{"product_id":"slashed-beauties-isbn-9780593954645","title":"Slashed Beauties","description":"\u003cb\u003eA gothic feminist body horror in two timelines revolving around three Anatomical Venuses—ultrarealistic wax figures of women—that come to life at night to murder men who have wronged them.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSeoul, present day.\u003c\/i\u003e Antiques dealer Alys’s task is nearly complete. She has at last secured Elizabeth, the final anatomical Venus in a dangerously intertwined trio. Crafted in eighteenth-century London and modeled after real-life sex workers to entice male medical students to study female anatomy, these eerie wax figures, known as slashed beauties, carry unsavory lore. Legend has it that the figures are bewitched, and come to life at night to murder men who have wronged them. Now Alys embarks for England, where she knows what she must do: sever her cursed connection to the Venuses once and for all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eLondon, 1763.\u003c\/i\u003e Abandoned and penniless in Covent Garden, wide-eyed Eleanor and another young woman, Emily, are taken under the wing of beautiful and beguiling Elizabeth, one of the city’s most highly desired courtesans. But as Eleanor is seduced deeper into a web of money, materialism, and men, it seems that Elizabeth may not be the savior she appears to be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs past and present begin to intersect, it becomes clear that the women’s stories are linked in deeper, darker ways than it initially seems. And that the only method for Alys to end the witchcraft that binds her legacy is to gather all three models in one place and destroy them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe problem is, Elizabeth is not ready to burn. Far from it. Centuries on, she is determined to rise again, and she will obliterate anything standing in her path. Including Alys herself.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eSlashed Beauties\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Rushby takes readers on a globe-trotting, timeline-straddling journey...brisk and entertaining... Rushby’s characters are richly realized, and she doesn’t shy away from depicting the high risk of their lives as sex workers or society’s cruelty and indifference toward women on the margins. Tense and fast-paced with refreshingly unique supernatural elements.\" - \u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003c\/i\u003eDeftly pivoting between the past and the present day, Rushby constructs an ingeniously menacing plot that slowly suffuses readers with a growing sense of dread, only to be shattered by the book’s jaw-dropping conclusion...A fiercely feminist take on gothic fiction.\" - \u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"As the timelines converge, readers will be treated to a bewitching tale that shines a light on the horrific realities for women of the era and an original, terrifying, and compelling supernatural horror story.\" - \u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Rushby’s prose is lush and vivid, her characters are tragically complex...Ferociously feminist body horror with a sentimental heart.\" - \u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A feminist body horror that’s the perfect fall escape… While deftly exploring themes of bodily autonomy, queer love, and female friendship, A. Rushby paints a gripping portrait of the historical confinement of women and the lengths that the exploited will go to in search of revenge.” - \u003ci\u003eMs. Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eSlashed Beauties\u003c\/i\u003e is the warped, witchy lovechild of Madame Tussaud and Jack the Ripper – an engrossing gothic tale of friendship, misogyny, and the murderous consequence of denying women's autonomy.\" – Ellie Marney, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eNone Shall Sleep\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Utterly compelling from the first page to the final, shocking twist, \u003ci\u003eSlashed Beauties\u003c\/i\u003e is a darkly exquisite story that explores the corrosive effects of misogyny and the enduring power of female love.\" – Christine Wells, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Paris Gown\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An extraordinary tale. \u003ci\u003eSlashed Beauties\u003c\/i\u003e left me spellbound.’\"– Emma Grey, author of \u003ci\u003ePictures of You\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Easily one of the best books I've read this year... Captivating from start to end and tells a haunting tale of feminine rage.\" - Abbie Eaton, author of \u003ci\u003eDragonhart \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Adored this gorgeous, sumptuously gothic feminist novel. Slashed Beauties moves from present-day Seoul to the Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens of Georgian London in a colourful riot that examines the macabre world of the anatomical Venus and the seedy underbelly of the modern-day antiques trade, with a dash of witchcraft thrown in. It's also about sisterhood, friendship and the ties that bind a beautifully-rendered love story that spans centuries. I loved it.\" - Emma Cowing, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Show Woman \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eA. Rushby \u003c\/b\u003eadores cities with long, winding histories; wild, overgrown cemeteries; redbrick Victorian museums; foxes; tea; and ivy. She lives in Queensland, Australia.Alys\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSeoul, present day\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe text, when it finally comes, arrives at three twenty-three a.m. Wanting to be kept in the loop, I'd provided one of the hospital nurses with a burner phone and a large wad of cash a week ago. And then I'd waited.