Predatory Natures - Hardcover

Goldsmith, Amy

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0593814312 ISBN 13: 9780593814314

Verlag: Delacorte Press, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

A teen girl's dream job aboard a luxury train derails when she discovers the strange cargo being transported—a mysterious and beautiful greenhouse—but its flowering façade may hide deadly thorns beneath, in this atmospheric and lush novel from the author of Those We Drown.

When Lara Williams gets a summer job aboard the luxury train the Banebury, she thinks she’s landed a five-star escape from her past. Even after she learns that her ex-friend Rhys, who she definitely did not have feelings for  before their relationship imploded, is one of her coworkers, she’s determined to make  things work.

But on the first day of their journey, the trip takes a strange turn. Two mysterious carriages filled with an array of beautiful and rare plants are attached to the Banebury in the middle of the night.

And with them comes a pair of siblings. Wealthy, mysterious, and charismatic, Gwen and Gwydion claim the plants they’re transporting are for research, but Lara can’t shake the feeling that there’s something . . . otherworldly about the strange blooms. Something that will stop at nothing to ensure the Banebury never reaches its destination.

Soon Lara will learn: You can’t outrun your troubles. You have to grab them by their roots. And if she can’t unearth the secrets of the Banebury, they might drag her down for good. . . .

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Amy Goldsmith grew up on the south coast of England, obsessed with obscure 70s horror movies and antiquarian ghost stories. She studied Psychology at the University of Sussex and, after gaining her Postgraduate Certificate in Education, moved to inner London to teach. Now, she lives back on the south coast where she still teaches English and spends her weekends trawling antiques shops for haunted mirrors. She is the author of Those We Drown, Our Wicked Histories and Predatory Natures.

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1

An early spring breeze stirs the delicate buds on the trees as I gaze out over the ancient walled city of Carcassonne, deep in the south of France. Adjusting the vintage sunglasses I picked up in Milan last week, I take a final sip of my chocolat chaud before heading back to the bustling market where Vincent is waiting for me, all floppy French hair and--

“Attention all passengers. The Banebury will soon be arriving on platform thirteen.”

The announcement crashes into my dream. I flip my glossy magazine shut with a grin and shove it into my backpack. The article I was reading is titled “Secret Escapes”--which is fitting--and soon that will be me, lapping up the scenery as I make my way across Europe. My phone’s already bookmarked with historic sites I’m dy-ing to see and directions to all the best beaches. Clicking my phone to selfie mode, I force a smile and shake back my curls, appraising myself. I got this. Lara Williams, reinvented. Lara Born Anew. My fresh start (Lara’s Version). I’m friendly, professional . . . relaxed. If I say it enough times, who knows, maybe I’ll start be-lieving it. Picking up my Frappuccino, I tug my case toward the platform, weaving between hordes of distracted commuters.

I’m expecting the Banebury to be grand; after all, it’s five-star luxury accommodation. But though I’ve checked out the glossy photos on the website countless times, I audibly gasp as the train slides into Cardiff Central station. I mean, okay, I knew it wasn’t going to be anything like the crappy commuter train I used to take to school, all crazy ’80s prints on the seats and perfumed with stale piss, but this . . . this is an entirely different beast.

It glides effortlessly along the platform like some magnificent stallion, its sleek black paintwork glistening, its windowpanes glittering like diamonds in the February sun. And for a moment, I think I must have got it wrong, that this is an entire echelon above the train someone like me is due to work on, but no, there’s the name, painted on the side of the carriages in glorious golden, looping letters:

The Banebury

Through the windows, I spy plush crimson seating, acres of polished wood, and delicate crystal light fittings.

This is some fancy shit.

I’m early--I always am--wanting to scope out my surroundings and the people I’ll be working with in advance. As the train finally stills, I wait to see if anyone disembarks, but the doors remain stubbornly closed, with no sign of any passengers within. I hesitate outside the carriage nearest me, wondering if I should knock. But seconds later, there’s movement behind the window, and a tall, serious-looking woman with neat black braids opens the door. She squints down at me.

“Lara, yeah?” Her accent is pure South London. I smile, relaxing immediately--the image of the sneery old posh guy I’d pictured as my boss thankfully dissolving.

“Hey! Yeah, that’s me.”

