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Tor Books at New York Comic Con 2023!

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We’re thrilled to join you all at New York Comic Con 2023! Check out all the awesome panels and booth events we’ve got slated for this epic weekend!

Please note that giveaways and drops do not indicate author attendance at New York Comic Con. For attending authors, please check out panels and signing events. 


Thursday — October 12

Booth 3335

Author Signing + ARC Giveaway: Seth Dickinson

12:00 – 1:00 PM
Exordia

Author Signing: Julia Vee & Ken Bebelle

1:00 – 2:00 PM
Ebony Gate

Author Signing: Holly Black

2:00 – 3:00 PM
Book of Night

Author Signing: Christopher Golden**

3:00 – 4:00 PM
All Hallows & Road of Bones

Author Signing: Nat Cassidy

4:00 – 5:00 PM
Mary: An Awakening of Terror

 


Friday — October 13

Panels & Events

Mysteries, Magic, & Mayhem

Room 1B-02
11:00 AM – 12:00 PM

Rules are meant to be broken, and genre-boundaries are meant to be smashed. Join some of your favorite authors, including: John Scalzi (Starter Villain), Daniel M Ford (The Warden), R.R. Virdi (The First Binding), Veronica Roth (Arch-Conspirator), and Kristen Simmons (Find Him Where You Left Him Dead), with moderation by Seth Dickinson (Exordia) for a panel all about transcending science fiction, fantasy, and horror into a delightful mashup of all of our favorite tropes into their magnificent stories.

The Horror, The Horror

Room 1B-02
12:15 – 1:15 PM

Ever find a gripping story that you can’t put down, but that you have to read with the lights on? If so, you’ve found one of genre-fiction’s great joys: the horror novel. Join these acclaimed writers as they discuss their novels and why reading with the lights on is a good idea. This panel features James Kennedy, Mariam Metoui, Richard Kadrey (The Dead Take the A Train), and Eric Larocca.

Author Autographs

Celebrity Signing Tables #1-4
12:15 – 1:15 PM
John Scalzi, Daniel M. Ford, R.R. Virdi, Veronica Roth, Kristen SimmonsSeth Dickinson

Author Autographs

Celebrity Signing Tables #1-4
1:30 – 2:30 PM
Richard Kadrey

Spotlight on V. E. Schwab

Room 406.2
4:30 – 5:30 PM

Join critically acclaimed and bestselling author V. E. Schwab (The Fragile Threads of Power, The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue) for an intimate conversation about the creative process and the life of a writer with moderation by Tamara Fuentes.

Author Autographs

Room 1A-01
5:45 – 7:15 PM
V. E. Schwab

Booth 3335

Author Signing: Kristen Simmons

10:00 – 11:00 AM
Find Him Where You Left Him Dead

Author Signing: Cassandra Khaw & Richard Kadrey

11:00 AM – 12:00 PM
The Dead Take the A Train

Author Signing: V. E. Schwab – *100 tickets

1:00 – 2:00 PM
The Fragile Threads of Power

Author Signing: Veronica Roth

2:30 – 3:30 PM
Arch-Conspirator

Author Signing: Daniel M. Ford

5:00 – 6:00 PM
The Warden

 


Saturday — October 14

Panels & Events

Companion Showdown: Let’s Hear it for the Sidekicks of SFF

Room 1B-02
10:30 – 11:30 AM

Let’s face it: Frodo would never have destroyed the ring without Samwise Gamgee, and Batman ain’t nothing without Robin. So let’s hear it for the sidekicks of SFF, because it’s obvious our heroes are nothing without them. Join: John Scalzi (Starter Villain), V. E. Schwab (The Fragile Threads of Power), Alix E. Harrow (Starling House), and Cassandra Khaw (The Dead Take the A Train) with moderation by P. Djèlí Clark (Abeni’s Song & The Dead Cat Tail Assassins) as they discuss the unlikely companions that bring their stories to life, whether it’s a sentient Roomba, a talking cat, or just a seemingly inept but brave best friend.

Author Autographs

Celebrity Signing Tables #1-4
11:45 AM – 12:45 PM
John Scalzi, V. E. Schwab, Alix E. Harrow, Cassandra Khaw, Richard Kadrey, P. Djèlí Clark

Building Bestselling Worlds

Room 408
12:45 – 1:45 PM

Join these two critically acclaimed and bestselling authors as they discuss their approach to building rich, diverse, and unique worlds. This panel will feature Cassandra Clare and V. E. Schwab (The Fragile Threads of Power) with moderation by A.Y. Chao.

