Are you ready to be one of the first to get an exclusive look at Alexandria Warwick’s The West Wind? The second book in the Four Winds series draws inspiration from the Scottish ballad Tam Lin to tell the story of an acolyte-in-training who is enchanted by a mysterious stranger. We Are Bookish has an exclusive reveal of the cover and an excerpt, but first, read our interview with the author.
Tell us about your book cover! What was the cover design process like for you?
Once Simon & Schuster selected the designer (K.D. Ritchie), she sent over three drafts of cover concepts for book one, The North Wind. I asked if it was possible to combine two different concepts and the designer came up with the beautiful concept you see now: a floral wreath surrounding the title. For The West Wind, the designer continued with this concept by focusing on the season of spring. I’m so pleased with the covers!
What inspired you to write The Four Winds series, and was there any specific inspiration for the events of The West Wind?
All of my writing is inspired by mythology in one way or another. I was drawn to the idea of interconnected standalone fantasy romance novels, but first I had to find some mythological person or being to center the series around. When I stumbled across the Anemoi—the Four Winds—in Greek mythology, I thought the four brothers would be the perfect subjects, using each novel to focus on their respective love stories.
In response to your second question, The West Wind is heavily inspired by Scottish lore, specifically the ballad of Tam Lin. The story is also inspired by the Greek myth Hero and Leander.
What inspired you to write The Four Winds series, and was there any specific inspiration for the events of The West Wind?
All of my writing is inspired by mythology in one way or another. I was drawn to the idea of interconnected standalone fantasy romance novels, but first I had to find some mythological person or being to center the series around. When I stumbled across the Anemoi—the Four Winds—in Greek mythology, I thought the four brothers would be the perfect subjects, using each novel to focus on their respective love stories.
In response to your second question, The West Wind is heavily inspired by Scottish lore, specifically the ballad of Tam Lin. The story is also inspired by the Greek myth Hero and Leander.
In three words, what can readers expect from The West Wind?
Purity. Obedience. Devotion.
Cover design is constantly changing and evolving. Is there a current trend in covers that you enjoy? What do you think is the secret to a good book cover?
I do like that cover design appears to be swinging back to the more text-heavy imagery. As for the secret to a good book cover… Well, it’s your most important marketing tool, as it is the first thing people see. The best book cover conveys to the reader what kind of story they can expect before ever opening the book. That, in my opinion, is what makes a great cover.
What books (other than your own) do you recommend we pick up while we wait for The West Wind to hit shelves on November 12?
I recently read The Serpent and the Wings of Night by Carissa Broadbent and it was fabulous. Three words: vampire Hunger Games.
Now, let’s get our first peek at The West Wind!
Here’s the official summary for The West Wind:
The Four Winds series continues in this darkly reimagined tale of forbidden love with influences from the Greek myth of Hero and Leander and the Scottish ballad Tam Lin.
Long before civilization, there were gods. And before the gods there was the earth, the celestial bodies, and air given flesh. They are the Anemoi—the Four Winds—and they have been banished to the four corners of the world.
Brielle of Thornbrook has dedicated her life to the abbey. She spends her days forging iron and studying the Text, all in preparation of becoming an acolyte—a shepherd of the Father. Twenty-one years on this earth she has never touched a man. And she never will.
Yet dark things uncoil beyond Thornbrook’s high stone walls. A chance encounter with an alluring stranger—Zephyrus, Bringer of Spring, with eyes of green—leads Brielle to Under, where the air breathes rot and roots grow black.
In Under, those Brielle can trust are few, least of all Zephyrus. But never has a man so thoroughly ensnared her. When faith and heart collide, Brielle learns how quickly threads unravel, even her most sacred vow: thou shalt not forsake the Father. For He is the Kingdom, and the Power, and the Glory. Forever and ever. Amen.
Can’t wait until November 12 to start reading?
Check out an excerpt below:
A man lies prone on the ground at my feet, and if I am not mistaken, he is dead.
Dead, or close to it. His back is still. There is no rise and fall, no air moving within the lungs. A mess of filthy, gold-streaked hair encrusts the curve of his skull, insects slithering among the tightly coiled curls.
Setting aside my basket of foraged pearl blossom, I step closer. A gust rattles the ancient wood where the mountain stands alone. Carterhaugh, this forested expanse of moss and fern, is so dense that as soon as the wind dies, the world quiets. Sound does not travel far here. No birdsong. Not even screams.
I nudge his leg with the toe of my boot. No response. He has obviously strayed from the trail—his last mistake. If he is dead, the abbey must be informed. At the very least, he will receive a proper burial.
I kneel. The earth, moist and spongy from frequent rain, softens beneath my weight. Quickly, I don my thin leather gloves, and only then do I reach forward to touch his face.
Warm. Despite the leather barrier, the heat of his skin bleeds through.
With a great heave, I roll the man onto his back. My gasp slips free as he twitches once, then falls limp. I was mistaken. The man is not dead.
Two blackened eyes bulge grotesquely above a horribly broken nose. Chapped lips surround a glint of white teeth. Then there is his sun-kissed skin, barely discernible beneath the bruising. Dried blood clots along his hairline.
