of The Wolf and the Woodsman
"Haunting and immersive-like a dream poured onto a page . . . Alyssa Wees has deftly spun a dark tale of romance, betrayal, and destiny. Nocturne kept me in its sinister grip from the first page to the last."-Heather Walter, author of Malice
"Darkly beautiful and threaded through with an undercurrent of magic and madness,
"Richly imagined and heartbreakingly told, Nocturne is a lush gothic romance that will dance you dizzy."-Hannah Whitten, New York Times bestselling author of For the Wolf
"No one writes the way Alyssa Wees does, and Nocturne is her latest masterpiece. Like the ballet pulsing at its core, the story is both sinuous and quick on its feet, leading the reader through a labyrinth of emotions that range from the brightest passion to the darkest grief. A powerful, haunting read."-Joan He, New York Times bestselling author of Strike the Zither
"A beautiful nightmare and a fairy tale all at once . . . Wees's lyrical prose swept me away in this unique story about the battle between love and despair. Nocturne is not to be missed."-Evelyn Skye, New York Times bestselling author of The Crown's Game
"In Nocturne, Wees robes the classic story of Beauty and the Beast in lush prose and infinite splendor. It's a fever dream of a novel, surreal and intricate, and enchanting in every way."-Ava Reid, author of The Wolf and the Woodsman
"Haunting and immersive-like a dream poured onto a page . . . Alyssa Wees has deftly spun a dark tale of romance, betrayal, and destiny. Nocturne kept me in its sinister grip from the first page to the last."-Heather Walter, author of Malice
"Darkly beautiful and threaded through with an undercurrent of magic and madness,
Short Excerpt Teaser
One
The Master came into my life like the dusk. Slowly, until all the city was covered in night. And I, a star waiting to burn.
It was winter, or nearly so, the cold before the snow when the air goes still around you and inside of you. The radiator in my little room in the boardinghouse was shaky at best and I shivered getting dressed, frost in the corners of the window. With the heel of my hand I wiped away the condensation, an unchanging view of the brick alley beyond. Though it was early I had eaten already-eggs and toast with margarine-but still my belly rumbled because it was not enough and never would be.
My breath quickly misted the glass again; I stepped away. Nine years into the economic depression and my basic needs were met, even if this was the coldest of rooms in the creakiest boardinghouse on the North Side of Chicago. Granted, the matron, Mrs. O'Donnell, served us more than most for dinner: baked beans with cornbread and Hoover stew. Dandelion salad, and potato pancakes, and potato soup. Boiled carrots and spaghetti, cabbage and dumplings-all of it fine, though none of it appealing. I knew I was fortunate, I did; and yet, even the guilt of ingratitude was not enough to banish my growing discontent.
This can't be all there is.
I was thinking of running away forever when there was a knock on my bedroom door.
I had made it part of my routine every morning, imagining how I would manage it: out the window, down the alley, through the park. Hurrying, but not so fast as to appear suspicious, or as if I were going anywhere in particular. Hair up, no wind, a half-melted moon in the dim afternoon guiding me toward the open water, the lake like one long shadow. There I would wade into the water and the waves would carry me to another world entirely-to a place I had never been, and from which I would not be able to find my way back again. Or, at the very least, to a crack in this world, a place where magic coats everything like a layer of dust, where the wind smells sweet and night never comes. A place that has no edges and no end, where there is always more. More life, more light, more to see, and more to explore.
It was the fantasy of a little girl. A girl I had not been for some time and of course never would be again. One that still had a mother who would stop her if she tried to leave; one that still had the whole world open to her, and dwelled in that sacred place before a perfect, cherished dream became a less than satisfying reality. For years in the company of Near North Ballet, I'd been another girl in a row of perfect girls, another face, another body in a line of similar faces and bodies. Symmetry and seamlessness, every step and angle of the chin; every curve of the arm and lift of the leg, precisely the same as the girls in front and behind. After a while I'd begun to feel as if I'd run eagerly, wildly into a labyrinth of possibility only to find that it was instead a straight aisle, pressed among a crowd of equally eager girls all trying to unlock the same door at the end of this infinite corridor.
And so, stuck in one place, growing stagnant and unsure, a new dream had been born: If I couldn't dance the way I wanted to-ecstatically, with all eyes on me-I would run. As long as I was still in motion, my heart would keep beating, and nothing, not even death, could touch me.
More. There has to be more.
