Judi Singleton reviews The Firebird [Kindle Edition] Susanna Kearsley (Author)

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The Firebird [Kindle Edition]

Susanna Kearsley (Author)

From Booklist

*Starred Review* Authentic historic detail, a touch of the paranormal, and romance come together with a synergistic effect in versatile Kearsley’s (The Rose Garden, 2011) lovely and memorable novel. Nicola Marter works for a London gallery. She not only holds master’s degrees in Russian studies and art history; she also has the secret ability to hold an object and see past events. When a woman comes in with a small carved bird, Nicola has a vision of the Empress Catherine giving it to a young woman named Anna. With no documented provenance, the carving is worthless to collectors, and Nicola feels impelled to authenticate it. Impulsively, she heads to Scotland and enlists the assistance of Rob McMorran, to whom she was attracted when she met him in a psychic study. Even though Nicola can practice psychometry, she knows that Rob’s much stronger psychic powers will be invaluable. Together they embark on a journey that takes them to Ypres and Saint Petersburg and opens a window onto the early eighteenth century and the plight of Jacobites as they unravel Anna’s story. --Diana Tixier Herald

Review

"The blend of the present and the past is very well done and should delight fans of historical fiction. " - Jackie Willey, Fiction Addiction, Greenville, SC 

"The present and past come together as Kearsley masterfully merges paranormal elements with a wonderful dual story and a fascinating historical setting. Those who loved A.S. Byatt's Possession will adore The Firebird. " - RT Book Reviews

"Kearsley blends history, romance and a bit of the supernatural into a glittering, bewitching tale." - Kirkus

"Authentic historic detail, a touch of the paranormal, and romance come together with a synergistic effect in versatile Kearsley's (The Rose Garden, 2011) lovely and memorable novel. STARRED Review" - Booklist

"This story is not a quick read and deserves the reader's full attention, which means it also deserves a second reading to fully appreciate Anna's story." - Historical Novel Review

"It's been a long time since I've enjoyed a book so much. I love how the author blends the historical events in with the fictional elements, such that it truly is hard to distinguish fact from fiction, and I lived in the story." - The Good, The Bad and The Unread

"Kearlsey's writing is superb, which is why she is one of my favorite authors. If you've read her past work and enjoyed it, you will love The Firebird." - Library of Clean Reads

"If you love Historical Fiction with a little pinch of paranormal elements and romance, The Firebird is for you! I was immediatly transported in to Scotland and Russia and through Anna's and Nicola's life! Buy- Borrow, TBR-pile and Next-To-Buy list!" - Proserpine Craving Books

"All in all, if you enjoy history, a dash of romance, and a whole lotta plot...this is a book to invest in. " - Jilly Mcbean

"The Firebird is a beautifully written story with characters that practically leap off the pages, a story that alternately broke my heart and healed it, and a pair of romances (or a trio, more accurately) that made me fall in love. This book made me laugh, made me cry (I seriously bawled happy tears through the last 30 or so pages), and made me certain that Susanna Kearsley has a talent like no other." - Ramblings of a Daydreamer

About the Author

New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Susanna Kearsley's writing has been compared to Mary Stewart, Daphne Du Maurier, and Diana Gabaldon. She recently hit the bestseller lists in the U.S. with The Winter Sea, which was also a finalist for the UK's Romantic Novel of the Year Award and winner of a RT Reviewers Choice Award for Best Historical fiction, and RITA-nominated The Rose Garden, winner of a RT Reviewers Choice Award for Best Historical Fantasy/Paranormal. Her award-winning books have been translated into several languages, selected for the Mystery Guild, condensed for Reader's Digest, and optioned for film. She lives in Canada, near the shores of Lake Ontario.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

He sent his mind in search of me that morning.

I was on the Tube, a half a minute out of Holland Park and in that muzzy not-awake-yet state that always bridged the time between my breakfast cup of coffee and the one that I'd have shortly at my desk. I nearly didn't notice when his thoughts touched mine. It was a rare thing these days; rarer still that I would let him in, but my own thoughts were drifting and I knew that his were, too. In fact, from what I saw of where he was-the angle of the ceiling and the dimly shadowed walls-I guessed that he was likely still in bed, just waking up himself.

