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454 pages, Hardcover
First published September 30, 2014
She thought of the statue, tall and impassive in the shadowed corner—its full lips and narrow waist, its arms in their serrated armor. As she pictured this, the flush on her skin shifted from embarrassment to pleasure, despite the danger luxuriating in the next room.
She certainly didn’t need to examine every last mortifying detail. Dyed ebony curls, falling past her shoulders and threaded with pearls and rubies; eyes outlined with kohl and tiny golden flecks; skin glistening with paint; jewels surrounding her navel; freckles masked with powder.This book is hilariously terrible. Sure, it's based on The Nutcracker, and to be honest, I know absolutely nothing about it besides the fact that it has a Nutcracker in it (I'm brilliant) and I can prance around my living room around Christmastime twinkling my toes dancing to The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy (again, brilliant). To be honest, after reading the book, I have absolutely no desire to actually find out what The Nutcracker is about. It is that bad. It doesn't sell the original book to me at all.
Clara had never felt more exposed, more pinned down. She wished her hair were dirtier—they would find her red head in an instant;_;
"Slowly, my Clara. You are no longer a girl; you are not even a person. You are a cat, you are darkness, you are a storm too distant to hear."Float like a butterfly! Sting like a bee! Wait, no, Clara isn't Mohammad Ali! She's just a girl living in a
Months ago Godfather had started ripping apart her dresses and fashioning them to be easily removable.Because helping your goddaughter learn to remove her clothes more easily is the natural thing to do. And giving your goddaughter sexual metaphors to help with her training isn't seriously creepy at all.
At the beginning of her training, Godfather had taught Clara how to turn feline when the situation necessitated it—how to slink and prowl, how to press oneself to a wall’s contours and slide along it like a sigh.And to make things worse...Clara has...feelings. DESIRES. SEXUAL SELF-AWARENESS. OHNOES!!!!!
“Like you would to a lover,” Godfather had instructed.
her fingers brushed against the cotton breeches she hid under her gowns every morning. To feel the contours of her legs unimpeded by the usual layers of fabric made her shudder, as though she were touching some alien thing. The knobs of her knees, the curving lines of her thighs...She drew her hands away.Not only for the lecherous Dr. Victor...
The sight of her body in this disgraceful display would affect Dr. Victor adversely, as it always did, turning his eyes dark and his cheeks hot.But even worse than Clara's horrified fascination with Dr. Victor and his lust...is Clara's lust...FOR A STATUE.
She stole a lingering glance at the statue’s arm, muscled and savage, covered with spikes and foreign etchings. Her heart beat practically off its hinges. She had touched the statue many times, but never had there been such...heat to it.SUCH HEAT. OH MY WORD.
She nodded toward the statue. Its markings repulsed her with their new, sinister meaning, yet the sight of the statue itself still heated her blood. It had always fascinated her, even at a young age; she had made a strange, secret game of talking to it and imagining how it would answer her. But in the months following that night, when she had learned against the curves of its body how to melt into the shadows, her fascination had evolved into something more, something she couldn’t describe. Something, she often thought, alone in her bedroom, like need. She’d begun sending Godfather into the back room on pointless errands, to fetch her something or other for a project she was fiddling with, so that she could spend a private moment with the fearsome-looking thing.ALONE TIME WITH THE STATUE. *blush* If only everything in her life wasn't going so badly. If only her father was well. IF ONLY SHE COULD STOP THINKING ABOUT THE STATUE.
Clara’s skin flushed with sudden smoldering awareness. The statue. As always, her hands itched to touch it. Her body swayed toward it. She had to fight the urge to sidle close to it.And with her Godfather in the room! Scandalous! Such shocking feelings!
The truly great thing was that no matter how shocking her fancies grew, the statue never did a thing. He stood there, unmoving, and he did not lick his lips or pin her with hot, uneasy stares.But then the unspeakable thing happens...the statue comes to life. And everything about it comes to life, if you catch my drift! *winks*
She could not stop herself from looking lower than that, eyes sliding down the man’s lean white belly—too hungry, too sharp—and down, a bit more...
Her eyes flew shut, her cheeks flaming.
Her mind flooded with memories of countless stolen moments, when she had tiptoed to the statue and pressed her lips to its arm, traced her fingers down the chiseled slopes of its belly.Well, that's embarrassing. It turns out that the statue's name is Nicholas...and he might be dangerous.
“Don’t touch him.” Godfather shoved Clara’s hand away.Uh huh. You hear that, Clara? This is Godfather. The man who has trained you for combat. The man who has known you and your family for years. The man you should trust. He has told you not to touch the fucking statue-come-to-life.
