I can hear Dad shouting in his office, even with the door shut.
Even though I’m standing in the hall holding the packet the postman just gave me for him, and he’s all the way up at the top of the house.
Even the postman could hear him, based on the smirk he gave me when I signed his delivery sheet.
It’s entirely possible that whoever he’s on the phone to up there could probably hear him without the actual phone – and who do we have to thank for this?
Bea.
Now there’s a date, there’s a wedding to plan. And that means Operation “Pay More Attention To The Wedding Plans, Max” has begun…and, wow, is Max unhappy about that. I don’t know who it is he’s yelling at up there, but a tiny (actually quite sizeable, if I’m honest) bit of me really, really hopes it’s Bea.
Of course it’s not Bea.
It’s never Bea, is it? She’s just the one who causes the shouting; usually because she’s rung from an airport somewhere demanding…I don’t know…tap-dancing alligators wearing Chanel jumpsuits or something – and then, oh look, they’re calling her flight and she’s got to run… She’s never the one actually getting shouted at as Dad’s stress levels rise. That’s mostly me today. Or whoever happens to be the next person to call. Or sometimes both simultaneously.
It’s not even that I blame her – not really. If I were her, and it was my wedding and everything, I’d want it to be the way I imagined. It’s just that…it might be nice if everything was a little less traumatic for everyone else. And by “everyone else” I mean me, obviously.
The volume increases exponentially the higher up the stairs I go, until it feels like he’s shouting inside my head. The pictures on the walls are rattling, and I don’t even bother knocking; he’ll never hear me over himself. Story of my life with dad, really. I stick my head round the door and catch him mid-pace across the floor, phone to his ear and his work Blackberry clutched in his other hand.
“Look, I know what the standard F and B rate is, and I’m telling you that you can do better. No, I don’t want to speak to…don’t you put me on hold…I…”
He makes an exasperated noise and shakes his head at me. “They put me on hold.” He tosses his phone on the pile of roughed-out schedules for the next convention at the end of the month. “Can you give that publicist a ring for me from the landline? Anna something? I need her to confirm her people.”
“A surname would help?”
“In the Rolodex. She’s the only Anna.” He points at the groaning contacts wheel on his desk. I swear he’s the only person in the entire world who still uses one of those things – but ever since his last phone went nuts and spontaneously deleted all his emails, he won’t even use the contacts app. I drop the package on his desk and reach for the Rolodex.
“This just came for you,” I say, pointing to it.
“What is it?”
“Feels like a book.”
“Another one?” He eyes the teetering stack of book proofs on the floor under the window. They’ve been arriving thick and fast for the last week. If a publisher thinks they’ve got something coming out that would fit an Angelo convention, he gets an advance copy. He even reads some of them…
He tips the book out of the padded envelope and skims the covering letter clipped to it with a few “Hmmmm” noises, idly picking up his phone again and tucking it between his ear and his shoulder.
“Sounds like your kind of thing – like that one you love with the wizards.”
“Jonathan Strange is not a wizard, Dad. He’s a magician.”
“Mmmm. Want to take a…hello? Yes, yes of course I’m still here. Where else would I be?”
Now he’s not on hold, I’ve lost his attention – but I’ve gained two whole jobs, as he thrusts both book and letter in my general direction and waves me out of the room, along with the Rolodex. This keeps happening – every time I set foot in that room, I seem to end up with more to do. I should just boycott the whole top floor of the house. Or barricade myself in my bedroom and pretend my coursework ate me.
Before I tackle the hell that is Dad’s Rolodex, I need tea – and while I wait for the kettle to do something, I read the letter that came with the book from Eagle’s Head. It’s the usual PR stuff: hype, hype, more hype.
Big money, debut author, multi-continental auctions. Pre-orders, film rights, Hollywood. Blah blah blah. But beyond that, it looks like Dad’s right. This could be exactly my kind of thing.
The Brother’s snide little comments from last month niggle away at the back of my head. He’s always so pleased with himself, finding the Next Big Thing before it actually gets big.
What if this book – even through all the hype and the usual hot air – is it?
And we’ve got it first.
I drop the letter on the counter and actually look at the book. It’s only a proof, an early copy sent out for review, so the cover is pretty simple: dark blue, swirled through with grey like a mist curling across it – and on the front, just a couple of lines of silver text. I run my finger over the title.
Piecekeepers.
“Weird title,” I say to the kettle, slinging a teabag into a mug and pouring hot water over it. While the tea’s brewing, I flip to the first page – where there’s a quote.
We have ripped the world apart – and that? That is the scar our magic has left upon it.
And I don’t know how, and I don’t know why…but the second I read that line, I can tell that this book is going to change everything…
Dear Max,
Da Vinci. Titian. Caravaggio. Rembrandt. Some of the greatest artists the world has ever seen…but what if their paintings are concealing a secret – and what if it could destroy us all?
I’m delighted to enclose a proof copy of PIECEKEEPERS: the thrilling debut novel by Haydn Swift.
Meet Jamie, an ordinary History of Art student who is shocked to discover there is magic hidden in the world’s greatest masterpieces, put there by an apprentice magician at war with his teacher. After a fierce duel across the canals of Venice, neither the teacher nor apprentice was heard from again – but the magic remains. Only a select few are even aware of its existence: the Piecekeepers, a magical organization dedicated to keeping the secret.
But either the magic was unstable or the spells are decaying, because the magic is getting out. The smallest leak will cause untold damage, as Jamie – who sees it first-hand in London’s National Gallery – is only too aware. The magic must be returned to the paintings and held there…whatever the cost.
Recruited by cool-headed Lizzie, under the watchful eye of the Piecekeepers’ Curator, Jamie is drawn further into their world. But then he hears the story, passed down from Curator to Curator, that one day, another apprentice will come; someone able to control the magic. And just as there were an apprentice and master who destroyed one another before, that too could once again come to pass…
“PIECEKEEPERS is the best book you’ve never read – Swift’s talent is a powerful magic that will bind readers young and old.” – Non Pratt
“They say the eyes of the best portraits follow you around the room. PIECEKEEPERS shows you just how true that really is.” – Will Hill
THE GOLDFINCH meets JONATHAN STRANGE AND MR NORRELL, with sumptuous world-building sure to appeal to fans of THE SIN EATER’S DAUGHTER, PIECEKEEPERS is set against the backdrop of the world’s most recognizable and prestigious galleries and supported by a global marketing campaign. With an international release set for July and a film adaptation already in development with a major Hollywood studio, this eagerly anticipated debut is sure to be one of the most talked-about books of the year.
Haydn Swift has created an electrifying story that will bewitch you, and one Eagle’s Head Books are thrilled to be publishing.
For further information, please contact:
LUCY SPIEGEL, Eagle’s Head Books