Genre: Adult Fiction (Fantasy / Horror)
Date Published: February 14, 2023
Publisher: William Morrow
A sumptuous, gothic-infused story about a marriage that is unraveled by dark secrets, a friendship cursed to end in tragedy, and the danger of believing in fairy tales—the breathtaking adult debut from New York Times bestselling author Roshani Chokshi.
Once upon a time, a man who believed in fairy tales married a beautiful, mysterious woman named Indigo Maxwell-Casteñada. He was a scholar of myths. She was heiress to a fortune. They exchanged gifts and stories and believed they would live happily ever after—and in exchange for her love, Indigo extracted a promise: that her bridegroom would never pry into her past.
But when Indigo learns that her estranged aunt is dying and the couple is forced to return to her childhood home, the House of Dreams, the bridegroom will soon find himself unable to resist. For within the crumbling manor’s extravagant rooms and musty halls, there lurks the shadow of another girl: Azure, Indigo’s dearest childhood friend who suddenly disappeared. As the house slowly reveals his wife’s secrets, the bridegroom will be forced to choose between reality and fantasy, even if doing so threatens to destroy their marriage . . . or their lives.
Combining the lush, haunting atmosphere of Mexican Gothic with the dreamy enchantment of The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue, The Last Tale of the Flower Bride is a spellbinding and darkly romantic page-turner about love and lies, secrets and betrayal, and the stories we tell ourselves to survive.
The Last Tale of the Flower Bride is a standalone dark fantasy by Roshani Chokshi
I wouldn’t call this a romance as the blurb does. The story was mostly about the friendship, if you could call it that, between Indigo and Azure. There was toxicity in both the marriage and friendship. And you flip back and forth between them and Indigo’s marriage to the bridegroom. We never get his name. There was very little romance. The writing was pretty and flowed beautifully. It painted a very dreamlike picture of the characters.. sometimes the dream turned more nightmare and back again. It’s very alluring, but I couldn’t fully commit to these characters, and that may be because I figured something out way too early...
There is a twist in the ending that I knew was happening from the beginning, but that may be because I listened to the audiobook and by listening, it gives you a big clue that your wouldn't get when reading the book yourself.
Once upon a time, Indigo Maxwell-Castenada found me.
I had been lost a long time, and had grown comfortable in the dark. I didn't imagine anyone could lure me from it. But Indigo was one of those creatures that can hunt by scent alone, and the reek of my desperate wanting must have left a tantalizing, fluorescent trail.
Before Indigo, I avoided places where money served as pageantry rather than payment. I clung to the opinion that they were loud and crass, the shabby but sturdy armor of a poor man. In those days, I was poor. But I had become rich in expertise, and it was in this capacity that I served as a visiting curator to L'Exposition Des Femme Monstreuses. The exhibit had brought me to Paris on someone else's dime and, eventually, to the Hotel de Castenada.
Once one of the royal apartments of Louis XIV and Marie Antoinette, the Hotel de Castenada now ranked among the finest hotels in the world. The vaulted ceiling, a restoration of the original I was told, still showed indifferent, muscular gods reclining amidst gold-bellied clouds. Ivy lined the walls, through which the snarling faces of stone satyrs peered and panted at the guests.
It was common knowledge that each of the Castenada hotels centered around a fairytale motif. I gathered this one was an homage to Perrault's La Belle et la Bete-Beauty and the Beast-and while I hated to admit it, something about it seemed not of this world. It was so lovely I could almost ignore the crowd of models and DJs, red-faced businessmen and whatever other brilliantly arrayed and ostensibly vapid creatures such beautiful places attracted.
"Sir?" A slim, dark-skinned waitress appeared at my side. This was the second time she'd stopped by my table. I had chosen one near the back of the room so I might keep an eye on the entrance. "Are you sure I cannot get you anything?"
I glanced at the menu beside the haphazard collection of notes I'd prepared for the evening. The cocktails started at 50 euros. I smiled at the waitress, raised my half-filled glass of water and then tapped the empty dish of complementary spiced nuts.
"Perhaps another of these?" I asked. "My guest must be running late."