I didn't need to push him out. Already he was drawing back, apologizing. Sorry. Not a spoken word, but still I heard the faint regretful tone of his familiar voice. And then he wasn't there.

A man sat heavily beside me, squeezed me over on the seat, and with my senses feeling raw already, even that unwanted contact was too much. I stood, and braced myself against the bit of wall beside the nearest door and forced myself to balance till we came to Bond Street. When the doors slid open, I slid safely back into the comfort of routine, my brisk steps keeping pace with everybody else as we became a texting, talking, moving mass that flowed together up and out and through the turnstiles and emerged onto the pavement where we went our separate ways, heads down and purposeful.

The morning was a lovely one for August. The oppressive sticky heat had given way to fresher air that promised warmth but didn't threaten, and the sky was a pristine and perfect blue.

I barely saw it. I was thinking of that shadowed room, a grayer light that spoke of clouds or maybe rain, a hand that had come lazily in view, to rub his eyes while he was waking. It had been his left hand, and there'd been no rings on it. At least, I didn't think I'd seen a ring on it.

I caught my thoughts before they had a chance to wander further and betray me. Doesn't matter, I reminded myself firmly, and to make quite sure I heard myself I said the words aloud: "It doesn't matter."

I could feel the glances of the people walking closest to me, wondering if I were off my trolley, and I flushed a little, tucking my head well down as I came round the corner and into South Molton Street, a little pedestrian haven of upscale shops, cafés, and galleries. Everything always seemed quieter here, with the mad rush of Bond Street behind me. I carried on down past the graceful old buildings with beautiful doors to the one with the freshly white-painted façade where an expensive-looking brass plaque with fine lettering read: Galerie St.-Croix, Fine Russian Artefacts and Art, Third Floor.

The naming of the gallery had been one of Sebastian's little vanities-in spite of his French surname, he was English through and through, born of a line that likely traced its Hampshire roots back to the Conquest. But Sebastian knew his business, and to art dealers like him, it was essential to create the proper image.

I was part of that, I knew, because I had the proper look, the proper pedigree, the right credentials, and I always dressed to fit the part. But when he'd hired me two years ago, he'd also made no secret of the fact that it had been for my abilities-not only that I held a master's degree in Russian Studies and the History of Art, but also that I spoke fluent Russian besides, and my organized nature appealed to his strong sense of order, and I had, what he'd called then, "potential."

He'd worked to transform me, to mentor me, teaching me how to get on the right side of the bid at an auction, and how to finesse our more difficult clients. I'd come a long way from the rather unworldly young woman I'd been when he'd taken me on.

He had transformed the gallery building as well. We were on the third floor, in a space that today was as richly detailed as a penthouse. Even the lift was mirrored, which this morning didn't thrill me.

I was frowning as it opened to the elegant reception room where a flower-seller painted by Natalia Goncharova hung above the desk at which our previous receptionist had sat. She'd had to leave us unexpectedly, and I'd been interviewing this past week to fill the vacancy, while Sebastian and I shared out the extra duties.

It was not an easy thing to hire a person who could suit Sebastian's tastes, aesthetically. He wanted something more than simple competence, or class. He wanted someone who embodied what the Goncharova painting did-the painting he had hung above that desk, where it would be the first thing noticed by each customer who stepped into the gallery.

He'd had offers for it. Several of our clients could afford to pay a million pounds with ease, but then Sebastian didn't need the money.

"If I sell the thing," he'd told me once, "then I'll have only satisfied one client. If I leave it where it is, then every one of them will think it can be theirs one day."

It didn't only work with art. It wasn't a coincidence that many of our loyal and best customers were women, and they looked upon Sebastian as they did that Goncharova flower-seller, as a prize that could be won, with time and effort.

