Grace and Fury


By Tracy Banghart

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Bold, brutal, and beautiful, this must-read fantasy is full of fierce sisterhood, action, and political intrigue for fans of The Selection series, Caraval, and The Handmaid's Tale.

Serina Tessaro has been groomed her whole life to become a Grace—someone to stand by the heir to the throne as a shining, subjugated example of the perfect woman. It's her chance to secure a better life for her family, and to keep her headstrong and rebellious younger sister, Nomi, out of trouble. But when Nomi catches the Heir's eye instead, Serina is the one who takes the fall for the dangerous secret her sister has been hiding.

Trapped in a life she never wanted, Nomi has only one option: surrender to her role as a Grace until she can use her position to save Serina. But this is easier said than done…a traitor walks the halls of the palazzo, and deception lurks in every corner. Meanwhile, Serina is running out of time. Imprisoned on an island where she must fight to the death to survive, surrounded by women stronger than she is, one wrong move could cost her everything. There is no room for weakness on Mount Ruin, especially weaknesses of the heart.

Thrilling and captivating, Grace and Fury is a story of fierce sisterhood, and survival in a world that's determined to break you.




SERINA TESSARO STOOD on the steps of the fountain in Lanos’s central piazza flanked by nine other girls her age, all in their finest gowns. Her brilliant smile never dimmed, even as the thick, coal-hazed twilight tried to choke her.

Signor Pietro gave each girl his narrow-eyed appraisal. He had known all of them from birth, watching and gauging and critiquing their potential. His salt-and-pepper mustache twitched as he pursed his lips.

The dark hulk of the mountains loomed over the soot-stained city, blocking all but a few final rays of daylight. Serina’s family stood in shadow at the edge of the crowd. Only Nomi’s flushed cheeks caught the light. Serina could see plainly, even from this distance, the fury in her sister’s eyes. Their brother, Renzo, kept a hand on Nomi’s arm, as if to hold her back. Serina couldn’t read his expression, but she was sure it didn’t echo their parents’ open anticipation.

Signor Pietro turned away from the girls on the steps of the fountain to address the people gathered in the piazza. As Serina waited for his decree, her heart clamored in her throat, but she hid her excitement beneath a veneer of serenity. Her mother had taught her the importance of masks.

“This year the Heir will choose his first Graces. Each province is allowed to send one girl to vie for this honor. As magistrate for Lanos, it falls to me to choose which of our daughters will travel to Bellaqua.” Maybe he paused. Maybe he drew out the suspense. But time didn’t slow the way Serina expected it to. He just kept saying words in his even, methodical voice, and the words were, “I have chosen Serina Tessaro.”

The crowd applauded. Mama Tessaro’s eyes lit with hope. Nomi’s face fell.

Numb, Serina stepped forward and curtsied deeply. She couldn’t believe it. She was going to Bellaqua. She was getting out of grimy, stifling Lanos.

Serina had imagined it so many times. Riding the train for the first time, down through the lush countryside of Viridia. Seeing the Superior’s city, with its canals and vast marble palazzo. Meeting the Heir. He would be handsome, like a prince in a fairy tale.

And if he chose her, she’d live in a beautiful palace for all her days. She’d never have to work in a textile factory like her mother did, or become a servant like her cousin. Nor would she be forced into a marriage with whichever man could pay the most for her hand. She would go to glittering balls and want for nothing. Her family would want for nothing, and even Nomi would live a better life, for all her resistance. As Serina’s handmaiden, Nomi would get to leave Lanos too.

Signor Pietro shook her father’s hand as Serina descended the stairs. The crowd slowly dispersed. The other girls didn’t speak to her as they rejoined their families. By the time Serina reached hers, Mama Tessaro was quivering with excitement. She’d once been as tall as Serina, but decades of hunching over her sewing machine at the textile factory had twisted her back.

“My flower, I am so proud of you.” She hugged Serina tightly. “You have brought our family great honor.”