The waitress managed a brittle smile and took the dainty, porcelain dish-the cost of which was likely more than what I'd spend on dinner-and walked away without another word. She probably thought I was lying about meeting someone. And truly, part of me thought I might be lying if I believed my intended guest would deign to meet with me.
After months of searching for the whereabouts of a 131h century grimoire, I had traced it to the private collection of the Castenada family. Initially, my requests to view the piece had gone unanswered. This was not surprising. I was well-known only in academic circles, a Middle Ages historian with an interest in the preservation of incunabulum. I had nothing to lose but time. So, I wrote letter after letter, stood for hours as the fax machine spit them out into offices around the world. I lost a tiny fortune in long-distance phone calls until, finally, I received a message one week before I flew to Paris.
You may meet me at the Hotel on the 711• of November. 8 o'clock.
-I.MC
I.M.C. Indigo Maxwell-Castenada. The heir of the Castenada fortune.
I knew nothing about him, and I preferred it that way. I have never understood this preoccupation with the rich and famous and how they spend their existence. The way some people clung to celebrity coincidences-"our birthdays are the same!"- as if this were something shared and sacred.I checked my watch: 8:45 p.m.
I had been lost a long time, and had grown comfortable in the dark. I didn't imagine anyone could lure me from it. But Indigo was one of those creatures that can hunt by scent alone, and the reek of my desperate wanting must have left a tantalizing, fluorescent trail.
Before Indigo, I avoided places where money served as pageantry rather than payment. I clung to the opinion that they were loud and crass, the shabby but sturdy armor of a poor man. In those days, I was poor. But I had become rich in expertise, and it was in this capacity that I served as a visiting curator to L'Exposition Des Femme Monstreuses. The exhibit had brought me to Paris on someone else's dime and, eventually, to the Hotel de Castenada.
Once one of the royal apartments of Louis XIV and Marie Antoinette, the Hotel de Castenada now ranked among the finest hotels in the world. The vaulted ceiling, a restoration of the original I was told, still showed indifferent, muscular gods reclining amidst gold-bellied clouds. Ivy lined the walls, through which the snarling faces of stone satyrs peered and panted at the guests.
It was common knowledge that each of the Castenada hotels centered around a fairytale motif. I gathered this one was an homage to Perrault's La Belle et la Bete-Beauty and the Beast-and while I hated to admit it, something about it seemed not of this world. It was so lovely I could almost ignore the crowd of models and DJs, red-faced businessmen and whatever other brilliantly arrayed and ostensibly vapid creatures such beautiful places attracted.
"Sir?" A slim, dark-skinned waitress appeared at my side. This was the second time she'd stopped by my table. I had chosen one near the back of the room so I might keep an eye on the entrance. "Are you sure I cannot get you anything?"
I glanced at the menu beside the haphazard collection of notes I'd prepared for the evening. The cocktails started at 50 euros. I smiled at the waitress, raised my half-filled glass of water and then tapped the empty dish of complementary spiced nuts.
"Perhaps another of these?" I asked. "My guest must be running late."
The waitress managed a brittle smile and took the dainty, porcelain dish-the cost of which was likely more than what I'd spend on dinner-and walked away without another word. She probably thought I was lying about meeting someone. And truly, part of me thought I might be lying if I believed my intended guest would deign to meet with me.
After months of searching for the whereabouts of a 131h century grimoire, I had traced it to the private collection of the Castenada family. Initially, my requests to view the piece had gone unanswered. This was not surprising. I was well-known only in academic circles, a Middle Ages historian with an interest in the preservation of incunabulum. I had nothing to lose but time. So, I wrote letter after letter, stood for hours as the fax machine spit them out into offices around the world. I lost a tiny fortune in long-distance phone calls until, finally, I received a message one week before I flew to Paris.
You may meet me at the Hotel on the 711• of November. 8 o'clock.
-I.MC
I.M.C. Indigo Maxwell-Castenada. The heir of the Castenada fortune.
I knew nothing about him, and I preferred it that way. I have never understood this preoccupation with the rich and famous and how they spend their existence. The way some people clung to celebrity coincidences-"our birthdays are the same!"- as if this were something shared and sacred.I checked my watch: 8:45 p.m.
To learn more about Roshani Chokshi and her books, visit her website. You can also find her on Goodreads, Instagram, and Twitter.
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