“Recognize you from your photo. I’m Shoshanna. Well done for being early--good start.” She steps aside and, with a flourish of her white-gloved hand, gestures into the darkened interior of the carriage. “And welcome . . . to the Banebury.”

At her invitation, I climb on, clumsily hauling my suitcase behind me.

“Leave that here a minute,” she says, gesturing at my case, “while we wait for the others. I’ll give you a quick tour so you can orient yourself. Follow me.”

Together we step into what must be a dining carriage, the air expensively fragranced with a fresh floral scent. Roses, I think--my grandparents are big gardeners. My shoes sink deep into a plush carpet that is the color of ripe plums. What I notice first is how warm everything is, how welcoming. From the yellow-toned gold of the fixtures to the amber-colored wooden surfaces, all polished within an inch of their life, everything in this carriage glows with its own internal light. Ele-gant crystal glasses stand regimentally on mirrored shelves below fussy glass lamps that peer out from the walls like curious, long-necked swans. Upon a mag-nificent sideboard, inlaid with mother-of-pearl in checkerboard patterns, are several etched-silver champagne buckets. Velvet-padded seats in a vibrant peacock print sit politely beneath tables draped in white cloths, each bearing its own deli-cate little Tiffany-style lamp.

“Wow,” I say, my voice hushed with awe. I genuinely have no words. Shoshanna snorts. “I know, right?”

As she leads me through the train, the luxury seems to increase with each subsequent carriage. Through the dining room is a shimmering bar topped with milky, gold-veined marble, behind which is an expansive art deco mirror etched with candy-pink stained-glass feathers. Rose-gold stools topped with plump cushions in a playful shade of watermelon stand in a perfectly spaced arc about the bar.

“So this is the Dahlia Bar . . . and then through here . . . the Cedar Lounge.”

The lounge is a cozy but opulent space crammed with pillowy burgundy couches and low tables stacked with pricey-looking tomes on fashion and architecture. Arched windows framed in gold are accentuated with tapestry drapes, and the floor is a carpenter’s marvel: upon it, delicate polished stars interlink, each com-posed of three kinds of wood.

“Next, we’ve got the Azalea Coffee Lounge.”

Shoshanna’s meager words do not remotely do justice to this sumptuous homage to dark academia, complete with an antique, globe-style drinks trolley and artfully disheveled leather armchairs. A fully stocked coffee bar is discreetly hidden within carefully crafted bookshelves, each stuffed with leather-bound tomes imprisoned behind delicate gold filigree mesh, presumably to prevent them from flying off once the train starts moving. Gazing balefully down from the higher shelves are several slightly eerie, although well-kept, examples of taxidermy.

In sharp contrast, the following carriage is a sleek, airy viewing lounge in cool shades of cream, sage, and heather. Delicate settees and chaise longues face crystal-clear picture windows. In the next and final carriage, a lustrous black grand pi-ano dominates, surrounded by a scattering of chic golden tables and black-leather stools. A gold-etched sign decrees it the Orchid Lounge.

Shoshanna stops here and gestures about. “So . . . as you can see, we’ve got all the usual things you’d expect on a train like this--dining carriage, bar, couple of lounges . . . there’s an onboard chef, so you don’t have to worry about making meals or anything like that. As we make our way back through the train, I’ll show you the sleeper cars and the staff quarters, where you can dump your suitcase and get changed.”

At the other end of the train, past the communal areas, is a series of darker, narrower corridors carpeted in gold-flecked navy. On one side is a row of closed doors set into glossy dark wood, each bearing some ridiculously convoluted name engraved onto a brass plaque: the Amaryllis Suite, the Jacinda Suite, the Oleander Suite.

Shoshanna unlocks a door at random and gestures for me to look inside.

“Pretty swish, huh? You’d want it to be . . . for the price.”

It’s like peering into an intricate jewelry box. A bottle-green leather couch faces an enormous picture window, beside which is a low glass table bearing several crystal decanters in the shape of swans. Beyond that, half obscured by the swoop of an emerald-velvet drape, is a king-size bed that takes up the entire width of the room. Crisp white sheets peek out beneath an embroidered...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Delacorte Press
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2025
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593814312
• ISBN 13: 9780593814314
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Anzahl der Seiten: 420
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar