Excerpt from Nightbirds by Kate J. Armstrong, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

She weaves through the room, guessing whom she might know and whom she should want to. Matilde enjoys secrets and puzzles, and so she loves the Houses' penchant for throwing masked summer balls. People grow bolder with their faces covered; they gamble with fortunes and with hearts. It's easy to tell who isn't from Simta: They have a shine in their eyes like the wings of newborn flamemoths, dazzled to see so much magic on display. Simta boasts the Republic's best trickster tailors and alchemists, and those with coin and connections know where their illegal concoctions can be found. Such powders and potions are coaxed out of herbs and earth, crafted by clever hands, and they make wonderful illusions, but it isn't like the magic that runs through Matilde's veins. Hers can't be brewed: It lives inside her, rare and unfiltered. She loves being a secret glittering in plain sight.

She takes a deep breath. The air tastes of flowers and champagne, and the beginning of the Season. It's a flavor that Matilde knows by heart. If this is to be her last summer as a Nightbird, she's going to drink in every drop of it. 

She reaches for a coupe glass full of Leta's signature cocktail, Sylva—Dreamer. The magic in it makes it taste of nostalgia: a favorite childhood treat, a sunny field, a stolen kiss. But as it slides across her tongue, her thoughts turn toward the future. In just a few hours, she will be the Goldfinch for someone.

Whose jewelflower will I be tonight?

***

Sayer stalks the edges of the ballroom. She is used to being the watcher, not the watched, and it feels like half the dashed room is staring at her. She stares back, fighting the urge to bare her teeth.

Leta's ballroom reminds Sayer of a mini version of Simta: a series of rings that get prettier and richer as you make your way in. Servants, guards, and butlers stand by the walls, not really a part of things. They're the Edges. A few steps in you find the strivers trying to look like they belong. They're the Fringes. A few steps more and you arrive at the Great Houses that form the privileged center of it all. Her dame was one of them once, glowing like the flamemoths that fill lanterns in the Garden District. Of course, that was before she tripped and fell out of their light.

Sayer is supposed to be mingling, but all this glitz and empty talk is making her restless. The bootleg in this ballroom could probably buy a fleet of merchant ships. These people flash magic like gems, a status symbol. Only the best for Simta's brightest young things.

As a man tries to sneak a peek down her dress, she's sorely tempted to try and slip something out of his pocket, just for practice. Since leaving Griffin Quarter, she hasn't had much chance to use her cutpurse skills, and no real need. Leta, her guardian, has been more than generous. Leta's told everyone that her prickly new ward is some distant cousin from the country. No one seems to have guessed she's the daughter of the late, disgraced Nadja Sant Held.

Unlike her dame, Sayer grew up across the canals in Griffin's. They lived above a silversmith's, in four rooms that smelled of metal polish and dusty castoffs from friends who never came to call. Until a few months ago, Sayer had barely set more than a foot in Pegasus Quarter, even though it was just across the water. It was another world, made wistful by her dame's rosy stories that all seemed to begin with if only. If only she had waited for Wyllo Regnis to propose instead of giving in to his desire for his favorite Nightbird. If only he would regain his senses and come to claim them as his own.

Sayer's magic first started stirring late, for a girl like her: only six months ago. Dame wanted to take her to the Madam to be tested, but she refused. Until her dame's coughs started bloodying whole kerchiefs, and her if only words turned slurred and urgent.

If only you would join the Nightbirds. You could bring us back into the light.

Excerpted from Nightbirds by Kate J. Armstrong. Copyright © 2023 by Kate J. Armstrong. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.