In the fairy tale realm of Arilland, stories are told at children's bedsides—and not the stories you think you know. Tales of Arilland is a collection of fairy tales, presented in the magical topsy-turvy way that only Alethea Kontis can do. Discover the story of Bluebeard's first wife ("Blood From Stone"), what really happened to Snow White in those dark woods ("The Unicorn Hunter"), how dangerous the Little Mermaid might have been ("Blood and Water"), and just how far Little Red Riding Hood was willing to go ("Hero Worship"). Included in this collection is "Sunday," the original novelette that inspired the award-winning novel Enchanted, as well as "The Cursed Prince," the previously untold history of Prince Rumbold of Arilland...and more. Woodcutter enthusiasts will rejoice at this opportunity to delve into the secret worlds beyond Kontis's intricately woven fantasy novels. If you are not a fan yet, you will be!
Step into the enchanting, beautiful, and sometimes dangerous world of fairy tales in Alethea Kontis' Tales of Arilland. Alethea received a volume of unexpurgated fairy tales for her eight birthday, and the impact of reading those stories of magic, monsters, darkness, blood, and hope is clear in the nine tales in this wonderful collection. – Jamie Ferguson
"A veritable badass fairy princess."– Jim Butcher
"Alethea Kontis IS fairy tales."– Jim C. Hines, author of Libriomancer
"Alethea Kontis: Awesome, racks up award nominations, wears tiaras."– Ferrett Steinmetz, author of Flex
"I want to live in [Alethea's] head because I think that might be the most interesting place in the world!!!!"– Ellen Oh, author of Prophecy
"Alethea Kontis, the woman who writes like Shakespeare would if he were alive today."– Aaron Pound
"The beauty of a princess, the confidence of a queen, the brilliance of a writer, and the demeanor of a cheerful fairy comedian!"– Cheyenne Z
In the seventh month of Harvest's pregnancy, Bane's dream-self fought brutally with a wolf from another pack. He awoke on all fours, looming over Harvest and staring at the crescent-shaped marks on her pale white throat. She had slapped him out of his vision; his cheeks stung from the deep scratches her prenatal nails had raked across him. In the midnight silence, a drop of blood fell from his face to her breast.
"Sweetheart," Harvest said calmly, "this has to stop. You have to go to the wolves and ask them for help."
On any other day those words might not have made a lick of sense to him, but right there, bathed in bright moonlight, with the salty taste of his wife's sweat and fear fresh upon his tongue, Bane knew what he had to do. When dawn broke, he packed up his fiddle and a blanket and set out for the hill at the edge of the Wild Wood. Harvest stayed behind at the garden gate, but not before handing him a small bag of food. She had noticed the look in his eye, the look of every man who has left home with no idea of when he might return, or if he should.