In fact, as I passed by his glass-walled office on the way down to my own, I saw he had a woman with him now. I would have left them to their business, but he saw me and beckoned me in, so I pushed the door open and joined them.

Sebastian's smile was all professional, with me, and even if it hadn't been, I would have been immune to it. He was too rich to be my type. A gold watch flashed beneath his tailored sleeve as he leaned forward, looking so immaculate, I half-suspected that he had a team of stylists working on him every morning, from his polished shoes right to the tousled toffee-colored hair that had been combed with just the right amount of carelessness.

"Nicola," he introduced me, "this is Margaret Ross. Miss Ross, my associate, Nicola Marter."

Miss Margaret Ross was not what I'd expected, not our usual sort of client. For one thing, she was plainly dressed but dressed with so much care I knew she'd taken pains to look her best. And although I was usually quite good at guessing ages, I had trouble guessing hers. She had to be a decade older than myself, so nearing forty at the least, but while her clothing and the way she held herself suggested she might be still older, there was something in her quiet gaze that seemed distinctly youthful, even innocent.

"Good morning." She was Scottish. "I'm afraid that I've been wasting Mr. St.-Croix's time."

Sebastian, ever charming, shook his head. "No, not at all. That's what I'm here for. And even if it can't be proved, you still have a fascinating story to tell your grandchildren."

She cast her eyes down as though she were hiding disappointment. "Yes."

"Tell Nicola." Sebastian's tone was meant to salve her feelings, make her feel that what she had to say was fascinating, even if it wasn't. He was good that way. To me, he said, "She brought this carving in for an appraisal."

It looked to me, at first, an undistinguished lump of wood that curved to fit his upraised palm, but when I looked again, I saw it was a small carved bird, wings folded tightly to its sides, a sparrow or a wren. Sebastian was saying, "It's been in her family... how long?"

Margaret Ross roused herself to his smooth prompting. "Nearly three hundred years, so I'm told. It was given to one of my ancestors by Empress Catherine of Russia. Not Catherine the Great," she said, showing her knowledge. "The first Catherine."

Sebastian smiled encouragement. "Peter the Great's widow, yes. So, the 1720s sometime. And it very well might be that old." Holding the carving as though it were priceless, he studied it.

Margaret Ross told him, "We call it the Firebird. That's what it's always been called, in our family. It sat under glass in my grandmother's house, and we children were never allowed to come near it. My mother said"-there was the tiniest break in her voice, but she covered it over-"she said, with Andrew gone-Andrew's my brother, he died in Afghanistan-with him gone, and me not likely to have any family myself now, my mother said there was no point in the Firebird sitting there, going to waste. She said I should sell it, and use all the money to travel, like I'd always wanted to do."

"Miss Ross," said Sebastian, to me, "lost her mother quite recently."

I understood his manner now, his sympathy. I told her, "I'm so sorry."

"That's all right. She had MS; it wasn't the easiest life for her. And she felt guilty for having me there to look after her. But," she said, trying to smile, "I looked after my aunties as well, till they passed, and she was my own mother. I couldn't have left her alone, could I?"

Looking again at her eyes, I decided their youthfulness came from the fact that she'd never been able to live her own life as a woman. She'd put her own life in limbo while caring for others. I felt for her. And I felt, too, for the mother who'd hoped that her daughter would sell their one prized family heirloom, and finally have money and comfort to live just a little. To travel.

"The thing is," Sebastian said, kindly, "without any documentation or proof, what we dealers call provenance, we simply can't know for certain. And without that provenance, I'm afraid this poor creature has little real value. We can't even tell if it's Russian." He looked at me. "Nicola? What would you say?"

He passed it to me and I took it, not thinking, forgetting my mind had already been breached once this morning. It wasn't until I was holding it, light in my hands, that I realized I'd made a mistake.

Instantly I felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the carving itself. I closed my eyes to try to stop the vision, but that only made it worse. I saw a slanting fall of light, with fine dust dancing through it. Two women, one aging but lovely, with heavy black eyebrows; the other respectfully bent, perhaps kneeling, her young face upturned in uncertainty. "My darling Anna," the first woman said to the other in elegant Russian, and smiled. "You were never a nobody."

