Her mother executed for witchcraft, her father dead at the hand of a noble, Victoire Charpentier vows to rise above her poor peasant roots.
Forced to leave her village of Lucie-sur-Vionne for domestic work in Paris, Victoire suffers gruesome abuse under the ancien régime. Can she muster the bravery and skill to join the revolutionary force gripping France, and overthrow the corrupt, diabolical aristocracy?
Spirit of Lost Angels traces the journey of an angel talisman passed down through generations. The women of The Bone Angel series face tragedy and betrayal in a world where their gift can be their curse. Amidst the tumult of revolutionary France, this is a story of courage, hope and love.
Extract from Chapter 1...
Maman lit a candle and handed around bits of cloth for us to dry off. Papa pushed the sheep behind the partition, with the chickens.
My
father’s brow creased as he rushed outside, and back in again.
‘Mathilde,
the oak’s on fire!’ he shouted at my mother. ‘The lightning must have struck
it.’ His eyes grew as wild as the madwoman who lived in the woods––the witch
they forbade us to approach.
‘We’ll get
water from the river to put it out?’ Grégoire said.
‘Not a
chance, my son,’ Papa said. ‘The flames have taken hold. We can only pray to God
the fire dies out on its own.’
Maman
gripped my father’s arm. ‘Let us all pray then, Emile.’
Our heads
bent, we huddled together in silence. I knew fire was the most frightening
thing of all; worse than the sickness that ate your face away, or the one that
made you cough blood. Lightning fires had destroyed whole villages.
Outside,
the trees moaned as the wind whistled through the woods, but the rain had
slowed. The twins were bored with the praying and scampered over to pet the
sheep.
My father
frowned, and stroked his chin; my mother fiddled with her cap.
Wood
cracked, and splintered. Maman and Papa glanced at each other.
 |
| Jeanne de Valois (infamous conwoman) |
‘Leave
the sheep, Félicité, Félix,’ Maman said. ‘Come here to me.’ I could tell she
was worried but my little brother and sister didn’t listen to her, and kept
tugging on the wool.
A great
roar and a rush of air made my ears pop, as the oak tree crashed through the
roof, right on top of the sheep and chickens.
Maman
screamed and threw herself at the fallen tree.
‘Run, children,
go!’ Papa said.
Through
the noise and the mess, I tried to reach my mother. ‘Maman, Maman!’
I wanted
to hold her hand but Papa was pushing me away. ‘Go!’ he said. ‘Go, now!’
Terrified,
I stumbled outside with Grégoire. Flames spurted from the roof like great
orange fingers reaching for the sky, and inside, my father was still shouting
at Maman.
‘Mathilde,
we must get out now!’
Papa
staggered from the burning cottage, dragging Maman behind him. My mother’s head
whipped around as she pulled against him.
‘No, let
me go. The twins!’ She dug her nails into Papa’s arm. ‘My babies … must … save my babies!’
Papa
pushed her to me but Maman was heavy, and we both fell to the ground. My father
ran back inside. Grégoire was brave too, tearing in after Papa, even though
smoke was puffing out of the doorway, and from the hole in the roof.
‘No,
Grégoire, come back.’ Maman’s voice was faint against the whooshing flames.
‘Emile, are you all right? Have you got the twins?’ she kept saying.
The villagers
came running down the slope, shrieking against the noise of the fire––all
talking at once so I couldn’t understand what any one of them was saying.
‘… fire
start … lightning?’
‘Is
everyone out …?’
‘Quick,
get water … river!’
‘The will
of God … a terrible thing.’
I covered
my ears, Père Joffroy’s voice roaring inside my head. ‘Water and fire––embrace
those symbols of purification!’
I did not
understand how we could embrace a thing that was destroying our home.
 |
| Marie Antoinette |
Papa and
Grégoire staggered outside, clutching their throats and gasping. My father
lurched towards Maman, tears rolling down his face. I had never seen him cry,
and it frightened me.
Papa was
shaking his head and falling into Maman’s arms, but she couldn’t hold him up
and he collapsed on the ground.
The rain
stopped. The storm was over, but it was hot, so burning hot that the villagers
had to drag Papa further and further from the dragon fire that was feasting on
our home.
Very quickly,
there was nothing left, only the fireplace standing in a mess of black wood,
stones and branches. The ground was a carpet of twigs, leaves and small birds, their
necks bent, their eyes wide open.
I took my
mother’s hand. It was floppy and cold.
‘Where’s
Félicité? And Félix?’
Maman did
not answer me, and her fingers closed around the talisman she wore on a strip
of leather around her neck––a little bone angel carving.
 |
| Storming of the Bastille |
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