#Review - Fallen City by Adrienne Young #Historical #Fantasy

Series: Fallen City Duology # 1
Format: 416 pages, Hardcover

Release Date: November 4, 2025
Publisher: Saturday Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Historical, Fantasy

Luca Matius has one purpose—to carry on the family name and maintain its presence in the Forum once his powerful and cruel uncle dies. But his noviceship with the city's Philosopher places him in the middle of a catastrophe that will alter the destiny of his people.

Maris Casperia was raised amidst the strategic maneuvers of the Citadel's inner workings, and she knows what her future holds—a lifetime of service to a corrupt city. But her years of serving as a novice to the last Priestess who possesses the stolen magic of the Old War have made her envision a different kind of future for the city. When she meets Luca, a fated chain of events is set into motion that will divinely entangle their lives.

As a secret comes to light and throws the city into chaos, Luca and Maris hatch a plot to create a calculated alliance that could tip the scales of power. But when an execution forces Luca to become the symbol of rebellion, he and Maris are thrown onto opposite sides of a holy war. As their fates diverge, they learn they are at the center of a story the gods are writing. And even if they can find their way back to each other, there may be nothing left.

Fallen City by Adrienne Young is the first installment in the Fallen City Duology, a Greco-Roman-inspired historical fantasy romance that blends political intrigue, forbidden love, rebellion, and divine intervention. Set in the opulent yet decaying walled city of Isara—divided by the Sophanes River into the elite Citadel District and the struggling lower quarters—the story unfolds across dual timelines labeled "NOW" and "BEFORE." These timelines gradually converge to reveal the full picture of a rebellion simmering for a century. The book also alternates between two protagonists (Luca Marius and Maris Casperia). 

Luca Matius, a disciplined legionnaire and centurion from a powerful family tied to the Forum, burdened with carrying on his cruel uncle's legacy while apprenticing under the city's Philosopher. On the other side is Maris Casperia (or Casoeria in some descriptions), the sharp and strategic daughter of a Magistrate, raised in the corrupt inner circles of power and trained as a novice to the last Priestess who holds remnants of stolen magic from an ancient war. Their fated meeting ignites a chain of events that entangles their lives with the gods themselves. 

When a dangerous secret surfaces amid growing unrest, Luca and Maris form a calculated alliance in a bid to shift the balance of power. But an execution catapults Luca into the role of reluctant rebel symbol, thrusting the lovers onto opposite sides of a holy war. Themes of loyalty, sacrifice, corruption, and divine will drive the plot, as the city teeters on the brink of collapse. The story incorporates elements like a deceptive lottery system, meddling gods, political scheming, and the weight of legacy in a society ripe for revolution. 

Young's Greco-Roman-inspired world is complete with chitons, forums, legions, philosophers, and priestesses. The setting feels gritty yet glittering—opulent marble halls contrasting with the desperation of the lower districts—creating a palpable sense of a civilization on the edge of implosion. Political intrigue, class warfare, and the interplay between religion/magic and state power add layers of depth, making Isara feel alive and consequential. Dual POV enhances intimacy with each character's inner conflicts, while the divine elements—gods writing the city's story—add a mythic, almost tragic grandeur reminiscent of classical epics. 

Complaints? Yes. While ambitious and effective at building mystery, the story can feel distancing or confusing for some, keeping readers at arm's length and preventing them from fully emotionally investing in Luca and Maris early on. Pacing occasionally suffers as timelines unfold, with certain revelations or emotional beats landing less impactfully due to the fragmented presentation. 

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#Review - A Sea of Unspoken Things by Adrienne Young #Mystery #Thriller

Series: Standalone
Format: Hardcover, 288 pages
Release Date: January 7, 2025
Publisher: Delacorte Press
Source: Publisher
Genre: Mystery / Thriller

James and Johnny Golden were once inseparable. For as long as she can remember, James shared an almost supernatural connection with her twin brother, Johnny, that went beyond intuition—she could feel what he was feeling. So, when Johnny is killed in a tragic accident, James knows before her phone even rings that her brother is gone and that she’s alone—truly alone—for the first time in her life.

When James arrives in the secluded town of Six Rivers, California, to settle her brother’s affairs, she’s forced to revisit the ominous events of their shared past and finally face Micah, the only other person who knows their secrets—and the only man she has ever loved.

