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Alexandra Boyd has travelled to Bulgaria hoping to salve the wounds left by the loss of her beloved brother. But a luggage mix-up soon after she arrives finds her holding an urn filled with human ashes.
As Alexandra sets out to return the precious item to its owners she finds ever more obstacles in her path, even as her determination grows greater - and the mystery behind the significance of the urn deepens. Soon she will realise that this object is tied to the very darkest moments in the nation’s history, and that the stakes behind seeing it safely returned are higher than she could ever have imagined. Elizabeth Kostova’s new novel is a tale of immense scope that delves into the horrors of a century and traverses the culture and landscape of this mysterious country.
Suspenseful and beautifully written, it explores the power of stories and the hope and meaning that can sometimes be found in the aftermath of loss.
Elizabeth Kostova is the New York Times bestselling author of The Historian, which sold over three million copies, and The Swan Thieves.
‘Beautifully written, gently gripping novel from the author of bestselling The Historian, in which enduring love, persistent guilt and lingering evil combine to powerful effect.’ Daily Mail
‘In this brilliant work, what appears at first a minor mystery quickly becomes emblematic of a whole country’s hidden history. Lyrical and compelling, The Shadow Land proves a profound meditation on how evil is inflicted, endured and, through courage and compassion, defeated. Elizabeth Kostova’s third novel clearly establishes her as one of America’s finest writers.’ Ron Rash
‘Transporting…draws us into Bulgarian history and character revelation like an elegant, mysterious labyrinth. Page-turning, evocative and richly imagined.’ Dominic Smith
‘Recommend[ed]…to readers seeking outstanding and suspenseful historical fiction.’ Booklist
482 pages, Kindle Edition
First published April 11, 2017

DO AS YOU LIKE,
WHATEVER SUITS YOU BEST—
I WILL BURY HIM MYSELF.
— Sophocles, Antigone
“He told me once that although he had never talked about himself enough, the story of his life could be found in his music. I understood what he meant—I often think the same way of my paintings. When Stoyan Lazarov played his violin, it sounded exactly as I think his own voice would have, if he had talked more. He said the violin should be able to tell the truth and it should be able to cry.”
“He told us about Rome, where his father met him on holiday a few years before, and had bought him his violin—this one, the best he’d owned—a gleaming piece of wood shaped by Giuseppe Alessandri. Allesandri, he said, was born in 1824 and was a student of the great Lorenzo Storioni of Cremona. Stoyan’s violin had been made in the 1860s, during the turmoil that formed Italy.”
“The violin sang ‘Romano o morte,’ and it wailed for the mountains of dead in an American Civil War across the sea, and for Paris glittering with the Second Empire. It rose and fell with voices reading Victor Hugo aloud by whale oil, and it sang about dynamite, about Ottomans and Englishmen falling under their horses in the Crimea, and the feet of crowds shuffling through international expositions.”
“What is the meaning of such suffering?