Nomi made a noise in her throat.

Serina shot her a quelling look. If Signor Pietro heard Nomi speak out against the Heir or the Superior in any way, he’d have her flogged. He’d already threatened to do so during one of Serina’s physical examinations last month, when Nomi had muttered, “This is ridiculous,” under her breath as she watched the signor inspect Serina in her shift.

“Thank you, Signor,” Papa said, bowing.

The magistrate strode off to his carriage, his short scarlet cape fluttering in the sallow glare of lamplight.

“Let’s go,” Papa said. “We’ve only two days to prepare for your journey.” He led the way to a street in the opposite direction of the signor. They only lived a few blocks away from the central piazza.

Serina drew in a breath of dingy Lanos air and turned to follow. Papa hadn’t even looked at her. She tried to gauge his mood from his stiff shoulders. Was he proud of her, like Mama was?

She couldn’t tell. She never could with him.

Renzo bumped her arm. “You look beautiful,” he said. “The Heir would be a fool not to choose you.” She shot him a grateful smile. Renzo understood how much this meant to her. To all of them.

With his tall, sturdy form, it was easy to forget he was younger than Serina by almost two years. He and Nomi were twins but didn’t look much alike, except for their amber-brown eyes, several shades lighter than Serina’s.

Nomi lagged behind her siblings, scuffing her feet like a sulking child. Serina dropped back so she could walk with her sister.

“This is good news,” Serina murmured, too quiet for their parents to hear. The streets they walked were empty now; everyone else had already returned to their homes after the big announcement. Flickers of lamplight threw splotches of yellow against the rough stone walls of the houses they passed. The dirty cobbles were uneven underfoot, but Serina never faltered. Her copper-colored gown whispered against the stone.

“I don’t want to talk right now,” Nomi growled, obviously not as worried about keeping her voice down.

Serina wanted to throttle her. “How can you not be pleased? I truly don’t understand. We get to leave this ugly city. We might get to live in the palace. Being my handmaiden will be easier than taking care of the whole family the way you do now, and we won’t have to worry about having enough food. Mama will be able to stop working.…”

Nomi walked faster, as if trying to physically escape Serina’s words. “That’s the difference between you and me,” she said, her hands clenched at her sides. A dusky pink flush bloomed across her face. “I don’t think this city is ugly. And I don’t believe in fairy tales. I don’t want—”

“Everything you do want is beyond our reach,” Serina snapped, tired of Nomi’s anger. “You will never be able to choose your own job or your own husband, or… or anything else. It just doesn’t work that way.” It wasn’t Serina’s fault that Viridia gave women so few choices. Serina had learned long ago that fighting didn’t change anything, so she made the best of what she had.

And what she had was the chance to become one of the most revered women in the whole country. If the Heir chose her, she could become the mother of a future Superior.

“Nothing should be beyond our reach. That’s my whole point,” Nomi said.

They were still swept up in the tide of their argument when they reached the creaking door of the family’s small apartment. Renzo held it open for them, his sardonic look making it clear he’d heard them. “Nomi, Papa wants you to start dinner.”

Nomi stormed into the small living room without answering. Serina followed, pulling her skirts close so they wouldn’t catch on the doorframe. Serina saw her sister’s gaze linger on Renzo’s schoolbooks, still open on the rough-hewn dining table. She nudged Nomi’s arm in warning. When she didn’t move, Serina cleared her throat.

Nomi looked up at her sister, but it took a split second for her eyes to focus. Then she shook her head, as if to clear it, and hurried to the sink.

Serina glanced over at their parents, but they were speaking quietly by the little potbellied stove. They hadn’t noticed the exchange. There was a lot they didn’t notice.

Serina and Nomi were like any other daughters in the cold, industrial town of Lanos.

But Serina had her beauty.

And Nomi had her secret.

