The Frost and Filigree Trilogy is Published!

Well, that’s an author achievement if I’ve ever heard! With the publication of Time & Temper, that’s a full trilogy.

This series has been so fun, and I’m so glad to see it in the wild, as it were. There are rumors of an omnibus version coming in a month or two, so keep an eye on this space. In the meantime, you can buy ALL THREE now!

If you’re not up to ordering, you can always add me on Goodreads…

Without giving away too much about book two, here’s a bit of an excerpt between Nerissa the Lamia and Ophaniel the angel…

“Nerissa,” Ophaniel says, rolling the r. It sounds better that way, even if no one else pronounces it in such a manner. “Good evening.”

“Am I interrupting you?”

It’s a stupid question to ask, but Ophaniel bares his teeth in a close approximation of a mortal grin and says, “No. I was merely contemplating the meaning of existence and my place as a fallen celestial unable to commune with their deity. I assure you, whatever concern you have is more pressing than such petty musings.”

Nerissa is trying to keep from getting frustrated, and it’s one of Ophaniel’s favorite states to goad her into. She really does work so hard to keep herself calm, and under the glamour her whole body is roiling with the effort of maintaining her composure. It’s rather adorable.

“We’ve had some news,” she says at last. “You see…” There’s a letter in her hand, and she fiddles with the edges of it. “We’ve had a letter. From Beti. Do you remember her? Micheaux delivered it.”

Micheaux. Ophaniel shudders inwardly at the name of that walking, perfumed corpse. The day does not appear to be going the direction he’d like it to go. Speaking to Worth was a significant improvement to impending problems. It’s been ten years without impending problems. Or at least, any requiring his opinion.

“He’s downstairs, isn’t he?” Ophaniel sniffs the air.

“Yes, he is. I’ve told him he may stay the night. But you see…well, no, you wouldn’t see. At the beginning there were glimpses, but now…”

The snake woman is making a sour face, and Ophaniel almost asks if she’s got a stomach ailment when he realizes she’s crying. All that roiling angst, all that pent-up energy, wasn’t fury. It was despair.

He is unprepared for this outpouring of emotion. Nothing makes the angel more uncomfortable than such outward displays of feeling.

“Would you like some tea?” is what he asks. But he does not have tea, does not like tea, and has no actual intention of giving Nerissa tea.

When Nerissa speaks, her voice is hoarse. “You see, it’s Vivienne. They’ve found her.”

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