My husband has always designed the Fairendale book covers, from the very beginning. I am fortunate to be married to a man who supports me with unending encouragement and also by using his multi-faceted skills in video work, art, and, of course, design.
For the Fairendale covers, he typically begins with the rough sketch of an idea, on an art pad. For The Boy Who Loved a Swan, his main focus was the swan; after he perfected that, he added other elements—a boy, the moon, the water glow.
I love everything about this cover: the color that seems to glow, the swan illuminated by the moon, the boy (Oscar) peering from shadows. My husband has, once again taken my vague and unhelpful notes about the story and created a perfect piece of art.
More info about the book
The Boy Who Loved a Swan releases Sept. 25 in hardcover, paperback, and ebook form.
Blurb
Revenge keeps dangerous company.
Oscar, one of the lost children of Fairendale, has been transported, by way of a Vanishing spell that saved his life, to the uppity land of Lincastle. Here he watches, from a distance and with a heavy chip on his shoulder, the people of Lincastle strut about their streets in fine clothes and hats and shoes that, unlike his, do not have gaping holes. He watches, mostly, a book shop that reminds him of the one his mother owned in Fairendale.
When Oscar steals a book from the shop and is put on display by the law keeper of the land, he is rescued by an unexpected person—Freya, princess of the land. But soon his danger becomes her danger, and men storm the halls of the castle to capture her, deeming her unworthy to inherit the throne because she pardoned a criminal. Oscar and Freya must learn to fly—or lose their precious freedom forever.
About the author
L.R. Patton is the pen name of Rachel Toalson, author of the MG novel-in-verse The Colors of the Rain (under R.L. Toalson), and multiple poetry and essay books for adults. Her work can be found in print and online publications around the world. She lives in San Antonio, Texas, with her husband and six sons. She has written twelve books in the Fairendale series so far.
First chapter
The sun rises in the land of Fairendale, but it rises slightly to the northeast, as though it has forgotten the direction from which it is supposed to rise. It casts the land in a tip-tilted kind of light. Its people would say that at least the sun has risen today, for it has been many days since they have seen its golden glow and felt its warmth on their faces. But a sun that has forgotten where it is supposed to rise is more dangerous than a sun that does not rise at all, as the people shall soon understand. Its balance is askew.
King Willis, who is once more seated on Fairendale’s gleaming throne, does not notice that the sun has risen at all. He stares straight ahead, as though awaiting further instruction. It is precisely what he is doing, dear reader, for something quite mysterious and unknown has overtaken him. A possession of sorts. If one could see inside the cells and bones and sinews of a person, one might see a green-tinted goodness gathered inside a recess of King Willis’s mind, where the real King Willis is balled up and shivering while he sleeps, in miniature form. I know it is hard to understand. How could the real King Willis reside in the mind’s corner of the man who sits on the throne? Well, it is simply the way of magic. He is there, and that is all you need to know.
But who sits on Fairendale’s throne? That is not so easy to answer. It is King Willis, but it is not King Willis. It is a shell of King Willis, possessed by the cunning mind and nefarious spirit of another. It is unclear who, but if you have made it this far in the Fairendale chronicles (and if you have not, well, I suggest you begin from the beginning), we might make our guesses.
This shell of King Willis will think and plan and move, but you must remember that it is not the real King Willis who thinks and plans and moves. This may help ease your heart a bit, for what this king may do in the future—perhaps near, perhaps far—is something even I do not want to know yet.
King Willis stands and crosses the platform to the mirror. Its golden flourishes gleam in the sunlight that reaches through an open window and flings a blinding beam into the king’s eye. He does not notice this, either. He stares, unblinkingly, into the mirror. He offers the looking glass a smile, one that turns up more on the right side than the left, but only slightly. An eyebrow arches.
“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,” he says, and the mirror flashes to life. In the reflection, King Sebastien folds his hands across his fit middle.
“Where we go the world will fall,” King Sebastien says, and the two men laugh, a sound that is hollow and wicked and alarming for those who may be listening. And in a castle like this one, there is always someone listening. Today, there are two—one at the back entrance of the throne room and another at the front.
“I must warn you, my son,” King Sebastien says. He bounces on his toes and then places his heels back on the ground—though, in the mirror, there is no ground. He appears to float, stepping on nothing as he takes two steps forward. “You must not dine with the queen. You must not talk to the queen. You must not let her convince you that a king does not need a throne. She is a lovely woman, as she always was. And lovely women can never be trusted.” His voice grows hard and sharp and shadowed at the edges.
“I will remain in here,” King Willis says. “I will dine in here, I will sleep in here, and I will rise in here.”
“Very well,” King Sebastien says. “And I shall keep watch. As long as you do not dismiss me, I can remain.”
“Yes, Father,” King Willis says.
“And we will restore this throne to what it was always supposed to be.”
“Yes, Father,” King Willis says.
“We will make Fairendale strong again.”
“Yes, Father.”
“We will make its people suffer.”
“Yes, Father.”
“We will do what must be done.”
“Yes, Father.”
“You must not trust the queen.”
“I will not, Father.”
There is no hesitation, no weighing of consequences, no thoughtful consideration. There is only blind obedience. King Willis asks no questions; no questions even arise in his mind. It is, by his compromised logic, quite simple: King Sebastien is the rightful ruler. He will surely make the right decisions. He will make Fairendale great again.
“We have much work to do, my son,” King Sebastien says. “We will restore this throne to its former glory. We will make it shine with brilliance.” He pauses. “Are you ready?”
“I am ready, Father,” King Willis says.
“Then we shall begin,” King Sebastien says, and a flash of light, the sun catching on the mirror once more before it rises too high in the sky to reach through open windows, punctuates the words.
If you are as observant as I believe all of my readers are, you will notice several things about this exchange between King Willis and King Sebastien. You will first notice that there is no mention of the king of Guardia, King Wolfe, and his threat of invasion, which came in the form of a letter several days past. This is because King Sebastien does not worry over him at all. Even trapped in a mirror, he believes he is stronger than a king of giants.
There is also no mention of the imprisoned children, who remain in the darkest of all known worlds: the dungeons beneath the dungeons of Fairendale castle. This is because King Sebastien does not view children as people, only means to an end.
And, lastly, there is no mention of Prince Virgil, the heir to the throne, because King Sebastien, long ago, forgot what it means to love. He does not even know his grandson’s name.
It is as though another story entirely is being written by the two men who meet in a mirror, a story devoid of all negotiation, compassion and, most tragic of all, love.
(Cover designed by Ben Toalson at Toalson Media)
(Photo by Evan Dennis on Unsplash)