![]() ![]() They were written on a balcony in Nice, while I prayed for a breeze off the Mediterranean to get relief from the July heat. They were written sitting by a fjord in Norway, and on the grass next to a grotto at Versailles, the very place where Marie Antoinette learned that a mob was coming to take her to Paris. ![]() They were written in Cornwall and Stockholm and Garpenberg, Sweden. The intervening words were written in Texas, California, and Vermont. The last words of The Winter of the Witch were written in a basement in London, after two weeks without sleep and a dire number of cupcakes. ![]() I was twenty-four, sunburned, broke, living in a tent, scraping together a living as a farm worker, picking macadamia nuts. The first words of the text that would become The Bear and the Nightingale were written in a salt-stained notebook on a beach in Hawaii. It also feels like I started all this a week ago. ![]() Or rather, that is how much time will have passed from the day I started writing The Bear and the Nightingale to the day that The Winter of the Witch will appear in bookstores. That’s how long I’ve been writing the Winternight books. I had to count on my fingers just now to be sure. ![]()
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