In a forest filled with witches, ogres, trolls, hermits, talking animals, and the Firebird whose beauty and voice is the shape and sound of the heart of all who hear and behold it, a grieving prince coming home from war accidentally kills the white hen of Brume, the Mother of All Witches - and is cursed for it, just as his unwilling bride, a foreign Princess, comes with her wizard bodyguard. Thus begins a fairy tale of stolen hearts and faces, language and wizardry; a tale woven by the word-jeweler McKillip who with it proves that she ranks alongside J.K. Rowling and Diana Wynne Jones on the tier below Tolkien. A tale proving that the heart is the most important aspect of a person and that without its unwritten language singing within you, one is lost.
May you live happily ever after Prince Ronan of Serre & Princess Sidonie of Dacia, Wizards Unciel (hopefully now you can rest) and Gyre, scribe Euan Ash, and the rest.
(And if you see a white hen and/or cottage made of bones, steer clear. Seriously.)
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