She leaned closer without thinking; her wrist brushed against his bare stomach.No, Clara. He means it. Don't touch him. Not even for a good reason, like preserving body warmth. He's pretty sly for a statue, that Nicholas.
Then he said quietly, “We should take off our clothes.”Smooooooooth. Seriously smooth. But ok, hypothermia. That's one reason. Just that one time, right? No more touching him.
“Why?” she said, watching him fumble with the sleeves of his coat, the buckle of his trousers, and the sword at his waist.
“It’s easier to stay warm skin to skin.”
Dimly she registered her breasts pressing into his chest, his thigh draped over hers.COME ON.
His face in the dim light was so earnest and endearingly boyish that she reached up without thinking and touched his cheek.Oh, for fuck's sakes, stop touching him for one fucking moment.
Above her, worried eyes inspected her face. Nicholas straddled her hips, pinning her arms to the pillow.I give up.
““Does that make me sick, do you think? Spying on a little girl? But then again it’s not as though I could help it. And I thought nothing untoward, at first. You were this awkward, amusing thing. You made me forget myself every once in a while. It wasn’t until you were much older that I started to want..."-_________-
Murmurings began that she was already demonstrating a difference from the rest of them.Blah blah the rest of the complaints: The writing is just weird.
“Definitely not your grandmother's Nutcracker tale.”
“A kiss. A wicked, forbidden kiss. A kiss to end a kingdom.”
“The rider and the pirate queen,
The bravest souls there's ever been,
The mason and the fiddler too-
They came for me, they came for you”
"The hard lines of the statue's thighs, belly, chest, scraped against her skin, snagging at the cotton of her chemise, and she found herself moving slowly so as to prolong the contact. Molding herself to the metal, she sighed. Her palms thick with sweat, she slid them up the statue's chest to cup the chiseled, handsome jaw, and pressed herself closer. She inhaled, shuddering, and tasted the tang of metal and the oils Godfather used to keep tarnish away. Curling into the crook of the statue's left arm, she let the sudden fancy overtake her. What would it feel like if that iron-muscled arm could come alive and pull her closer, it's spiked digging into the back of her neck, its cold fingers threading through her hair...?"
Then she knocked against the statue in the corner, and it was such a shock, such an awakening, that she had to gasp. Jolted out of her trance, her senses reeling she used the statue to pull herself to her feet-and promptly forgot to breathe. The hard lines of the statue’s thighs, belly, chest, scraped against her skin, snagging at the cotton of her chemise, and she found herself moving slowly so as to prolong the contact. Molding herself to the metal, she sighed. Her palms slick with sweat, she slid them up to the statue’s chest to cup the chiseled, handsome jaw, and pressed herself closer. She inhaled, shuddering, and tasted the tang of metal and oils Godfather used to keep tarnish away. Curling into the crook of the statue’s left arm, she let the sudden fact overtake her. What would wit feel like if that iron-muscled arm could come alive and pull her closer, its spikes digging into the back of her neck, its cold fingers threading through her hair…? (16-17)
Anise, bright eyed and ferocious, yanked Clara close and kissed her deeply. The kiss stung with duplicity and with horrible, horrible delight. Clara knew she should have been celebrating, and part of her was. She had said the right things. She could feel Anise’s joy thrumming against her body, and joy would make her careless. The queen whispered frantic endearments then dipped to whisper them against Clar’s throat. When she laughed, it was like morning. (328)
Godfather was saying something, but at first she did not hear. HE cleared his throat and said again: “You may now disrobe.”
Hands shaking, Clara stood. Across the pyre Nicholas mirrored her. Her toes burned with the closeness of the fire, but that was nothing compared to the flush of her body as she shrugged off the robe. For a moment she longed to reach for it, but then she thought of Anise, which was such an incongruous thing to think of at this moment that it almost made her laugh. But the memory of standing on the rooftop with nothing between her and the snow but the night air, was oddly a comfort.
It’s just a body, Clara, the only one you will ever have.
…….
Godfather placed two daggers on the alter before them. “You may begin.”
This would be the hardest part. To maintain the wanting, the willingness, despite the pain. WHen Clara gripped the dagger’s hilt, it nearly stripped away. Her hand was sweating.
Then Nicholas was there, his hands gentle at her waist. She was glad to feel in his touch that he was nervous as well. HE whispered “Brave Clara” against her cheek, raised his blade to her shoulder and cut.
It did hurt, but Clara gritted her teeth past it and continued. Once the first cut was made, the rest had to follow soon after. She cut his right shoulder to mirror her left, and then her eyes rose to meet his. (381-82)