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eX\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis one simple letter tells me all I need to know. Mr. Yoon is dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHours on from that text, as I sit on a hard subway seat on my way to visit a client, I wait again. My heart beats out the theme tune of anxiety in my chest, as it's done since the early hours of the morning. Now I wait for another message, this one from Mrs. Yoon's solicitor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe first in a long line of dominoes is teetering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFeeling nauseous, I pop a ginger chew into my mouth and check my phone for what must be the hundredth time today. Still nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm about to tuck it back into my satchel when the hairs on my arms rise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA man, somewhere in this carriage, is watching me. I'm sure of it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith my silvery violet pixie cut, my tattoo-dotted arms and the tank top I'm wearing on this hot summer's day, I'd expected a few stares. I know I'm an outlier. An oddity. Other. What was I thinking, attracting attention to myself? But I knew the truth of it. It wasn't other people's attention I was attempting to attract. It was my own. My new look was a deal. A deal I had made with myself. The hair, the tattoos-I was readying myself to become someone new. Someone different. Someone who . . . could. Or at least was going to. Once I'd signed the paperwork Mrs. Yoon's solicitor would provide, there would be no turning back for me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStill, I must admit, now that I'm on full display in the subway, I regret not taking up my client's offer of sending a car.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhy, just once, couldn't I have said yes?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don't know Seoul. I've never been to Hannam-dong before. I'm carrying something precious.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I was never going to agree to that car, was I? I didn't want to owe anyone any favors.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUgh. I can still feel his eyes on me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt's nothing, I tell myself. Nothing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eUnable to concentrate, I shove my phone into my satchel and my gaze falls upon my upturned wrist and my latest ink-a likeness of a brooch I'd sold months back and couldn't seem to get out of my mind. Victorian, 1864. I let my finger trace the circular frame of the outside-pearls and gold-and then the woven crisscross of flaxen hair encased in the center. I hadn't thought I'd grown attached-until it was gone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis happened now and again. Sometimes I'd dream about pieces after I sold them. Sometimes I'd dream about them while they were still in my care. Sometimes they gave me nightmares. There had once been a necklace of bog oak that I couldn't rid myself of fast enough.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy finger starts to move up to the tattoo above this one, a twist of braided hair open at one end. This one is a permanent mark not only on my skin but in my heart. Just as I'm about to settle my attention upon it, I feel that gaze once more.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI look up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere he is. Standing. Leaning. He's younger than I'd expected, though I'm not entirely sure what I'd expected. Something middle-aged and leering in an ill-fitting suit, perhaps. When our eyes meet, he startles, his attention darting to the phone in his hand. There is no challenge here. I have stepped on a twig in the forest, and he has bolted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm about to glance away when a small flicker of a smile crosses his face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe stretches. Shrugs. The sleeve of his T-shirt lifts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd a tattoo peeks out from under the hem.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOh.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI see then that I've read this whole thing wrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe doesn't think I'm an oddity. He was-is-sharing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd this I don't know what to do with.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am never comfortable around men. I am always wary. Fearful of what might happen. What I might do. Being looked at is never good. But being seen is worse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI move my gaze to the floor and try to pull myself together. I think of my therapist. What would she say about this? I still can't believe I have one (a friend made me find one), but I have to admit that she's been . . . helpful. Which is surprising, considering the lies I've told her about myself. The half-truths. The fabrications.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs the train rocks along, I return to a talk the two of us had a while ago, about control. About feeling like I have control of my life, and things do not just happen to me. I am capable and have agency. I am the mistress of my own fate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer words resonated with me that day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe mistress of my own fate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'd repeated the phrase for weeks. Could I ever be the mistress of my own fate? Whenever I thought back, I couldn't remember a time when any sort of control was my reality. A time when I called the shots.