Author Autographs

Celebrity Signing Tables #1-4
2:00 – 3:30 PM
V. E. Schwab

Tor Spotlight: Chaotic Book Club

Room 1B-02
6:00 – 7:00 PM

Tor Publishing Group publishes some of the greatest sci-fi, fantasy, romance, and horror stories around. This panel will shine a spotlight on some of the exciting books that Tor, Tor Teen, Tordotcom Publishing, Nightfire, and our newest imprint, Bramble, have to offer. Join the book lovers from the Tor teams as they share a sneak peek at new and upcoming books that you will definitely have to add to your TBR list.

Booth 3335

Author Signing: Kevin J. Anderson

10:00 – 11:00 AM
Princess of DuneDune: The Heir of Caladan

Author Signing: P. Djèlí Clark

1:00 – 2:00 PM
Abeni’s SongThe Dead Cat Tail Assassins galleys

Author Signing: Alix E. Harrow

2:00 – 3:00 PM
Starling House & Other Titles

Author Signing: Christopher Paolini

3:00 – 4:00 PM
To Sleep in a Sea of StarsFractal Noise

Author Signing: John Scalzi

4:00 – 5:00 PM
Starter Villain & Other Titles

 


Sunday — October 15

Panels & Events

Return to Arrakis: Visiting the world of Dune with Tor Publishing Group and Abrams ComicArts

Room 1B-02
2:45 – 3:45 PM

Don’t miss the exciting in-depth and behind-the-scenes look at the gripping worldwide science-fiction sensation from long-time Dune author Kevin J. Anderson on the upcoming Dune: The Graphic Novel, Book 2: Muad’Dib: Deluxe Collector’s Edition and Dune: The Graphic Novel, Book 3: The Prophet (Abrams ComicArts) and the continuation of this incredible saga with Princess of Dune (Tor), with Charlotte Greenbaum, Senior Editor, Abrams ComicArts and Robert Davis, Editor, Tor Publishing Group.

Booth 3335

Author Signing: R.R. Virdi

11:00 AM – 12:00 PM
The First Binding 

  • Free author signing with tickets to be given away at 10:00 AM each day in the booth. Other titles will be available for purchase in the booth.
  • Author at St. Martin’s Press

Panelists and giveaways subject to change

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Love is in the Air…and in Our Ears! Check Out Our ‘Bramble’ Playlist

Love is in the air…and on our shelves…and in our ears! To celebrate the launch of our new romantic imprint Bramble, we’re giving you the ULTIMATE romantic playlist, lovingly put together by our staff at Tor Publishing Group. Whether you’re wildly in love, hating on your ex, or living the single life, we’ve got a song just for you. Check out the playlist here and let us know what you’re jamming to this week! 💕

video soruce

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Tor Books’ Severely Unmoored Winter Holiday Quiz

We are in the midst of winter, and the holidays loom on the horizon, offering portents of fun times to come and the social obligation of procuring gifts for the loved ones in your life! Don’t worry. We’re here to give you book recommendations to help you take care of the second part, so you can get right to the holiday snacking and relaxing!

Take the quiz. Discover your perfect bookly gift.



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Excerpt: Alone With You in the Ether by Olivie Blake

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Alone With You in the Ether by Olivie Blake

From Olivie Blake, the New York Times bestselling author of The Atlas Six, comes an intimate and contemporary study of time, space, and the nature of love. Alone with You in the Ether explores what it means to be unwell, and how to face the fractures of yourself and still love as if you’re not broken.

CHICAGO, SOMETIME—
Two people meet in the Art Institute by chance. Prior to their encounter, he is a doctoral student who manages his destructive thoughts with compulsive calculations about time travel; she is a bipolar counterfeit artist, undergoing court-ordered psychotherapy. By the end of the story, these things will still be true. But this is not a story about endings.

For Regan, people are predictable and tedious, including and perhaps especially herself. She copes with the dreariness of existence by living impulsively, imagining a new, alternate timeline being created in the wake of every rash decision.

To Aldo, the world feels disturbingly chaotic. He gets through his days by erecting a wall of routine: a backbeat of rules and formulas that keep him going. Without them, the entire framework of his existence would collapse.

For Regan and Aldo, life has been a matter of resigning themselves to the blueprints of inevitability—until the two meet. Could six conversations with a stranger be the variable that shakes up the entire simulation?

