Child of a Rainless Year

Child of a Rainless Year

3.8 5
by Jane Lindskold

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Middle-aged Mira Fenn knows she has an uncomfortably exotic past. As a small girl, she lived in a ornate old house in tiny Las Vegas, New Mexico, tended by oddly silent servant women and ruled by her coldly flamboyant mother Colette. When Mira was nine, Colette went on one of her unexplained trips, only this time she never returned.

Placed with foster parents,

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Middle-aged Mira Fenn knows she has an uncomfortably exotic past. As a small girl, she lived in a ornate old house in tiny Las Vegas, New Mexico, tended by oddly silent servant women and ruled by her coldly flamboyant mother Colette. When Mira was nine, Colette went on one of her unexplained trips, only this time she never returned.

Placed with foster parents, Mira was raised in Ohio, normal save for her passion for color. On gaining adulthood, she learned that she still owned the New Mexico house. She also learned that, as a condition of being allowed to adopt her, Mira's foster parents had agreed to change their name, move to another state, and never ask why.

Years later, going through family papers after the deaths of her elderly foster parents, Mira finds documents that pique her curiosity about her vanished mother and the reasons behind her strange childhood and adoption.

Travelling back to New Mexico, she finds the house is and isn't as she remembers it. Inside, it's much the same. Outside, it's been painted in innumerable colors. As Mira continues to investigate her mother's life, events take stranger and stranger turns. The silent women reappear. Even as Mira begins to suspect the power to which she may be heir, the house itself appears to be waking up...

Shot through with magic and the atmosphere of the Southwest, this singular fantasy novel has all the storytelling vigor of Jane Lindskold's very popular Firekeeper series.

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

“I adore Jane Lindskold's writing...Her novels are a rarity for me--fat, engrossing novels that still don't seem long enough.” —Charles de Lint

“Her characters live--they're real, but they are different. And the world they live in lingers in the mind; heroic, squalid, exotic, everyday. I was convinced that it went on by itself when I turned the last page. Bravo!” —S. M. Stirling on Through Wolf's Eyes

“A ripping good fantasy.” —Kliatt on Legends Walking

“A story to be savored.” —Romantic Times on The Buried Pyramid

Publishers Weekly
When middle-aged spinster Mira Fenn returns to her birthplace, Las Vegas, N.Mex., to try to find out what happened to her mother, Colette, who disappeared from their mirror-filled house without a trace years earlier, she finds a town full of ghosts and contradictions. Domingo, the hereditary caretaker of Mira's ancestral home, tells her that the house has been asking him to paint it in new and brilliant colors. As Mira and Domingo explore the house's awakening intelligence, their intricately entwined family histories and their own growing relationship, they find out more about color magic, Colette and Mira herself than they might have wanted to know. Conferring magical life on ordinary objects and people with a sweet flair reminiscent of Charles De Lint and Pamela Dean, Lindskold (Through Wolf's Eyes, etc.) spins a lovely and original yarn that ends up sadly tangled with unresolved questions; though billed as a stand-alone work, the novel contains a sequel's worth of untied loose ends. Mira phlegmatically declares that having more questions than answers is "fine with me," and anyone who agrees will find this an extremely enjoyable read. Agent, Kay McCauley. (May 18) Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
KLIATT - Lesley Farmer
Mira's whole life was her mother Colette, an elegant but unstable woman. Her name recalls the many mirrors that surrounded her mother, which left little psychic space for Mira's own development. Soon after Mira started school, Colette disappeared, and Mira was sent off to Boise with foster parents. Now that she is 50 and single, Mira's life is turned upside down once again. She is called back to her hometown when she finds out that her childhood home is hers to keep. Remembering the off-white Victorian house, Mira is surprised to see a motley-colored home. The groundskeeper Domingo said that the house "wanted" those colors. Very sensitive to color herself, Mira goes along with Domingo's perceptions, and works to get the Phineas House, as it is called, back into shape. In the process, Mira notices that someone—or thing—is helping clean and take care of the house. Then Mira discovers that she can speak to ghosts. Who—and what—is alive? Her mother? Her father? The house? And to what extent are they controlling her life? Lindskold slowly builds a credible foundation to this paranormal story, which posits a liminal world: the "crack" between the lines of reality that enable one to travel through parallel universes. The pacing is leisurely but suspenseful, sucking in the attention of the reader much as the house does to Mira and Domingo. The one caveat is that adult readers are probably more likely to enjoy the book than teenagers because of the ages and issues of the characters.
Library Journal
When Mira was nine years old, her eccentric and flamboyant mother, Collette, disappeared, and Mira was placed with Stan and May Fenn. Now in her fifties and a successful artist with a passionate love of color, Mira returns to the New Mexico house in which she grew up. Her investigations into the truth behind her mother's disappearance trigger a chain of events that awakens her own power as well as the magic of the strange old house. The author of the "Firekeeper" series (Through Wolf's Eyes; Wolf Captured) turns to modern fantasy in a standalone tale of the Southwest filled with memorable characters, brilliant splashes of background color, and, at the forefront, an unforgettable woman imbued with a desire to know the truth about her heritage. Lindskold's fans and lovers of magical realism should relish this powerfully written tale of art and life. For most libraries. Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.