I perch on my heels with a frown. The reek of smoke clings to my dress, reminding me of the blades awaiting tempering in the forge.
His attire, similar to his battered face, has clearly seen better days. A heavy green cloak fans out beneath his mud-spattered tunic. Trousers, torn at the knee, encase a pair of strong legs ending in worn, knee-high boots.
“Judge what you know,” I murmur to myself. “Not what you perceive.”
I do not know this man’s story. He could be a traveler. Maybe the darkness of Carterhaugh disoriented him and he lost his way to Thornbrook? Kilkare lies only nine miles southwest of here—half a day’s journey by wagon. But his injuries suggest that someone dumped his body and left him for dead. Where does this man hail from? More importantly, who hurt him, and why?
The air shimmers with golden sound. Bells, echoing off the mountain peak. Seven tolls mark the sacred hour, and I am already late, having wandered too far to collect the medicinal herb.
Another glance at the man’s motionless form. My hands curl into fists as the echoes falter, and fade. Who can say whether this man encountered the fair folk? It is not uncommon to hear of mortals dragged beneath the earth, held captive by those who dwell in Under. Indeed, the Abbess of Thornbrook herself was once trapped in the realm below, if the stories are true. But even if I wanted to help him, I cannot. No matter how often Mother Mabel insists that Thornbrook’s doors remain open for those in need, only women may enter the abbey.
I rise, belly cold with the understanding that my departure will leave this man alone, vulnerable. But it must be done.
Snatching my basket, I fly across the sloped earth, navigating the winding footpath north. A break in the trees ahead reveals the impressive church spire overlooking the abbey’s moss-eaten walls, which enclose its sprawling grounds.
Thornbrook is a climbing triumph of pale stone. According to the Text, the Father’s most devout acolytes built this structure themselves, dragging the massive stone up the mountain, stacking it three stories high. Ferns cloak its base and crawl through cracks in the edifice.
The gatehouse offers two methods of entry: a wide archway for carts and horses, and a narrow doorway for those traveling on foot, both barricaded as a precaution against the fair folk. I wave to the porter, and she promptly lifts the iron gate.
The open-aired cloister comes into view as I dash across the grassy yard toward the dormitory, climbing the staircase to the third floor. Once inside my bedroom, I exchange my gray, everyday dress for my alb—the long white robe worn during Mass—and the cincture, which wraps my thick waist, secured by a single knot. Those who have taken their final vows tie the slender white cord into three knots. My time, however, has not yet come.
Sweat coats my skin by the time I reach the church, where the Daughters of Thornbrook have congregated, a sea of white interrupted by the acolytes’ ruby stoles.
Before entering the worship space, I wash my hands in the lavabo near the doorway. Once purified, I insert myself at the back of the church, sliding into a pew next to a fellow novitiate. She does not acknowledge me. Her attention remains fixated on the altar, white marble shrouded in scarlet cloth. Three everlasting candles—Father, Son, and Holy Ghost—burn atop it.
At the front of the room, Mother Mabel climbs the steps to the chancel, where the choir sits. She continues to the presbytery before turning to face us, hands lifted, palms up. Directly behind the altar, a window of green glass pours verdant light onto the draped marble and its fixings.
As one, we bow our heads.
“Eternal Father, our hearts are open. Guide us in these coming months as we navigate the approaching tithe.” Palms pressed together, I lift my hands to my forehead, as does the rest of the congregation. Mother Mabel’s prayer slides into a lull. My thoughts begin to drift.
It would make perfect sense for the man to have been attacked. Indeed, the fair folk have their reasons. Confined to those cramped tunnels and lightless caves, barred from entering any mortal town, they are prohibited from governing or holding council, despite having settled in Carterhaugh centuries before we mortals drove them belowground. But the wood, with its blanketing shadows and concealing nature, still draws many of the fair folk out into the open.
As for the man . . . I should not be thinking of him. This is the Father’s house, its walls and doors a rare sanctuary. What would He think, knowing I held space for a man other than Him? With some effort, I shove my treacherous thoughts aside, lift my face toward the heavenly Eternal Lands. Our Father, the maker of two realms. Carterhaugh: idyllic, abundant, unspoiled. And Under: a rotting seed beneath the earth.
“Let us recite the Seven Decrees,” Mother Mabel says, her voice succumbing to its own echo.
Dutifully, we repeat what is spoken.
“Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not covet, nor disrespect thy mother or thy father. Thou shalt not forsake thy God. Thou shalt remember the Holy Day.” And the last: “Thou shalt not lie.”
“In weaving these decrees through the very fabric of our lives, may we uphold our vows,” Mother Mabel continues. “May we act, always, with honor and rectitude.”
I clench my sweaty hands. Honor. What honor is there in abandoning a man to the forest, prey for whatever insidious creatures pass?
“May we abide devotedly by the faith. May we keep no secrets from the Father.”
My eyes snap open as the congregation stirs.
“And,” Mother Mabel intones, her gaze holding mine, “may we never lust for man’s flesh.”
Alexandria Warwick is the author of the Four Winds series and the North series. A classically trained violinist, she spends much of her time performing in orchestras. She lives in Florida.
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