I opened my eyes quickly, maybe a little too quickly, but to my relief no one seemed to have noticed. "I really don't know," I said, giving the small carved bird back to Sebastian.

He looked at it with a commendable blend of admiration and regret.

"The trouble is," he told our would-be client, "it's so difficult to date this sort of thing with any certainty. If it is Russian, it was very likely peasant-made; there is no maker's mark or factory stamp to go by, and without any documentation..." He raised one shoulder slightly in a shrug that seemed to speak to the unfairness of it all. "If she had brought you back an icon, now, this ancestor of yours, or some small piece of jewelry-that I might have helped you with."

"I understand," said Margaret Ross. Her tone was bleak.

Sebastian turned the little carving over in his hands one final time, and I knew he was searching for some small thing to praise, to let this woman down as gently as he could. "Certainly it's very old," was what he ended up with, "and I'm sure it's had a few adventures."

Margaret Ross wasn't sure about that. "It's been sitting there under that glass for as long as I've known it, and likely it sat there a good while before that."

The twist of her faint smile held sympathy, as though she knew how that felt, to be there on the mantelpiece watching the bright world pass by, and I saw the small sag of defeat in her shoulders as, accepting Sebastian's return of the carved bird, she started to carefully wrap it back up in its layers of yellowed, creased tissue.

Impulse drove me to ask aloud, "What was her name?"

She looked up. "Sorry?"

"Your ancestor. The one who brought your Firebird back from Russia."

"Anna. That's all we know of her, really, we don't know her surname. It was her daughter married into the Ross family, that's how the Firebird came down to us."

Anna. Something tingled warmly up my arm. My darling Anna...

"Because maybe," I suggested, "you could try a bit of research, to establish some connection between her and Empress Catherine."

From Sebastian's glance I couldn't tell if he was grateful or annoyed, but he chimed in with, "Yes, if you were able to find proof of any kind, that would be useful."

Again that faint twist of a smile that spoke volumes about how much hope she held now of discovering that. She admitted, "My granny tried once, so she said, but no joy. Common people, they don't make the history books. And on our side of the family, there's nobody famous."

I saw the warm smile in my mind. Heard the voice. You were never a nobody.

"Well," said Sebastian, beginning to stand, "I am sorry we couldn't be more of a help to you. But if you'll leave us your address, we'll keep it in mind, and if ever a client requests something like it..."

I felt like a traitor, as Margaret Ross stood, too, and shook both our hands. The feeling held as we escorted her back out into reception, and Sebastian, with full chivalry and charm, gave her his card and wished her well and said good-bye. And as the lift doors closed he turned to me and, reading the expression in my eyes, said, "Yes, I know."

Except he didn't.

There was no way that he could have known. In all the time I'd worked for him I'd never told him anything about what I could do, and even if I'd told him, he'd have rubbished the idea. "Woo-woo stuff," he would have called it, as he'd done the day our previous receptionist had told us she was visiting a psychic.

"No," she'd said, "she really sees things. It's this gift she has-she holds a thing you've owned, see, like a necklace, or a ring, and she can tell you things about yourself. It's called psychometry." She'd said the term with confident authority.

Sebastian, with a sidelong look, had said, "It's called a scam. There is no way that anyone can be a psychic. It's not possible."

I'd offered him no argument, although I could have told him he was wrong. I could have told him I was psychic, and had been for as long as I remembered. Could have told him that I, too, saw detailed visions, if I concentrated on an object someone else had held. And sometimes, like today, I saw the visions even when I didn't try, or concentrate, although that happened very, very rarely now.

The flashes of unwanted visions had been more a feature of my childhood, and I had to close my eyes and truly focus now to use my "gift"-my curse, I would have called it. I had chosen not to use it now for years.

Two years, to be exact.

I'd chosen to be normal, and I meant to go on being normal, having the respect of those I worked with, not their nudges or their stares. So there was no good reason why, when I sat down at the computer in my office, I ignored the string of waiting emails and began an image search instead.