But as James delves deeper into Johnny’s world, she realizes that their unique connection hasn’t completely vanished. The more she immerses herself in his life, the more questions she has about the brother she thought she knew. Johnny was hiding something, and he’s not the only one. The deeper she digs, the more she is compelled to unravel the truth behind the days leading up to Johnny’s death. Ultimately, James must decide which truths should come to light, and which are better left buried forever.

A Sea of Unspoken Things, by author Adrienne Young, is the story of a woman who investigates her twin brother's mysterious death while confronting the ghosts of her own haunted past. James and Johnny Golden were once inseparable. For as long as she can remember, James (a 37 year old female) shared an almost supernatural connection with her twin brother, Johnny, that went beyond intuition—she could feel what he was feeling. 

So, when Johnny is killed in a tragic accident, James knows before her phone even rings that her brother is gone and that she’s alone—truly alone—for the first time in her life. After 20 years away, James Golden returns to Hawthorne, a remote town nestled within Six Rivers National Forest, to settle the affairs of her twin brother, Johnny. His death has been labeled a hunting accident—a stray bullet—but the story doesn’t sit right. 

Johnny’s camera and notebooks, essential to his work documenting rare owls in the forest, are missing. When James arrives in the secluded town of Six Rivers, California, to settle her brother’s affairs, she’s forced to revisit the ominous events of their shared past and finally face Micah, the only other person who knows their secrets—and the only man she has ever loved. But as James delves deeper into Johnny’s world, she realizes that their unique connection hasn’t completely vanished. 

The more she immerses herself in his life, the more questions she has about the brother she thought she knew. Johnny was hiding something, and he was not the only one. The deeper she digs, the more she is compelled to unravel the truth behind the days leading up to Johnny’s death. Ultimately, James must decide which truths should come to light, and which are better left buried forever. As she asks uncomfortable questions around town and follows Johnny’s trail through the forest, she starts to suspect his death is tied to that long-buried tragedy. 

And yet, the closer she gets to the truth, the more she becomes part of the same story, unsure of whom she can trust. Even Johnny’s ghost seems to be nudging her toward answers she’s not certain she wants to find. James has always balanced Johnny’s darkness. Was Johnny involved in something that got him killed? Whenever Johnny created chaos, James was always there to clean up the mess and take the blame. This has been their dynamic since a tragic event drove James to leave town to pursue her artistic talents, never looking back. Was Johnny involved in something that got him killed, or was he killed to hide yet another secret that the town doesn't want to be uncovered?

Overall, this book requires a bit of patience. It takes time to move forward, and once it does, you begin to ask questions as to who is trustworthy and who is likely a murderer. Also, there are actually two mysteries in this book that you need to pay attention to. I will say that I think the ending was fitting after all that James and Micah go through in this book. 

One

We were made in the dark. I used to hate it when Johnny said that, but now I know it’s true.

Sunlight flickered on the windshield as I turned the wheel and the road curved, tightening. Trees pressed in like a wall on both sides of the cracked asphalt, making the old highway that snaked through the Six Rivers National Forest look impossibly narrower. I could feel that cinching in my lungs, too, the air squeezing from them just a little more the deeper into the forest I drove. I’d expected that.

From above, the little blue car would look like an insect between the giant, towering redwoods, and even just imagining it made me uneasy. I’d never liked the feeling that I couldn’t see into the distance, like the whole world might have ended on the other side of those trees and I wouldn’t know it. I guess, really, it had.

There was no world without Johnny.

The thought made the ache rising in my throat travel down my arms, into the fingers that curled around the smooth leather of the steering wheel. It had been three and a half months since I got the call that my brother was gone, but I’d known at least a day before that. The part of me that wasn’t constructed of bone and blood had just . . . known. Maybe even down to the minute.

I glanced at the duffel bag on the passenger seat, the only luggage I’d brought for the two weeks I’d be in Six Rivers. I couldn’t remember now what I’d even packed. In fact, I hadn’t even been able to think of what I might need. In the twenty years since I’d seen the tiny, claustrophobic logging town, I’d done my best to forget it. I’d avoided these winding mountain roads, using every excuse I could think of to keep from coming back to this place. But there was no denying that leaving Six Rivers and never looking back had come at a cost.

Only days after I turned eighteen, I left and never returned. I’d spent my youth hidden in the labyrinth-like forest before I’d all but clawed my way out into the light. Now, my life in San Francisco was exactly what I’d made it, as if I’d painted it onto a canvas and conjured it to life. The days that made up that version of me were filled with gallery openings, poetry readings, and cocktail hours—things that made me forget the sun-starved, evergreen-scented life I’d left behind.