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot that I think back often. I've learned the hard way that there is nothing to be gained by revisiting what can never be changed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut once Mrs. Yoon signs that paperwork, it will all be up to me. The choices . . . mine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat's what I need to focus on now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe train stops. I don't look up, but I see his feet move. He departs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSee? There was no need to panic. He was simply a walk-on part. The smallest of characters in my story. There was never any threat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe subway carriage moves forward with a lurch, and I look down at a different tattoo on my arm, a simple phrase in a fine, sloping hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI am the mistress of my own fate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe domino continues to teeter, and I hold my breath, waiting for it to fall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI follow the directions on my phone; they lead me up a long, steep hill. On my way, I stop at a café and order two matcha lattes before continuing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I get to the house with one window, I halt. Veronique had told me I'd know it when I saw it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe was right.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA double garage at the bottom, the house looms above, an austere concrete tower with one small square window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVeronique's partner is an architect.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI press the buzzer next to the glass front door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere's a pause, and then I see movement inside. Veronique is coming down the glass-sided stairs. She wrenches the door open.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're here! Come in. It's so good to have you visit.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe usually meet when we're both in London.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI step inside, onto the polished concrete floor, and take my sandals off. \"Well, I have to see this room of yours I've heard so much about. I brought you a matcha latte. I know it's your favorite.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You're an angel. Let's go upstairs.\" Veronique's eyes move to my satchel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI'm not offended by the absence of small talk. My clients usually eschew unnecessary conversation-a reflection of their gnawing hunger for whatever object of mine they're looking to acquire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe door snaps closed behind us, and we head up some wide wooden stairs. We exit the concrete tower and enter the building proper, walking into a room that is vast and open-plan and . . . sparse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I know,\" Veronique says. \"It looks like a morgue.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Not a morgue,\" I reply. I look around, further taking in the polished concrete floor, the huge slab-of-marble bench in the kitchen. \"A mortuary, maybe. A nice one. Expensive.\" Then I laugh. \"Not really. The wood saves it.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVeronique rolls her eyes. \"That's exactly what Richard says. It 'adds warmth.'\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Perhaps that's the attraction between you two? He designs places that look like expensive mortuaries, and you fill them with your beloved collection of . . .\" I don't how to put it. I probably should have just stopped at \"beloved collection.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Dead people's hair and eyes?\" Veronique tries.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I was searching for a slightly more eloquent turn of phrase.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm not sure there is one.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI walk over to the marble bench and place my satchel gently on top. The bag with the matcha lattes, I set down beside it. I lift one out and pass it to Veronique.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Thanks. I adore that café.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe pulls out two stools that were tucked out of sight under the bench.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe both sit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don't waste any more time. I grab my satchel and bring out a small metal case. I flick the latches on it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVeronique leans in and I open the case.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer breath catches. \"Oh, Alys, it's even more exquisite than I thought.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It really is lovely,\" I agree. And it is. The Georgian brooch is surrounded by twelve cranberry-colored flat-cut garnets and a ring of tiny seed pearls, which set off the dark chestnut hair swirled in its center.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I had to have it.\" Veronique's eyes never leave the piece.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I can see why,\" I say. But I don't ask her exactly why. I never ask why. With this kind of person-a person like me, like Veronique-there is always a why. And the truth is, you're better off not knowing. Why would someone alive be so fascinated with death? I've found that if you dig deep enough, there is always a reason. But it doesn't really matter. Veronique wants the brooch. I want to sell her the brooch. That's all either of us needs to know.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVeronique looks to me and I nod. She brings the brooch out to cradle it in the palm of her hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh, you lovely thing,\" she croons.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI give her a moment. When she finally glances at me again, it's with narrowed eyes. \"Wait. Why come all this way to deliver it? I'll be in London again in just a few weeks. Do you have something else to tempt me with? Something . . . better?