I found three portraits, different in their poses and the sitter's age, but in all three I recognized the woman easily because of her black hair, her heavy arching eyebrows, and her warm dark eyes. The same eyes that had smiled this morning in the brief flash of a vision I had viewed when I had held the wooden Firebird.

There could be no mistaking her: the first Empress Catherine, the widow of Peter the Great.

"Damn," I whispered. And meant it.

Book Report by Judi Singleton on The Firebird [Kindle Edition] Susanna Kearsley (Author)

At the point when a cutting called the Firebird, leads Nicola Marter, a young vunerable woman with psychic capacities, on an energizing enterprise crosswise over Europe from England, Scotland, Belgium to Russia she is supported by Rob Mc Morran, her companion from Scotland, who's psychic capacities are considerably more noteworthy than Nicola's, abruptly, the Past meets the Present... 

Firebird, is a flawlessly composed novel, where the story just spills out of the pages and is enamoring from the first page to the last. It is pass that Susanna Kearsley was energetic about her characters and her story when she composed this novel. You can tell that the authentic data in this novel, had been exceptionally all around looked into and it is very fascinating. The characters are an unforgettable lot. So real I will miss them no matter how long until they come back via another novel perhaps. The plot was well thought out and it held my interest from beginning to end. I just could not put it down.  

The novel has a connecting with story plot and dialog which exchanges in the middle of contemporary and authentic characters no sweat. I likewise discovered this novel to be amazingly visual. I felt my faculties wake up while perusing this grand story. I was going with the characters from England to Scotland to Belgium and on to Russia and what a radiant trip it was! I discovered myself totally charmed by the lives of the characters and the fantastic plot. The voyage included an energizing enterprise, that I would not like to see arrive at an end and the heroes in this story, were endearing to the point, that I discovered myself sincerely joined to them.... I have been so lucky this last couple of books I read they were both sensational. That does not happen to me real often. I loved this book and would recommend it to anyone. 

I've bought this book on the grounds that I have appreciated Susanna Kearsley past books. As yet being my top choices Mariana and The Winter Sea, amazingly this is another book that likewise catch up with the dearest characters of The Winter Sea!! One of the fundamental characters is likewise a dear one (all adult now) from The Shadowy Horses. 

Nicola lives up to expectations for a respectable workmanship merchant in London who has some expertise in Russian craftsmanship. She additionally gangs the blessing (a condemnation as she would like to think) of psychometry. Because of her capacities she chooses to help a lady who is in awesome need to offer an old wooden desire figure of a Firebird. She told Nicola that the Firebird has been in her family for eras and was given to her progenitor by Catherine I of Russia. Since its difficult to demonstrate the genuine estimation of the ache for figure, Nicola begins a journey to locate the genuine story of the Firebird with the plan to demonstrate the estimation of the piece. She questions her capacities and is reluctant to utilize them, subsequently she chose to request the assistance of Rob (an ex), who is very talented in the paranormal. 

Amid their mission we met Anna, a stunning young lady from the past that adult as an extremely affable and solid lady. She is one of the main characters of the book and is the girl of Sophia and John Moray. By a conviction-based move she turned into the ward of Vice Admiral Gordon who was appointed in Russia by Peter the Great. 

It proceeds with the account of the Jacobites who fled to Russia and lived and served their King from the Russian Courts. New characters, new sentiment, new interests and more history, obviously. 

Nicola depleted my understanding for minutes amid length of the story; until she is at long last ready to grasp who she is. Burglarize is charming, yet we knew his character from The Shadowy Horses. 


A book that will be incredibly delighted in for those effectively acquainted with the writer and her work and new ones alike. Be careful that you wont have the capacity to put the book down until the very end...You'll figure out what happened to Sophia and John Moray!! At the same time, is not my story to advise, you must read the book!

Judi Singleton is a free lance writer who writes for 20 blogs a week. You can now advertise in her blogs for $5. a week per blog.  http://www.thedailyplanet.biz