But that cost—the unexpected conditions for that disentanglement—wasn’t just the home I knew or the memories I’d made there. In the end, the price I’d paid had been giving up Johnny. There was a time when I thought we could never truly be separated, because we weren’t just siblings. We were twins. For half of my life, there was nowhere I existed without him, and it didn’t feel like we were knit together by only blood and genetics. We were connected in places that no one could see, in ways that I still didn’t understand.

There had always been a kind of blur that existed between us. The anecdotal stories about twins portrayed on viral social media posts and afternoon talk shows weren’t just entertaining tales that skirted the line of the supernatural. For me, they’d always been real. Sometimes, terrifyingly so.

It wasn’t until I left that I felt some semblance of separation from Johnny. In a way, it felt like he had slowly been scraped from the cracks of my life, just like Six Rivers. In the beginning, he would make the trip down to the city on visits that were hardly ever planned. I would come home to find him cooking in my kitchen or standing fully clothed in the shower with a wrench to tighten the dripping faucet. He would just appear out of nowhere before vanishing like a ghost, and he never stayed long. He was a creature of quiet, unnerved by the buzz of the city and the twinkling lights it cast on the bay. The visits became less and less frequent, and he hadn’t shown up like that in years now.

Johnny wasn’t one for phone calls or emails. Half the time, he didn’t even respond to text messages. So, my only window into his quiet life in Northern California was the Instagram account he kept updated. From 349 miles away, the bits I got to see of my brother’s existence in the redwoods were through the lens of the old analog camera we’d found sitting on top of a neighbor’s garbage can when we were six-teen years old. Twenty years later, he had still refused to switch to digital, and after he started the Instagram account, it soon became filled with those little bits of the world that only Johnny seemed to notice. Sunlight gleaming on dewdrops. A swath of lace-like frost clinging to a pane of glass. The owls.

Always, the owls.

Even when we were kids, I knew that Johnny was different. He’d always found comfort in places that most deemed lonely, disappearing for hours without a word, and I would feel him go quiet. That stillness would settle right between my ribs, and when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I’d go and find him lying on the hot roof of our cabin or tangled high in the branches of a sixty-foot tree. He’d been pulling away from the world for as long as I could remember, but when the photographs of the owls started popping up on his feed, I remember the cold sensation that filled me. He was drawn to them—the secretive creatures that only came out in the darkness. And deep down I knew that it was because he was one of them.

If you’d have told me when we were kids that Johnny would end up a photographer, I probably would have thought it was both surprising and not at all. Growing up, I was the artist. My hands itched for pencils and paintbrushes the way Johnny’s mind itched for the quiet. In the end, both Johnny and I wound up trying to capture moments and people and places. Me with my canvas, him with his camera. But eventually, the drawings that filled my notebooks felt like the blueprints of a prison—a way for me to plan my escape. And eventually, I did.

Johnny had spent the last two years working remotely for a conservation project documenting five different owls in and around Six Rivers National Forest. The opportunity had seemed so serendipitous that I should have known there was something wrong with it. Johnny had never been lucky. Stars didn’t align for him and opportunities didn’t just drop into his lap. So, when I heard that Quinn Fraser, director of biology at California Academy of Sciences, was looking for someone to cover the Six Rivers area, it should have felt off. But only two weeks after I’d sent Johnny’s work to Quinn, Johnny was hired.

I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that in a way, that made all of this my fault. The project was the first job Johnny ever had that wasn’t logging, and at the time I’d thought that maybe, finally, it would be the thing that got him out of Six Rivers. But only weeks away from the study’s end, Johnny was out on a shoot in Trentham Gorge when a rogue bullet from a hunter’s gun slammed into his chest.

My fingers slipped from the steering wheel, instinctively finding the place two and a half inches below my collarbone, where I could still feel it. I rubbed at the phantom ache, pressing the heel of my hand there until the throb began to recede.

The image unfurled, replacing the view of the forest outside the windshield. In my mind’s eye, tree limbs bent and swayed, creating blurred shapes of light that punched through the forest canopy high above—a flashing glimpse of the last thing Johnny had seen as he lay there on the forest floor. The rendering had been cast across my mind on a loop, making the connection between me and my brother more than just a sense or a feeling. Now, it was something that felt tangible and tactile. Now, it was too real.