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Product Details

Tom Doherty Associates
Publication date:
Edition description:
First Edition
Product dimensions:
6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 0.89(d)

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Read an Excerpt

Child of a Rainless Year

By Jane Lindskold, Teresa Nielsen Hayden

Tom Doherty Associates

Copyright © 2005 Jane Lindskold
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-1310-2


Just what colors our attitude toward color? Too much and we risk not being taken seriously; too little and we fear being dull.

— Patricia Lynne Duffy,

Blue Cats and Chartreuse Kittens


Color is the great magic.

I learned that one day as I watched my mother preparing for the most recent of her lovers. She, intent on the mirror over her elegant, gilded vanity, did not see me as I watched her from a mirror set in the border of a picture frame, two reverses making the image right again.

I was some years older than I had been in that rainless year when I had been born — five, maybe six years old. Mother had been very angry with me earlier that day. Then she had forgotten me, as she often did when she was so intensely displeased that even the "my" of her wrath could not ease her pain. Easier to forget.

So, forgotten, I went where I was usually forbidden to go, into Mother's private suite, sneaking in while she was in her bath, hiding in the corner near a full-length framed picture of her, painted to commemorate some past triumph. I turned my back on the room, viewing the chamber only through the mirror set into the picture's frame.

I hid well, for, although now, from the distance of these many years, I can see that I wanted to be found, to have her make me real again even if through the fierce force of her anger, I also feared that anger. Better to be tentatively real in hope, to breathe in the mingled scents of her room, of the perfumes she wore, of the lavender in which the bed linens were packed, of the cedar that lined her closets and clothes chests.

When Mother emerged from the bath she wore a scarlet Japanese kimono trimmed in gold, embroidered with patterns of tigers and phoenixes. Her glossy hair was wrapped in a towel that was a precisely matching shade of scarlet.

Her first task upon entering the room was to bend at the waist and rub the excess water from her shining black hair. She slowly combed the tangles from her hair, never tugging lest one of the long, dark tresses break.

Combed, that dark curtain hung past her waist, and because I knew she was proud of that shining dark fall, I felt proud of it as well. I watched with my breath held as she pulled her hair back and inserted it into a silver clasp, never breaking a single strand.

Hair combed and clipped, Mother seated herself at her vanity and viewed herself in the mirror. She dropped her robe from her shoulders and sat naked to the waist, the breasts that had never nursed me almost as firm and round as those of a girl.

She leaned forward, her gaze intent on her face, on the skin still slightly dewed from her bath. Her gaze was intent, studying those high-cheekboned features critically, looking for any lines, any trace of the sagging that comes with age. There were some, for she was past the first bloom of youth and this dry climate is not kind, even to those who live sheltered from the burning sun.

Yet, although this was a critical review, I could sense Mother's pleasure in what she saw. It was her face, after all, and like so many who look at themselves too often in mirrors, she thought that this reverse image, seen rigidly straight on as we are so rarely seen by others, was her truest self.

