.jpg)
I have 5 hardcover copies for 5 US shipping addresses holders that I will draw on Thursday. Please enter a comment and you will be eligible. Prizes will be shipped by the publisher directly to winners.
Here is small excerpt from the The Perfume Garden novel to give you an idea:
"Emma took a deep breath, and gazed out of the bus window. It was almost her stop. Perhaps it’s time to stop saving the best till last, she thought. She folded the note and slipped it into her mother’s Moleskine notebook on her lap, flicking on through the pages illuminated with Liberty’s flamboyant handwriting. Words leaped out at her—“neroli,” “duende,” “passion.” Her mother had pasted in cuttings alongside the notes and formulas for the new perfume she had been working on—pictures of orange groves, searing blue skies, a yellowed newspaper advert for a Robert Capa exhibition. It was the famous “falling soldier” picture. Emma traced her finger over the soldier’s face, wondered what he was thinking at the moment when death caught him running down that hill. She wondered what he saw as he fell. As she touched the paper, she felt the contours of something beneath. She flipped to the next page and laid her hand on the smallest envelope Liberty had left in the box with the letters. On it, her mother had written an address: Villa del Valle, La Pobla, Valencia, Spain. Inside, there was just an old key. I must ask Freya if she knows anything about this, she thought. Emma had lain awake the night she opened that envelope, turning the key over in her hand, her mind full of possibilities. Typical Mum, she thought, remembering all the magical mystery tours Liberty had taken her on as a child, the trails of clues she had laid for Emma to follow to hidden presents. The chase, the anticipation, was always more fun than the present itself.
Emma turned the pages, glimpsed the melancholy, serene face of a Madonna, a photo of a whitewashed wall with flaming bougainvillea spilling over it. The notes became sparser, the hand less sure toward the end. She sensed Liberty had been looking back, as well as forward. Next to a pasted label from Chérie Farouche, the perfume Liberty had created for Emma on her eighteenth birthday, she had written: “Some perfumes are, like children, innocent, as sweet as oboes, green as meadow sward—Baudelaire.” It was still Emma’s signature scent. On her it smelled like rain in a garden at first, fresh and intoxicating; then as the green top notes evaporated Emma always thought of the earth, of picking flowers in a forest with her mother. The heart note of lily of the valley and jasmine melded perfectly with the base of sandalwood and musk. Liberty always said the scent was like her—shy but surprisingly fierce. A photograph of Liberty with Emma as a baby was tucked into that page. She flicked on, unbearable longing piercing her as she looked at her mother’s beautiful, open smile. Emma paused at her mother’s final sketch of a new Liberty Temple perfume bottle, her hurried scrawl: “Jasmine? Orange blossom, yes!”
Copyright © 2015 by Kate Lord Brown
.jpg)