Accidental firearm deaths weren’t unheard of in the wilderness that surrounded Six Rivers, especially during the elk season that brought hunters from all over the country to town. I could remember more than one that happened when me and Johnny were kids. But I also knew that accidents didn’t happen in that forest. Not really. There was almost nothing that was random or by chance because the place was alive—intentional.

It was that feeling that had compelled me to pack my bag and drive to Six Rivers. It had rooted down into my gut, twisting so tightly that it made it almost impossible to breathe. Because the link between me and Johnny wasn’t just intuition or some cosmic connection. I’d felt the white-hot heat of that bullet pierce between my ribs. I’d seen the forest canopy swaying in the wind. I’d also felt that bone-deep sense that had been coursing through Johnny’s veins. That despite what the investigation had uncovered about what Johnny was doing out in the gorge that day, he wasn’t alone. More than that, he was afraid.

I returned my hand to the steering wheel, watching the blur of emerald green fly past the window. I’d grown up feeling like the trees had eyes, each tangle of roots like a brain that held memories. I could feel, even now, that they remembered me.

I read once, years after I left, that they could actually speak to one another. That they had the ability to communicate through the network of fungi in the ground over miles and miles of forest. And I believed it. They knew what happened the day my brother died. They’d watched as he grew cold, his blood soaking the earth. And that wasn’t all they knew.

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#Review - The Unmaking of June Farrow by Adrienne Young #Thrillers #Suspense (Magical Realism)

Series: Standalone 
Format: Hardcover, 336 pages 
Release Date: October 17, 2023 
Publisher: Delacorte Press
Source: Publisher
Genre: Magical Realism / Thrillers / Suspense

In the small mountain town of Jasper, North Carolina, June Farrow is waiting for fate to find her. The Farrow women are known for their thriving flower farm—and the mysterious curse that has plagued their family line. The whole town remembers the madness that led to Susanna Farrow’s disappearance, leaving her daughter, June, to be raised by her grandmother and haunted by rumors.
            It’s been a year since June started seeing and hearing things that aren't there. Faint wind chimes, a voice calling her name, and a mysterious door appearing out of nowhere—signs of what June has always known is coming. But June is determined to end the curse once and for all, even if she must sacrifice finding love and having a family of her own. 
            After her grandmother’s death, June discovers a series of cryptic clues regarding her mother’s disappearance, except these only lead to more questions. But could the door she once assumed was a hallucination be the answer she’s been searching for? The next time it appears, June realizes she can touch it and walk through the threshold. And when she does, she embarks on a journey that will not only change both the past and the future but also uncover the lingering mysteries of her small town and entangle her heart in an epic star-crossed love.
            With The Unmaking of June Farrow, Adrienne Young delivers a brilliant novel of romance, mystery, and a touch of the impossible—a story you will never forget.

Adrienne Young's The Unmaking of June Farrow is the story about a woman who risks everything to end her family’s centuries-old curse, solve her mother’s disappearance, and find love in this mesmerizing novel from the New York Times bestselling author of Spells for Forgetting. In the small mountain town of Jasper, North Carolina, June Farrow is waiting for fate to find her. The Farrow women are known for their thriving flower farm—and the mysterious curse that has plagued their family line going back to Esther Farrow.

 

The whole town of Jasper remembers the madness that led to Susanna Farrow’s disappearance in 1989, leaving her daughter, June, to be raised by her grandmother and haunted by rumors. It’s been a year since June started seeing and hearing things that aren't there. Faint wind chimes, a voice calling her name, and a mysterious door appearing out of nowhere—signs of what June has always known is coming. But June is determined to end the curse once and for all, even if she must sacrifice finding love and having a family of her own.

 

After her grandmother’s death, June discovers a series of cryptic clues regarding her mother’s disappearance, except these only lead to more questions, including a picture from 1911 of her own mother married to a man named Nathaniel Rutherford. A man who was found dead in 1950. Could the door she once assumed was a hallucination be the answer she’s been searching for? The next time it appears as she is driving, June realizes she can touch it and walk through the threshold. 