I was the one who was shocked. This was the first time that I can remember seeing my mother with her features unadorned by cosmetics. This was a different face entirely from the one I knew. Her brows were as pale as my own, her skin — if possible — more sallow. Even her eyes, usually deep blue whereas mine were hazed blue-grey, were not the eyes I knew, their color pale and less vibrant.

I shrank back into my hiding place, watching in the least corner of the mirror as my mother worked the transforming magic of color upon her face; watched as tints from fat, round pots gave her sallow skin smoothness and warmth, watched as her skillful fingers defined some features, diminished others.

Eyebrows were sketched in, dark as the fall of her hair, their tilt mocking and ironic. Tiny brushes pulled from slender vials made her eyelashes longer, painted in subtle lines that made her gaze more compelling. Powders dusted color onto eyelids and along the rise of cheekbones.

I watched, mesmerized, as Mother transformed herself from a pale ghost into the beauty who still commanded legions of admirers. Fear throbbed tight and hard within my chest. No longer did I want to be discovered, for I knew I had stumbled on a mystery greater and more terrible than that of Bluebeard's murdered wives. I had seen the secret magic of color, and how color made lies truth and truth lies.

Even at that young age, I knew I could not be forgiven my discovery.

My mother said there was no rain the year she carried me, the year I was born. Of course, that is impossible. Even here where the climate is dry there is always some rain.

But perhaps what she believed is not so impossible. Overall, my mother was not a simple soul, yet in one crucial way she was. Beneath her intelligence and an education that was far beyond what most women of her day received, Mother was a horribly egotistical woman to whom nothing was real unless it happened directly to her.

So, perhaps, in a way, my mother spoke the simple truth and there was no rain in the year I was born. Perhaps none fell near her, the scattered clouds that are what this desert land knows best shying from the heat of her self-conceit as they shy from the thermal updrafts that well from the baked black lava outcroppings.

She was not a cold woman, my mother. Not in the least. Indeed, the welter of her egotism made her very hot. She felt any slight passionately — any slight to herself, that is. Slights to another, even to those she claimed to love, she seemed indifferent to, yet she was not indifferent, for to be indifferent you must notice.

Mother noticed only rarely, and then in such a personal fashion that the one so noticed would cringe, wishing to have that egotism turned elsewhere, anywhere else, rather than suffer the wails mourning the wrong done to "my" — "my child," "my efforts," "my pain," "my sacrifice," "my ..." Truly, for her, nothing existed outside of that curtaining veil of self.

To some men, Mother was irresistible. If they thought at all why this was so, they would speak of her charm, her gaiety, her beauty, her intense pleasure in life. If they were honest, and considered beyond this easy answer, they admitted to themselves that they desired to be the one who would succeed in getting beyond that tremendous ego — but of course no man ever succeeded, not even my father, who got beneath so much else.

Other types of men — those who were themselves egotistical, those gifted with that empathy so rare in men, those who had some purpose so great that it carried them outside of themselves — all of these kept from Mother as the rain did during that year she carried me, the year that I was born.

In time, even my father kept from her so that by the day of my birth ours was a household of women: silent women and a host of mirrors. Mirrors hung in picture frames and in stands. They rested within long-handled holders on the tops of polished dressers. They awaited the unwary in unlikely places: hung on the backs of doors usually kept open, beneath the accumulated heap of scarves and hats on the coat-tree by the door, in the kitchen over the stove, even as tiny rounds set into the fabric of elaborate skirts and shawls.

I knew myself through those mirrors as most children know themselves through the stories others tell them. No one in that strange household of silent women was going to waste word or breath on me — child of a passing fancy, child of a rainless year.

I saw myself in those many mirrors: round eyes the color of a heat-hazed sky, fair skin blushed with ash, thick straight hair pale as winter sunlight. I had none of my mother's beauty, none of her vibrancy. For a long time, the only thing that connected me to her was the "my" that prefaced her every mention of me, for I had no name to Mother that did not relate to her. I was "my daughter," "my darling," "my treasure." Later, when I grew older and gave her reason to be displeased, I was "my nuisance," "my burden," "my trial."