Please enjoy this free excerpt of Alone With You in the Ether by Olivie Blake, on sale 11/29/22.


1

The day before was nothing special. It was special only because of how unspecial it was, or perhaps by how unspecial it would very soon become. Things were always stranger in retrospect, which was a funny little consequence of time.

Aldo, who was called less frequently by his surname, Damiani, and even less commonly by his birth name, Rinaldo, had rolled a joint five minutes prior to his episode of silent meditation. He was twirling it between his fingers, staring into nothing.

SCENE: The air that afternoon has the crisp, weatherless quality that only happens in Chicago for about a week in mid-September. The sun is bright overhead, and the leaves on the tree above him are mostly undisturbed.

ACTION: ALDO raises the joint to his lips, saturating the cigarette paper.

The joint was unlit, because he was thinking. He’d come out to this park to sit on this bench to solve something, and he had been sitting there for ten minutes, thinking for nine and a half, rolling for four, and now fake-smoking for a good thirty seconds. Muscle memory, Aldo had always thought, was the key to unlocking any door that wouldn’t open. The act of solving something was, for him, as superstitious as anything.

ALDO glances at the audience. Noticing nothing amiss, he looks away.

The mechanics of his ritual were simple: Raise the joint to his lips, breathe in, breathe out, let his hand fall. This was the formula. Formulas he understood. He brought the joint to his lips, inhaled, and exhaled into nothing.

A BREEZE slides through the leaves overhead.

Aldo’s right thumb beat against his thigh, percussive to the rhythm of Grieg’s “In the Hall of the Mountain King,”

Cue soundtrack.

which then infected the rest of his fingers. They drummed against the threading of his jeans, impatient, while his left hand continued the motion of faux-smoking.

Aldo was thinking about quantum groups. Specifically, hexagons. It was Aldo’s firm belief that the hexagon was the most significant form in nature, not purely because of his fondness for the Apis— commonly known as the honeybee—but not entirely unrelated. Many people were typically unaware of how many kinds of bees there were. The bumblebee was slow and stupid enough to be petted, which was sort of sweet, though not quite as interesting.

THE NARRATOR, AN AGING, ARTHRITIC MAN IN POSSESSION OF MANY

BOOKS: We interrupt your perusal of Aldo Damiani’s intrusive thoughts to provide some necessary academic insight. The great Kurt Gödel, a twentieth-century logician and friend of Albert Einstein, believed that a continuous trajectory of “light cones” toward the future meant that one could always return to the same point in space-time. It is Aldo Damiani’s essential thesis that these cones travel methodically, perhaps even predictably, along hexagonal paths.

Hexagons. Quantum groups. Symmetry. Nature loved balance, especially symmetry, but rarely managed it. How often did nature create perfection? Almost never. Math was different. Math had rules, finite and concrete, but then it just kept going. The problem and the thrill of abstract algebra was that Aldo had been studying it in depth for over seven years, and he could study it for seven million more and still understand almost nothing. He could spend infinite lifetimes studying the mathematical basis of the universe and the universe would still not make sense. In two weeks it might snow, might rain sideways, and then this park would not be available to him. He could get arrested for not-smoking or die at any moment, and then he’d have to do his thinking in jail or not at all, and the universe would remain unsolved. His work would never be done, and that alone was tragic, exhilarating, perfect.

Right on schedule,

FROM ALDO’S POCKET: a vibration that prompts the audience to reach instinctively for their own pockets.

his father called.

Aldo tucked the joint into his pocket and dug out his phone. “Hello?”

“Rinaldo. Where are you?”

There was a long answer and a short answer, and Masso would probably insist on both. “Working.”

“You mean school?”

“Yes, Dad. I work at school.”

“Mm.” Masso already knew that, but the asking was another ritual. “What are you thinking about today?”

“Bees,” said Aldo. “Ah. The usual, then?”

“Yes, something like that.” There was never an easy way to explain what he was working on. It was nice of his father to ask, but they both knew that anything Aldo had to say was mostly lost on him. “Everything okay, Dad?”

“Yes, yes, fine. How are you feeling?”

There was a right answer to this question and many, many wrong ones. This question, much like quantum groups, did not get any easier the more times Aldo was asked. The more times he ran the scenarios, in fact, the more the variables changed. How was he feeling? He had been bad before. He would be bad again. It would cycle and fluctuate the same way the weather would. It would rain in two weeks, he thought.

THE WIND picks up slightly, tendrils of it slipping through the leaves.

“I’m fine,” Aldo said.