Serina prayed she was enough to catch the eye of the Heir, for her sake as well as her sister’s. But as Renzo closed the door, the hollow thud echoed into Serina’s bones. She shivered, suddenly filled with fears she couldn’t name.



THE RICKSHAW DRIVER pedaled madly, undeterred by jarring gaps in the cobbles and wide-eyed pedestrians. All the rocking and bumping unsettled Nomi’s stomach. Or maybe it was the heavy, humid air that smelled of rotting fish.

No. She knew what twisted every muscle and sucked all the breath from her lungs. The closer they got to the palazzo, the more fervently she wished they were heading the other way. It had been less than a fortnight since Signor Pietro had chosen Serina, and the days had skittered by as quickly and painfully as this last, rickety ride.

Nomi winced as Serina’s grip on her arm tightened, her nails digging in as the carriage careened over a small bridge, teetering frighteningly close to the edge. Renzo’s cheeks paled. He took up the entire seat across from them, his long legs folded up like a spider’s to fit in the small space.

Too soon, the rickshaw slammed to a halt at the edge of the grand piazza. Nomi’s stomach gave a sickening lurch.

At the far edge of the teeming square, a wide canal glittered in the sun, dotted with flocks of long black boats. Beyond it, on its own island, the Superior’s palazzo rose into the sky like a golden sunrise. Nomi took a few deep breaths. Under different circumstances, she would have enjoyed seeing Bellaqua. But not like this. Not today.

Renzo shoved some money at their driver before helping Nomi and Serina out of the rickshaw. Nomi’s knees trembled even after she’d made it to solid ground.

“Time to say goodbye,” Renzo said. He was trying to sound strong, but his voice shook. Of course, Serina kept her head bent, the dutiful sister, as he pulled her into a polite, fleeting embrace.

But Nomi would have none of that. She hugged her brother tightly, burying herself in his jacket, breathing in his familiar, reassuring scent. Her legs and stomach settled, but only a little. He would wait in Bellaqua until the announcement. She might see him again in a few hours, or never. She couldn’t bear the uncertainty.

“Should I plan to spirit you two to freedom, if Serina is chosen?” Renzo whispered jokingly, but with an edge to his voice.

If only. Nomi tightened her arms around him before drawing away. They shared an agonized look.

“Come on, Nomi,” Serina said quietly. A man in black-and-gold livery was holding out a hand to her. With bowed head, she placed her fingers on his arm.

Nomi’s breath seized. She wasn’t ready.

Renzo seemed to understand. With an attempt at a smile, he kissed her cheek and hurried away so she didn’t have to be the one to leave him. The parting cut her like a blade.

“Come on,” Serina murmured again.

Reluctantly, Nomi turned to follow her sister through the crowd. The black-and-gold-clad gondolier led them across the piazza to the grand canal, where his gondola bobbed gently with the others. He helped Serina and then Nomi into his boat, settling them onto soft, gold-threaded cushions. All around them, scores of other girls floated over the water in their own gondolas, their colorful dresses marking them as prospects.

The crowd watching the procession of girls laughed and cheered. A child threw handfuls of flowers into the air as Nomi and Serina pushed away from the edge of the canal. Serina smiled at the attention, at the soaring pink petals.

Nomi couldn’t stand her sister’s serene expression. It was so at odds with the turmoil twisting her stomach. She wanted to leap onto shore, run back to Renzo, and flee the city. She wanted to do anything but float toward the Superior’s palace like an unwilling sacrifice to an ancient god. But that was the problem: Serina was willing.

Nomi wiped at her eyes, trying to keep her tears in check. Her other hand grasped their small bag of belongings in a death grip. “What if we never see Renzo again?”

“It’ll be a blessing,” Serina replied. But there was a tremble in her voice. Nomi noted the furrow between her sister’s brows as she stared at the approaching palace, the hint of tension at the corner of her mouth. Maybe she wasn’t as serene as she appeared. More softly, Serina added, “You know that.”