When she was truly displeased with me, Mother denied me even that connecting "my." Then I felt stripped of identity, bereft of an increasingly tenuous hold on reality. Sometimes I found myself wondering when Mother would discard me as I had seen so many other treasures — gowns, jewels, lovers — discarded when they failed to please her.

So little respect for myself did I have that this prospect did not trouble me in the least. That I would eventually be discarded seemed right, for in that house we were all her satellites and she the center of gravity about which we revolved.

Mother insisted I be educated. She was very proud of her own education, which was, as I believe I have mentioned, far better than that of most women in that time and place. She intended that I be almost, if not quite, as brilliant as she was herself.

Initially, Mother set herself to be my teacher, but this proved, as even I could have warned her, to be a catastrophic venture. For one thing, I was intractably left-handed, and though Mother tried to break me of this "clumsiness," she failed. I was a lefty, then and forever after.

The failure to learn from Mother's teaching was assigned to me, never to her. Even I accepted this verdict as true, never questioning that Mother's erratic methods might not be suited for a young girl hardly able to see over the edge of the polished mahogany desk where we sat facing each other for some hours each morning.

Next, Mother assigned one of the silent women to be my teacher. This attempt, too, was a failure, for Mother frequently hovered in the vicinity of our makeshift schoolroom. She stayed just out of sight around the corners of doorways, her image relayed flickering and fragmented in the mirrors, so both I and my hapless tutor knew she was there.

By this time I had learned that the silent women did indeed speak — sometimes volubly — but never when Mother could hear them, nor when they knew I was near. Presumably they, like my mother, assumed I was nothing more than an extension of her will. I could have told them they were wrong, but at this time I had no idea that anyone would care to know.

Among themselves, the silent women spoke a language I didn't know, but that sounded familiar. When they did speak in my presence, they spoke English, but without any trace of an accent, certainly without the accent of northern New Mexico.

Intimidated into more usual muteness by my mother's nearness yet forced by duty to speak, the silent woman, my tutor, tried to teach in whispers and by pointing to the pictures on pages. Her voice made no more sound than two leaves brushing together, thus each letter of the alphabet came to my ears as the creak of the floorboards where my mother paced, as the rustle of her skirts.

With this distraction, I learned little of the relationship between the letters of the alphabet and the sounds they represented. I did learn something of their shape and how to draw them with elegant accuracy in the blue-lined copybook.

After the failure of the silent woman came a string of private tutors, each a bright bead on the string of my memory. None lasted more than a few weeks before Mother's impossibly high expectations drove them off. One, a grey-haired woman with a carriage so stiff and upright that I imagined her spine to be made of a metal rod, like those in the dress stand on which Mother aired some of her finer gowns, lasted for nearly a month. She was the first not to begin my lessons by trying to make me write with my right hand. For that alone I would have loved her.

The grey-haired woman raised her voice to Mother before taking her final leave, the shrill harshness of her anger carrying even through the solid wooden door that separated the library from my mother's parlor. There I waited, watching myself in the mirror that backed the parlor door, knowing myself disgraced once again. I could not make out a single word, but this was the first time I heard anybody raise their voice to Mother and so this tutor's departure made a great impression on me.

I saw this former tutor once or twice after that, striding past on the sidewalk outside our house. She looked up at the front parlor window once. I thought she might even have seen me there, cuddled into the window seat, hidden from view to those inside the room by the thick fall of velvet curtain. She gave no nod, no acknowledgment, and that omission hurt me until I realized that the glazed glass turned back the light. If she had seen anything she had seen her own reflection.

The thin grey woman was my last tutor. After that, Mother was forced to send me out to school. She did not choose the public school that served to educate the heterogeneous mass of the town's children, but an elect seminary run by a woman who, so rumor said, was an unfrocked nun.