 

And when she does, she embarks on a journey that will not only change both the past and the future but also uncover the lingering mysteries of her small town and entangle her heart in an epic star-crossed love. Here she finds a man, Eamon Stone, who is June's husband. Here she finds a little girl named Annie who is June's daughter. Here she finds a Sheriff named Caleb Rutherford, son of Nathaniel, looking answers to why his father was murder, and why June disappeared for a year while the investigation was still under way. Here she finds Esther Farrow as well as a teenaged Margaret Farrow who in 2023, is her grandmother. 

 

*Thoughts* June is a curious character, and for the most part, an unreliable narrator. She's basically seeing things that most people can not which makes her an oddity. Just like her mother. Just like her Grandmother. Even Annie aka Birdie has secrets. June has been living in fear of the future, dreading what it has in store. The fear has been with June for as long as she can remember, shaping her life choices such as her decision never to have children so that the curse would die with her. And yet, despite all her preparations, the onset of the first symptoms still managed to catch her off guard.  

 

Following June’s venture through the strange door, she finds herself transported to 1951, which at least provides some possible theories on why her mother would be in a photo dated back to the turn of the century. In this past timeline, June realizes she’s lived another life, one that she doesn’t remember because she hasn’t lived it yet. One that she learns she is basically fraying the ends of two timelines. The journey she embarks on is a roller-coaster ride that will challenge her every belief and force her to confront the deepest parts of herself. The novel weaves together elements of fantasy, science fiction, mystery, and romance.

 

ONE


When Margaret Anne Farrow died in her sleep on June 10, 2023, I became the last living Farrow on earth.

The setting sun fell behind the hill that overlooked a wide expanse of the Blue Ridge Mountains, a rolling sea of soft violet peaks. Only a few of those who called the town of Jasper, North Carolina, home had gathered to bid Margaret farewell.

Put me to sleep with the fiddle at sunset, she’d said, because she’d known she was dying. We all did. We hadn’t planned to say any words because she hadn’t wanted that. There weren’t many things that were clear, especially in those final years when Gran’s mind had all but slipped away, but a burial on this hill at sunset with a fiddle playing in the wind was one of them.

The headstone was made of simple, rough-­cut white marble to match those of the other Farrow women who were laid to rest only feet away. Mildred, Catharine, Esther, Fay, now Margaret. One day, my own name would stand beside them—­June Farrow.

To the town of Jasper, I was first known as the Market Street Baby, words made eternal the day the Chronicle put them on the front page. Just before daybreak on October 2, 1989, Clarence Taylor was on his way to open the cafe when he heard the sound of a baby’s cry coming from the alley. It took only hours for the whole town to hear about the baby girl in the basket with the birthmark beneath one ear and the locket watch tucked into her blanket.

The necklace was an heirloom that had been passed down in the Farrow family for generations. The last woman to wear it around her neck was my mother, Susanna. Susanna—­the only name missing from the cemetery because Gran had refused to raise a headstone over an empty grave.

There was no mistaking who the baby was when they found that locket watch. It had been almost fourteen months since my mother disappeared. There was no shortage of theories on the matter, but no real answers. Susanna had simply walked into the woods one day, her belly swollen with child, and never returned. There were those who thought she’d met a tragic end. That she was a victim of some unspeakable crime. Others believed she’d lost her way in the deep woods and was never found.

The easiest and most widely accepted explanation for my mother’s strange disappearance was madness—­the same affliction to befall every woman in my family for as far back as anyone could remember. We were cursed—­the Farrow women.

By the time night had fallen, the sheriff was knocking on my grandmother’s door, and that’s where the story ended. My mother was gone. She wasn’t coming back. So it was just the two of us, Gran and me.

Two finches arced across the darkening glow of the horizon, drawing my gaze up from the headstone as Malachi Rhodes drew the bow down his fiddle. The notes stretched deep and long, sending a melody into the air that made my heart twist painfully inside my chest. The same tweed flat cap he wore fly-­fishing on the river every morning was pulled low over his wrinkle-framed eyes, but he was one of the few in town whom Gran had considered a true friend, and he’d made the effort of wearing his nice jacket.

The windows of the little white wooden church at the bottom of the hill were still lit. On Sundays, it was filled for service, when everyone in Jasper piled into the pews. Most everyone, anyway. I’d never set foot in the place; neither had Gran. That was one of the reasons the young minister, Thomas Falk, had pretended not to watch as we’d made our way through the cemetery gates. It was also one of the reasons that only four other souls stood on that hill besides me and Malachi.