“Good.” Masso Damiani was a chef, a single father, and a worrier in that order. Masso thought about the universe often, the same way Aldo did, but differently. Masso asked the universe how much salt to boil in the water, or whether this vine or that one would provide the sweetest fruit. He knew when the pasta was done without looking, probably because of the universe. Masso had the gift of certainty and did not require any superstition.

Aldo’s mother, a lively Dominican girl too young for motherhood and too beautiful to stay long in one place, had never been very present. If she had ever asked anything from the universe, Aldo imagined she’d probably gotten what she wished.

“Rinaldo?”

“I’m listening,” Aldo said, though what he meant was I’m thinking.

“Mm,” Masso said. “Did you try the museum?”

“Maybe tomorrow. It’s nice out today.”

“Is it? That’s good. Rare.”

SILENCE.

Masso cleared his throat.

“Tell me, Rinaldo, what are we doing today?”

Aldo’s mouth twitched slightly. “You don’t have to keep doing this, Dad.”

“It helps, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, of course, but I know you’re busy.” Aldo checked his watch. “It’s nearly lunchtime there.”

“Still, I have two minutes. Or so.”

“Two minutes?”

“At least.”

ALDO hums to himself, thinking.

“Well,” said Aldo, “I think maybe today we’re on the ocean.”

“What year?”

He considered it. “When was the Trojan War?”

“About . . . twelfth century B.C.?”

“Yes. That.”

“Are we fighting, then?”

“No, we’re leaving, I think. Journeying.”

“How is the wind?”

“Poor, I suspect.” Aldo took the joint between his fingers again, rolling it slowly. “I think we may be at sea quite a while.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll just have to find out again tomorrow, then.”

“You don’t have to, Dad.”

ALDO says this every day.

“True, maybe I won’t.”

So does MASSO.

“What’s the special today?” Aldo asked.

“Ah, porcini. You know I like to mark the season with truffles.”

“I’ll let you get to it, then.”

“Okay, good idea. Are you going back now?”

“Yes, I have to teach soon. At three.”

“Good, good. Rinaldo?”

“Dad?”

“You are brilliant. Tell your mind to be kind to you today.”

“Okay. Thanks, Dad. Enjoy the fungi.”

“Always.”

Aldo hung up, tucking the phone back into his pocket. No answers today, unfortunately. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. Maybe not for months, years, decades. Luckily, Aldo was not a “right now” sort of person. It had once been a quality that frustrated the other people in his life, but he’d gotten rid of most of them by now.

He glanced over his shoulder at his bike,

PROP: a 1969 Ducati Scrambler.

which slid easily through traffic and pedestrians and, as far as Aldo was concerned, through time and space as well. Why anyone would own a car rather than a bike was beyond him, unless they were opposed to the possibility of accidents. He had broken his arm once, scarring up the side of his shoulder.

If he were a “right now” sort of person, he’d probably get on his bike and drive it directly into Lake Michigan, which was why it was probably best that he wasn’t. Aldo was a “maybe tomorrow” sort of person, so he tucked the joint back in his pocket and picked up his helmet from the bench.

ALDO rises to his feet and inhales deeply, thinking about hexagons.

Turns, he thought. One of these days he’d hit a corner and there’d be something else on the other side; something very like this, only 120 degrees different. He mimicked a boxing pivot to the left, struck a left hook, and then kicked a little at the grass.

Maybe tomorrow, everything would be different.

━━ ˖°˖ ☾☆☽ ˖°˖ ━━━━━━━

Regan, meanwhile, had begun the exact same day by shooting upright in bed.

SCENE: A lavish master bedroom. Shoes have been mislaid. Articles of clothing have been flung. Whatever has happened here, no mother would approve.

ACTION: REGAN squints at the clock, which reads an abysmal 2:21 p.m.

“Well, fuck me entirely,” Regan announced to the room.

Beside her Marc rolled over with a groan, managing with great difficulty to expel a series of unintelligible male sounds. Regan presumed them to be a version of “I’m sorry darling, explain?” and answered accordingly.

“I’m going to be late.”

“For what?”

“My fucking job, Marcus,” Regan said, sliding her legs out from beneath the duvet and stumbling upright. “You know, that thing I do from time to time?”

“Doesn’t the Institute have those . . . what are those things,” Marc grumbled, shoving his face back into his pillow. “You know, the little . . . radio things. For people who can’t read placards.”

“The audio guides?” Regan said, pressing a hand to her temple.