Our Lady's Seminary for Young Ladies was not a typical school, nor were the students typical students. Even so, it was here that I received my first inkling that my home life might be — to put it mildly — unusual. Here, too, I was first introduced to the ways that I might claim the magic of color for myself.

Before going to the seminary, I had never been given any colored drawing materials — not even those cheap crayons that come five to a box and are sold for pennies. The closest I had come was the dull blue ink found in ballpoint pens. As this is the color of nothing in nature, it was not very inspiring. Many years later, I would find there was a reason for this omission, but when as a girl of seven I began at the seminary I had not the faintest idea.

Although the seminary aspired to grandeur, the relative isolation of our town's location kept the staff smaller than one might have expected of such an institution, for the headmistress would only hire those who fit her stringent criteria. Then, too, the headmistress may have preferred having this excuse for a smaller staff, since more of the tuition remained in her own pockets.

For whatever reason, drawing and painting were taught by the same woman who taught us poetry and literature, a delicate woman who reminded me of apple blossoms and the tiny, fragile flowers that grow apparently from nothing after the rains.

This teacher's name was Emily Little. She was a widow with a very young daughter, almost a baby. While her mother gave us our lesson, the baby stayed down in the kitchen with the stereotypically fat and comfortable cook. Sometimes there would be a tapping at the classroom door and Mrs. Little would excuse herself and tell us to mind ourselves for a moment, then go hurrying down the corridor, leaving the classroom door open to assure we would behave. We would hear her footsteps tapping down the polished wood of the hallways and know that some mysterious crisis had transformed our teacher — at least temporarily — into a mother.

By the time my mother enrolled me at the seminary, I was already too old for finger paints — if anything so messy would ever have been permitted in this austere and select establishment. Even so, we were young enough that Mrs. Little did not move us to strict fine arts all at once. She had the natural wisdom of one who knows children are not little adults. She knew that if we were to love art, we must associate it with play — even as those children who are read rhyming verse long after they should have "outgrown" baby books grow to love music and poetry.

Therefore, Mrs. Little did not start us with watercolors or even those bright, garish poster paints so beloved of the classroom. She wanted us to get a feel for drawing without the worry that our medium would soak our paper, yet she wanted us to have something that would allow us to explore our potential. What she gave us was a pad of paper and a box of crayons.


Excerpted from Child of a Rainless Year by Jane Lindskold, Teresa Nielsen Hayden. Copyright © 2005 Jane Lindskold. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Meet the Author

Jane Lindskold lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Her Wolf novels include Through Wolf's Eyes; Wolf's Head, Wolf's Heart; The Dragon of Despair; and Wolf Captured. Her other novels include The Buried Pyramid, Changer, and, with the late Roger Zelazny, Lord Demon and Donnerjack.

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Child of a Rainless Year 3.8 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 6 reviews.
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Guest More than 1 year ago
this book was really interesting . i absolutly loved it !
harstan More than 1 year ago
When Mira Fenn turned nine years old her mom Colette disappeared and the preadolescent moved to Ohio to be raised by foster parents there. Several decades later, when her adoptive parents die, Mira finds the deed that proves she owns the Las Vegas, New Mexico home that she originally lived in. Having no excuse to rationalize avoiding her past, Mira heads home to learn why Colette vanished without a trace. --- In Las Vegas, Mira feels at home in Phineas House with mirrors everywhere especially in odd places. She learns from the caretaker Domingo that the house has pleaded with him to colorfully paint it over; Mira agrees that the house needs vibrant pastorals. As they work in harmony restoring Phineas House, Mira and Domingo begin to understand the ancestral link between their families and the intelligence of the edifice that whispers colors to the artists. They also begin to learn what happened to Colette and more about each other, but will a growing fondness be enough to prevent family history from repeating? --- This is an interesting fantasy tale in which the mundane contains magic, depending on the color as varying shades have differing charms. The middle aged Mira is a solid protagonist while Domingo serves as a fine balance to her whose acceptance of magic is in her genetic make up to do so. The story line contains complex concepts of reality; however, too much remains unresolved so that the audience at the end of the day will feel blue having to wait for an apparent sequel.--- Harriet Klausner