By Laurie R. King


Laurie R. King’s New York Times bestselling novels of suspense that includes Mary Russell and her husband, Sherlock Holmes, contain considered one of today’s such a lot acclaimed secret sequence. Now the couple is separated by means of a surprising situation in a deadly a part of the area, every one racing opposed to time to avoid an explosive disaster which could dress them either in shrouds.
In an odd room in Morocco, Mary Russell is making an attempt to resolve a urgent secret: Who am I? She has woke up with shadows in her brain, blood on her palms, and infantrymen pounding at the door. Out within the hivelike streets, she discovers herself unusually adept within the talents of the underworld, escaping via alleys and rooftops, picking out wallet and locks. She is clothed like a guy, and armed simply along with her wits and a scrap of paper containing a mysterious Arabic word. Overhead, warplanes go ominously north.
in the meantime, Holmes is pulled by way of previous buddies and a far off relation into the becoming conflict among France, Spain, and the Rif rebellion led by way of Emir Abd el-Krim—who could be a Robin Hood or an influence mad tribesman. The shadows of warfare are drawing over the traditional urban of Fez, and Holmes badly wishes the knowledge and braveness of his spouse, whom he’s realized, to his horror, has long past lacking. As Holmes searches for her, and Russell searches for herself, every one attempts to crack lethal parallel puzzles earlier than it’s too past due for them, for Africa, and for the peace of Europe.
With the awesome mixture of interval aspect and modern velocity that's her hallmark, Laurie R. King keeps the stunningly suspenseful sequence that Lee baby referred to as “the so much sustained feat of mind's eye in secret fiction today.”

Praise for Garment of Shadows
“As continuously, the connection among Holmes and Russell is completely understated but traced with warmth and light.”—Booklist (starred review)
“[A] taut story . . . unique and exciting . . . This tantalizing glimpse into the existence and instances of a quickly evolving Arabic society has amazing resonance for our personal doubtful times.”—Publishers Weekly
“Those new to the sequence are in for a treat.”—Bookreporter

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I fished round within, feeling its emptiness—and then a faintly non-cloth sensation brushed my palms. I drew out a tiny scrap of paper, smashed flat by means of having been slept upon. I picked it open. The paper used to be near-translucent onionskin, and have been rainy sooner or later, yet I controlled to get it flat with just a small tear: the nook of a bigger web page, a triangle 3 and a part inches excessive and and a section vast. there have been a sequence of pencil squiggles on it, traces as pregnant with which means because the grains of sand and the date pip: It seemed like a capital A drawn by way of a small baby or the sufferer of a stroke, even though oddly designated. most likely it used to be the results of a bit of paper and a stub of pencil using jointly in a pocket. I became the scrap over. Then turned around it. at the beginning look, the string of interconnected curves appeared as without which means because the unintended A at the opposite. yet I knew they held a few cause past mere idiotic vainness, and certainly, as soon as I shifted the course of my gaze to learn from correct to left, the pencil scribble grew to become phrases, in crude, even infantile Arabic writing: the clock of the sorcerer. I sighed. urgent the scrap into my purloined note-book, I placed it and the hoop into the breast pocket, sewing the flap close with the ever-useful hair-pin. I prepared the cushions as I had discovered them, driven the purse’s steel clasp deeper into the coals, and blew out the small lamp. whilst I had permit myself out, I padlocked the door and walked into the suq looking for a sorcerer and his clock. i discovered many stuff in the course of the process the day. My first target was once food and drinks, through thick stockings and a heavy woollen burnoose to maintain out the penetrating chilly. As I walked, the refrain of muezzins woke town, and shortly the streets burst into existence, shutters beginning to monitors of color and engaging aromas—not the least of which was once the damp soap-smell that wafted from a hammam, a spot I dared no longer even examine getting into, irrespective of how a lot the pores of my epidermis craved a scrub-brush. through mid-morning, i used to be hot, fed, and gaining in self belief: I had negotiated numerous transactions with no arousing suspicions, I had handed extra pairs of patrolling armed infantrymen, and my tongue used to be generating an affordable facsimile of the neighborhood accessory. certain, a recovery of reminiscence will be great, yet because the speedy wishes of survival turned much less urgent, the suq supplied an never-ending number of distractions, for the entire senses: I observed tailors and carpenters, carpet-makers and silk-weavers, book-binders and jewellers, purveyors of leather-based sneakers and ceramic pots and problematic marriage ceremony head-dresses, males embroidering the fronts of gowns or trimming the beards of reclining buyers. My nostrils have been teased through the odours of frying onions and baking bread and the cloud of aromas from the spice retailers, in among being repelled via the miasma from butchers’ retailers and malfunctioning sewers, entertained by means of the sharpened-pencil odor of unpolluted cedar and the musk of sandalwood, stuck through the fresh reek of unpolluted leather-based or the darkish richness of roasting espresso beans, and knowledgeable by means of the contrasts of rainy plaster with beaten mint, donkey’s droppings overlaid by way of clean lavender.

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