Her head spiritedly condemned her poor decisions with a decisive throb. “I’m not a walking audio guide, Marc, I’m a docent. Astonishingly, people might notice if I’m not there.”

THE NARRATOR, A MIDDLE-AGED WOMAN WITH A BRISK INTOLERANCE

FOR NONSENSE: Charlotte Regan has a degree in art history and would likely say that she has dabbled in art herself, which is in many ways an understatement. She graduated college at the top of her class, which had been no surprise to anyone once upon a time; except maybe her mother, who considered the top of a liberal arts program to be the equivalent of being, say, the winner of a dog show. Among the things Charlotte Regan was not was her older sister Madeline, who’d finished at the top of medical school, but that is of course not relevant to the subject at hand. Presently, Charlotte Regan is a docent at the Art Institute of Chicago, a coveted role at one of the oldest and largest art museums in the United States. Charlotte’s mother would say it’s a glorified volunteer position rather than a job, but that, again, is not relevant at this time.

While many things made Regan #blessed,

THE NARRATOR, DISAPPROVINGLY: She is being sarcastic.

primary among them was her hair, which was characteristically perfect, and her skin, which was generally resistant to the consequences of her lifestyle. Genetically speaking, she was built for waking up late and rushing out the door. A swipe of mascara would do the trick, and maybe a rose-tinted lip stain for the high bones of her cheeks, just to make her look slightly less dead. She pulled out one of her black sheath dresses and a pair of black ballet flats, twisting the claddagh ring on her finger. Then she reached for the earrings she’d stolen from her sister’s room after college graduation: the little teardrop garnets that made her ears look like they were slowly weeping blood.

She paused to eye her reflection with something of a honed ambivalence. The dark circles were getting notably worse. Luckily her mother had given her the East Asian genes for eternal youth and her father had given her a trust fund that made people think twice about rejecting her, so it didn’t really matter whether she slept or not. Regan pinned her name tag to her chest, pricking her thumb only once in the process, and stopped to eye the finished product.

“Hi,” she said to the mirror, practicing a smile. “I’m Charlotte Regan, and I’ll be your guide to the Art Institute today.”

“What?” Marc asked groggily. “Nothing,” she said over her shoulder.

They’d fucked last night to moderately successful results, though Marc never got particularly hard when he’d done that much cocaine. But at least she’d gone home with him. At least she’d gone home at all. There had been a moment when she might have opted not to; when a stranger standing in the corner near the back of the room might have been the more interesting choice, whereupon she might have hazarded a little sashay his way. All it would have taken was a breathy laugh, a sly Take me home, Stranger, and then wouldn’t it have been so easy? There were a million spidery webs of possibility in which Regan had not come home, had not slept with her boyfriend, had not woken up in time for work, had not woken up at all. She wondered what she was doing out there in all those mirrorshards of lives unlived. Maybe there was a version of her who had woken up at six and gone jogging on the lake path, though she doubted it.

Still, it was nice to consider. It meant she possessed creativity still. This version of herself, Regan calculated, had fifteen minutes to get to the Art Institute, and if she believed in impossibilities she would have believed it to be impossible. Fortunately or unfortunately, she believed in everything and nothing.

She fingered the bloody tears of her earrings and pivoted sharply, eyeing Marc’s shape beneath the sheets.

“Maybe we should break up,” she said.

“Regan, it’s seven in the morning,” Marc replied, voice muffled. “It’s almost two thirty, dipshit.”

He lifted his head, squinting. “What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

“Mm.” He burrowed his face in his pillow again. “Okay, sure, Regan.”

“We could always just, I don’t know. See other people?” she suggested.

He rolled over with a sigh, propping himself up with his elbows. “Regan, aren’t you late?”

“Not yet,” she said, “but I will be, if you want.” She knew he wouldn’t.

“We both know you’re not going anywhere, babe. All your stuff is here. You hate inconvenience. And you’d have to use condoms again.”

She made a face. “True.”

“Have you taken your pills?” he asked.

She glanced at her watch. If she left in five minutes, she’d probably still make it.

She considered what she could do in five minutes. This isn’t working, I’m not happy, it’s been fun—that would take what, thirty seconds? Marc wouldn’t cry, which was something she liked about him, so it wouldn’t be terribly inconvenient. Then she’d have four and a half minutes to gather up the things that mattered and throw them into a bag, which would really only require about two. Which would then leave two and half minutes. Ah, but thirty seconds for pills, she kept forgetting. Five seconds to take them but twenty or so to stare blankly at the bottles. Which  what could she do with the remaining two minutes? Eat breakfast? It was nearly two thirty. Breakfast was out of the question, temporally speaking, and besides, she wasn’t sure she could eat yet.