"Coming!" I called, as another knock came at the door, louder and more insistent. I turned from the window and hurried to pull on my favorite pale pink dress for church: the last dress my mother had ever made for me, a gift on the day I turned thirteen. A little worn around the seams, and tight across the chest, but seven years later it still fit, and I would wear it for seven years more as long as it didn't fall apart. I tugged on my stockings, hoping the tiny rip near the hip wouldn't reach my knees and become visible to judging eyes. Sunday was the only day of the week I wore my hair down, shadow-black and falling in bouncy spirals well past my shoulders, much longer than Mamma ever used to let me keep it. Finally I slipped on my brown penny loafers and went to the door.
"Mistress is here." It was Emilia, slightly breathless even though she stood absolutely still, her dark hair set in pins to curl. It was still half an hour before we would leave for church and she was never early for anything without a pressing reason. "She asked to see you right away. She's waiting in the parlor."
My heart gave a vicious kick.
"What do you think she wants?" It was barely a whisper. We looked at each other, and both of us knew, but neither wanted to say it in case it didn't come true. The prima position-Emilia's position-would ...
The Master came into my life like the dusk. Slowly, until all the city was covered in night. And I, a star waiting to burn.
It was winter, or nearly so, the cold before the snow when the air goes still around you and inside of you. The radiator in my little room in the boardinghouse was shaky at best and I shivered getting dressed, frost in the corners of the window. With the heel of my hand I wiped away the condensation, an unchanging view of the brick alley beyond. Though it was early I had eaten already-eggs and toast with margarine-but still my belly rumbled because it was not enough and never would be.
My breath quickly misted the glass again; I stepped away. Nine years into the economic depression and my basic needs were met, even if this was the coldest of rooms in the creakiest boardinghouse on the North Side of Chicago. Granted, the matron, Mrs. O'Donnell, served us more than most for dinner: baked beans with cornbread and Hoover stew. Dandelion salad, and potato pancakes, and potato soup. Boiled carrots and spaghetti, cabbage and dumplings-all of it fine, though none of it appealing. I knew I was fortunate, I did; and yet, even the guilt of ingratitude was not enough to banish my growing discontent.
This can't be all there is.
I was thinking of running away forever when there was a knock on my bedroom door.
I had made it part of my routine every morning, imagining how I would manage it: out the window, down the alley, through the park. Hurrying, but not so fast as to appear suspicious, or as if I were going anywhere in particular. Hair up, no wind, a half-melted moon in the dim afternoon guiding me toward the open water, the lake like one long shadow. There I would wade into the water and the waves would carry me to another world entirely-to a place I had never been, and from which I would not be able to find my way back again. Or, at the very least, to a crack in this world, a place where magic coats everything like a layer of dust, where the wind smells sweet and night never comes. A place that has no edges and no end, where there is always more. More life, more light, more to see, and more to explore.
It was the fantasy of a little girl. A girl I had not been for some time and of course never would be again. One that still had a mother who would stop her if she tried to leave; one that still had the whole world open to her, and dwelled in that sacred place before a perfect, cherished dream became a less than satisfying reality. For years in the company of Near North Ballet, I'd been another girl in a row of perfect girls, another face, another body in a line of similar faces and bodies. Symmetry and seamlessness, every step and angle of the chin; every curve of the arm and lift of the leg, precisely the same as the girls in front and behind. After a while I'd begun to feel as if I'd run eagerly, wildly into a labyrinth of possibility only to find that it was instead a straight aisle, pressed among a crowd of equally eager girls all trying to unlock the same door at the end of this infinite corridor.
And so, stuck in one place, growing stagnant and unsure, a new dream had been born: If I couldn't dance the way I wanted to-ecstatically, with all eyes on me-I would run. As long as I was still in motion, my heart would keep beating, and nothing, not even death, could touch me.
More. There has to be more.
"Coming!" I called, as another knock came at the door, louder and more insistent. I turned from the window and hurried to pull on my favorite pale pink dress for church: the last dress my mother had ever made for me, a gift on the day I turned thirteen. A little worn around the seams, and tight across the chest, but seven years later it still fit, and I would wear it for seven years more as long as it didn't fall apart. I tugged on my stockings, hoping the tiny rip near the hip wouldn't reach my knees and become visible to judging eyes. Sunday was the only day of the week I wore my hair down, shadow-black and falling in bouncy spirals well past my shoulders, much longer than Mamma ever used to let me keep it. Finally I slipped on my brown penny loafers and went to the door.
"Mistress is here." It was Emilia, slightly breathless even though she stood absolutely still, her dark hair set in pins to curl. It was still half an hour before we would leave for church and she was never early for anything without a pressing reason. "She asked to see you right away. She's waiting in the parlor."
My heart gave a vicious kick.
"What do you think she wants?" It was barely a whisper. We looked at each other, and both of us knew, but neither wanted to say it in case it didn't come true. The prima position-Emilia's position-would ...