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Well, that was quick. So you're not happy with the brooch now? Because I have someone else who's looking for-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Stop it. I love the brooch. You know I do.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI smile. \"Sorry. I don't have anything else for you. Not today.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere's a pause. Veronique's eyes remain narrowed. \"So why Seoul, then? Are you delivering to someone else? Or are you buying?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"It's just a work trip,\" I reply coolly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA longer pause.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVeronique stills. \"No. It's true? One of the Venuses is really here? I heard a rumor, but I thought it was just ridiculous gossip.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI don't answer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Is one of them for sale?\" Her breath catches. \"Is it Elizabeth? I've seen photos of her. She's absolutely stunning.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI get off my stool.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Sorry.\" Veronique holds up her hands. \"Stupid of me. I totally forgot. You're related to one of the Venuses, aren't you? The original models, I mean. It's personal for you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAgain, I don't answer. I don't discuss the Venuses. Ever. And I would especially not discuss them with someone as indiscreet as Veronique.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I might not have much time.\" I move the conversation along. \"Do you mind if we . . .\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Of course! This way.\" Veronique almost tips her stool over in her haste to round the bench. \"I hope you don't think I meant anything by it. It's just that the Venuses are so fascinating. You know, I did a Jack the Ripper tour once, and the whole time I was on it, I thought the tour company should offer one based on the Venuses.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI force myself not to grimace. Those Jack the Ripper tours make me sick to my stomach. I think it's abhorrent how people relish the tale of the throat slitting and gutting of five poverty-stricken, vulnerable women stuck in horribly grim existences. Even now they're seen as \"just prostitutes,\" these human beings who deserved so much better in life and in death. It truly amazes me how they continue to be served up on a platter for our entertainment. But this is neither the time nor the place to get into that. \"It's fine,\" I tell Veronique. \"We're fine.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI follow her past the kitchen and down a short corridor. She slides open a door and flicks on some lights. \"Here we are,\" she says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh.\" I exhale, taking in the room, which is far more impressive in actuality than in the pictures I've seen. \"It's really something.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVeronique's collection is encased in custom-built floor-to-ceiling recessed glass cases with overhead lighting. The pieces have been thoughtfully and carefully mounted on a backdrop of black slubbed silk. I walk over to the closest wall, dotted with eye miniatures. At least a hundred single eyes stare back at me-painted likenesses of eyes that were once alive but now exist only in this form, forever unblinking. The eyes are surrounded by heavenly clouds and have been fashioned into brooches and snuffboxes, pendants and toothpick cases, cherished reminders of loved ones who have passed away. A bit of a fad, they were made for only around one hundred years, from the 1770s onward. When I get to the very bottom row, I spot something and laugh. A real false eye sits, unblinking, set in a gold ring.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Veronique, that's macabre, even for you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I know. I couldn't help myself, though. Who would do that? Do you think someone actually wore it?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Unfortunately, yes.\" I resume moving, wanting to take in the delicious room. Necklaces of heavy jet, some polished to a high sheen, some matte, call to me. And then, of course, there is the hair. So. Much. Hair. Braided, woven. Fashioned into rings and bracelets, watch fobs and brooches. Simple strands tied with a ribbon and encased in glass, or intricately weaved into fancy wreaths and lace. White. Gray. Black. Lush waves. Wiry strands. Wisps of baby curls. So much love. So much pain. So many memories. This is the answer to Why?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMourning jewelry is my specialty-hairwork in particular.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hover over one piece I know intimately. An oval locket made of gold, it is commonplace. Not an expensive or rare piece. Not at all. But there is something about the finely woven hair encased inside it, two shades bound together for all eternity-one fair, one dark. There is love there. Longing. Regret. I know it. Can feel it. I might not have known the deceased but there's no denying it. Some pieces stand out. Some pieces hold an energy that others do not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI look down at a spot on my forearm, and there is the locket, tattooed upon me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"If you ever want to buy it back . . .\" Veronique says.","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233556443365,"sku":"NP9780593954645","price":30.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593954645.jpg?v=1767736747","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/slashed-beauties-isbn-9780593954645","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}