“But I can wish things were different,” Nomi muttered just as the gondola bumped against the rim of the canal. Some of the girls had already disembarked at the base of the steps leading to the Superior’s palazzo. The cypress trees lining the canal were hung with tiny bells that tinkled in the breeze.

As Nomi climbed the massive staircase to the palazzo, the last in a long line of girls in bright, fine dresses, she cursed the Heir waiting at the top. He wouldn’t notice her—or any of the other handmaidens—but her whole life hinged on whether he noticed her sister.

In front of Nomi, Serina floated up the stairs, her waist-length chestnut hair loose and shining. Her gown, an intricate patchwork of different fabrics that their mother had painstakingly made, rippled like water. She betrayed no hint of weariness, no indication that they’d just spent six long days on a shuddering train, a night in a threadbare hotel room, and a day frantically preparing her for the Heir’s ball.

Nomi clutched her bag tighter. She tried not to trip on the marble stairs as she snuck a glance up at the Superior, sickly thin and severe, and his two sons. Malachi, the Heir, wore a white uniform embroidered in gold that accentuated his muscular frame. His broad cheekbones and trim brown hair gave his face a hard edge, but his full lips eased its severity. Even she had to concede he was handsome, if terrifying. He watched his prospective Graces closely, his dark eyes boring into the tops of their heads as they passed.

The younger son, Asa, gazed out toward the canal. His dark hair was longer than his brother’s, and disheveled, as if he frequently ran his hands through it.

Nomi should have bowed her head when she reached the men, but she didn’t bother. As she’d expected, no one noticed her. All three stared at Serina’s gleaming hair and swaying hips as she passed. Sometimes it irked Nomi, the way Serina drew every gaze. But this time, Nomi was happy to be invisible. She didn’t envy her sister’s task or the weight of the Superior’s icy glare.

When Nomi reached the shade of the veranda, out of sight of the men, she relaxed a fraction. The prospective Graces and their handmaidens proceeded into an ornate gallery with a set of heavy carved wooden doors at its end.

Nomi and Serina picked a spot next to the wall.

“Let me check your makeup one more time,” Nomi said. As much as she wished she were anywhere else, she still had a job to do. They both did.

“What do you think of our chances?” Serina murmured, glancing sidelong at the nearest girl, whose handmaiden was rearranging her vivid orange gown.

Nomi was tempted to tell Serina what she really thought: that they should leave, right now, without a word. That they should go back to Lanos, or better yet, somewhere else entirely, somewhere they could decide what they wanted to do all day, instead of Nomi’s endless chores and Serina’s hours of training in etiquette and dancing. But Nomi knew the truth as well as Serina did: A place like that didn’t exist. No matter where they went, their choices were the same: They could be factory workers, or servants, or wives. Unless Serina became a Grace.

In Viridia, Graces were held as the highest standard of beauty, elegance, and obedience. What all little girls were meant to aspire to.

For Nomi and Serina, becoming a Grace and a handmaiden was a ticket to a different life, but in this they disagreed: Serina believed this different would be better, and Nomi did not.

“I think we’re going to lose something either way,” Nomi said as she rubbed out a tiny smudge of kohl at the corner of Serina’s eye.

“Don’t say that,” Serina said warningly. “Don’t—”

“Don’t think about you parading before the Heir, a possession for him to own?” she whispered. She smoothed a section of Serina’s hair, her hands trembling. She and her sister both had brown hair, olive skin, and their mother’s high cheekbones. But somehow, their shared features combined to make Serina as rich and lovely as Nomi was slight and inelegant. Serina was extraordinary; Nomi was not.

“It’s not about becoming his possession, it’s about winning his admiration and desire,” Serina said through an artificial smile, for the benefit of the girls who’d glanced their way. “This is our chance to have a better life.”