Motion from the clock suggested that Regan’s five minutes for flight had dropped to four. There’d be such a terrible restriction on her time now unless she recalculated, rescheduled. Changed her priorities.

“I have to do something,” she said suddenly, turning away. “Are we breaking up?” Marc called after her.

“Not today,” she told him, snatching the orange bottles from their usual place beside the fridge before making her way to the bathroom. She set the pills aside and pulled herself onto the sink, hiking one leg up to rest her heel atop the marble counter, and slid her hand under her seamless thong, unlocking her phone with her free hand. She’d never enjoyed porn, finding it kind of . . . upsettingly unsubtle. She preferred mystery—craved it like a drug—so she pulled up a password protected note on her screen.

THE FIRST PHOTO is a grainy shot of a nondescript masculine hand under a short skirt, positioned lasciviously between the slim curves of feminine thighs. The second is a black-and-white image of two feminine torsos pressed together.

This, Regan determined, was worth it. This was the better decision. She could have ended her relationship, true, but instead she had these four minutes. No, three and a half. But she knew her physicalities well, and therefore knew she’d need only three, tops. That left at least thirty seconds.

With the remainder of her time, she could do something very Regan, like tucking her underwear into Marc’s jacket pocket before she kissed him goodbye. He’d find it later that evening, probably while he was schmoozing with some bespoke-suited exec, at which point he’d sneak into a bathroom stall and take a picture of his dick for her. He’d expect something in return, probably, but in all likelihood she’d be sleeping. Or maybe she wouldn’t have come home at all. What a mystery, her future self! The possibilities were fascinatingly mundane and yet, somehow, perfectly endless, which was close enough to elation itself.

She came, biting down on the sensation, and exhaled. Forty-five seconds.

REGAN reaches for the bottle of pills and says nothing. She wonders how long it will be until she feels something again.

Copyright © 2022 from Olivie Blake

Pre-Order Alone With You in the Ether Here:

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Our Favorites Foods in Fantasy

Do you know what’s cooking in fantasy? A whole array of treats, teas, and other delicacies are brewing in some of our favorite fantasies featuring food. Check out the list below!


Legends & Lattes by Travis BaldreeCinnamon rolls from Legends & Lattes by Travis Baldree

Come take a load off at Viv’s cafe, the first & only coffee shop in Thune. Grand opening! In this novel of high fantasy and low stakes, Viv, the orc barbarian, cashes out of the warrior’s life with one final score and plans to open the first coffee shop the city of Thune has ever seen. And with that coffee shop comes a decadent menu of caffeinated beverages and sweet treats, including the most decadent giant cinnamon rolls we’ve ever seen.

Donuts from Light From Uncommon Stars by Ryka AokiLight From Uncommon Stars by Ryka Aoki

Looking for a sweet treat to help start your day? Light From Uncommon Stars by Ryka Aoki is all of this and more! A defiantly joyful adventure set in California’s San Gabriel Valley, with cursed violins, Faustian bargains, and queer alien courtship over fresh-made donuts, the only thing sweeter than this story are the donuts that bring our favorite characters together.

Tea and scones from Under the Whispering Door by TJ KluneUnder the Whispering Door by TJ Klune

Welcome to Charon’s Crossing. The tea is hot, the scones are fresh, and the dead are just passing through. In this hilarious and haunting book from the New York Times bestselling author of The House in the Cerulean Sea, love and family are found over a cozy cup of tea and a hearty plate of scones.

The Book Eaters by Sunyi DeanBooks from The Book Eaters by Sunyi Dean

Can we snack on some delicious books? Alas, no, but that doesn’t mean we can’t devour The Book Eaters and appreciate the flavors author Sunyi Dean conveys in the book snacking. To The Family, spy novels are a peppery snack; romance novels are sweet and delicious. Eating a map can help them remember destinations, and children, when they misbehave, are forced to eat dry, musty pages from dictionaries. What kind of books would you want to devour?

Image Place holder  of - 6Party snacks from The Chosen and the Beautiful by Nghi Vo

Jordan Baker grows up in the most rarefied circles of 1920s American society—she has money, education, a killer golf handicap, and invitations to some of the most exclusive parties of the Jazz Age. And what comes with parties but some of our favorite snacks, and maybe a glass of champagne or two.

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