Ida Pickney, our next-­door neighbor, dabbed at the corner of her eye with the tissue balled in her fist. Her daughter, Melody, was at her side, and Mason Caldwell stood a whole head taller than her only a few feet away. He’d had the misfortune of being the only kid in grade school foolish enough to sit beside me at lunch, and he’d eventually grown into the only fool who’d jump from the river bridge with me in the summers or cut class with me our senior year. Then there was Birdie Forester, Gran’s oldest friend, who was more like family than anything.

Her hand found mine, squeezing, and it was only then that I could feel how cold my fingers were. I blinked, pulling my eyes from the narrow steeple of the church to look over my shoulder. Birdie stood at my back, the lace neckline of her black dress fluttering along the curve of her collarbones. Her silver hair was pulled into old-­fashioned pin curls, making her look exactly like the photographs of her and Gran when they were young. There were dozens of them in the basement. Arm in arm in front of the soda shop. Perched like chickens atop hay bales on the farm. Standing knee-­deep in the river in only their underwear.

“Made it to holy ground after all,” Birdie whispered.

A smile pulled at the corner of my mouth, my eyes flitting again over the five white headstones of the Farrow women. There was a time when this corner of the cemetery didn’t exist. When Gran was little, the Farrows were buried outside of the fence because they weren’t baptized. But eventually, as the need for more burial plots grew and the fences of the churchyard were moved, the banished graves fell within its borders. Gran had found an endless humor in that, saying she’d make it to holy ground after all.

There were things that made this town what it was. The scent of honeysuckle blooming along the black tar roads and the rush of the Adeline River, which cut through the land like the scrape of a knife. The curious gazes that followed me and Gran on the street and the rumors that skipped in the air no matter how much time had passed. Their stories were nothing compared to the ones that Gran had regaled me with when she tucked me into bed as a little girl. The town of Jasper had no idea just how different and strange we were.

The wind picked up, and goosebumps surfaced on my skin, tracing from my wrist to my elbow when the feeling of eyes crept up the back of my mind. I swallowed hard before I followed the movement at the corner of my vision back down the hill. The square of golden light on the lawn beside the church was painted with a sharp black shadow.

My gaze rose to see the silhouette of a man framed in the window, shoulders squared to the cemetery. Even from here I could feel those eyes focused on me. But the parking spot where the minister’s car had been an hour ago was now empty. So was the church.

It’s not real, I told myself, tearing my eyes away. There’s nothing there.

When I blinked, he was gone.

The notes of the fiddle slowed, drawing out against the wind as the last bit of light disappeared in the distance. The trees swayed in a balmy summer evening breeze that made my skin sticky to the touch, and a moment later, there was only the sound of the footsteps on the damp grass as the others made their way through the headstones and back to the road.

I stared at the dark, crumbled earth that filled the grave. Gran had taught me how to work the farm, to weave flower crowns, and to make her grandmother’s biscuits. She taught me how to ignore the whispered prayers women uttered beneath their breaths when they came in and out of the flower shop. How to read the coming seasons by the intuition of the trees and predict the weather by the look of the moon. I hadn’t let myself really think about the fact that it was what came next that I most needed her for. But she wouldn’t be there.

Birdie and I waited for the last of the headlights to bleed away before we finally started the walk back, following the bridge over the river to the single block that was downtown Jasper. I chanced one more look at the church and found the window still empty, like I knew it would be. But that sick feeling still swirled in my belly.

I unbuttoned the top of my black cotton dress, letting the cool night air touch my skin before I pulled off my shoes, a pair of black slingback heels Gran had probably had in her closet since 1970. The same was likely true for the pearl earrings I’d fished from her jewelry box that morning.

The crickets woke with the darkness that fell over the thin strip of town that lined the road, not a car in sight. Small communities like this one usually went to sleep with the sun, and Jasper was mostly farms, which meant its residents would be up when the roosters crowed.

The main street had some other name no one ever remembered, a combination of four or five numbers that only showed up on maps. In Jasper, it was known as just the river road, the only way to town from the remote stretches that were tucked into the surrounding mountains. South took you to Asheville. North took you to Tennessee.

A banner for the upcoming Midsummer Faire was stretched out across the only intersection, catching the wind like a sail. The redbrick-­faced buildings were more than 150 years old. They snaked along the Adeline River, which, that time of night, with the moon waning, just looked like a wall of black. The only reminders that it was there were the hiss of it running over the rocks in the shallows and the distinct smell that the churn of mountain water put into the air.

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