“What makes it better?” Nomi shook her head. Anger surged uselessly in her chest. “Serina, we shouldn’t have to—”

Serina stepped even closer. “Smile at me, like you’re happy. Like you’re just like the rest of these girls.”

Nomi stared into her sister’s eyes. Serina was so beautiful like this, with anger staining her cheeks. She was so much more interesting when she wasn’t strapping herself into a corset and a demure, downcast grin.

The hushed murmurs of the prospects and their handmaidens died down suddenly, as a woman stepped onto a small raised dais at the far end of the room. Her gown of cream silk highlighted her refined, statuesque air. “My name is Ines. I am the Head Grace.” The woman’s words were soft as a song. “The Heir is honored that you have journeyed so far. He regrets that he can only choose three of you to remain. But be assured, you are all blessed.”

Nomi had always found it odd that Superiors and their Heirs chose three Graces every three years, rather than one a year. Then again, the choosing did consume the whole country, with magistrates spending months observing their province’s prospects, and the Superior organizing balls and other events to show off the new Graces once they were chosen.

The current Superior had nearly forty Graces now. But rumors swirled about his health, and this year he had announced no plans to choose Graces for himself. Instead, the Heir would make his first choice. Many assumed this meant the Superior would soon step aside and allow the Heir to rule Viridia in his place.

“The ball is about to begin,” Ines said, her thick gold bangles clinking as she raised her hands. “Prospects, it’s time.”

Serina hugged Nomi tightly. “Be good,” she admonished.

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Nomi replied, holding on to her sister just as tightly.

One by one, the girls were announced, the doors to the ballroom opening and closing between them. When Serina’s moment came, two of the Superior’s men pulled the massive doors wide, exposing the swirling brightness within. A deep voice stated, “Serina Tessaro, of Lanos.” Without a backward glance, Serina stepped into the light.

Nomi’s heart did a painful flip when her sister disappeared from view.

She placed her bag against the wall where the other handmaidens had left their things and stood awkwardly in the corner. Some of the girls grouped themselves on the balcony to talk. The rest sank into chairs or meandered around, taking in their opulent surroundings.

The walls pressed in on her, the gilt and sparkle heavy as iron. Everything was so different from home. She’d only been gone a week, but she already missed waking up to the sound of Renzo gathering his books for the long walk to school. Missed the stolen moments after her chores were done, when she could sit and rest without Mama scolding her. Missed the taste of the sharp, snow-edged wind at twilight, knowing the world would look entirely different by morning. Even the groaning pipes and tiny soot-crusted windows of their family’s apartment on Factory Row.

A part of her desperately hoped they would be sent home. That she could return to their small, shabby apartment. But she knew that would only delay the inevitable separation from her family.

It struck her that she might spend the rest of her days like this: trapped in a beautiful room waiting for Serina to return, her own life a footnote. Unremarkable. Invisible. Forgotten.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She glanced around, self-conscious, but no one was paying attention to her. Maybe if she splashed some cold water on her face, took a moment to herself, she’d feel better.

She made her way out into the hallway in search of the lavatory. With each step, the tightness in her chest lessened.

As Nomi rounded a corner, the interior of a room caught her eye. Deep upholstered chairs, a finely patterned rug. And endless bookcases of rich mahogany, stacked toweringly high with bound volumes edged in gold. Books. More than she’d ever seen in her life. Before Nomi could fully grasp what she was doing, she strode toward the room. She paused outside the half-open door for as long as she dared, listening for movement. Then, with a deep breath, she slipped inside.

The whole world opened up before her. Rows and rows of bookshelves climbed to the ceiling. The scent of pipe smoke hung thick in the air. Nomi breathed deeply, letting the room’s stillness, its promise, wash over her. On trembling legs, she sidled up to the shelves and ran tingling fingers across the thick leather spines. The gold-leaf titles shone in the low light. She traced the words, many of them unfamiliar to her. Her hand caught on a slight volume nearly swallowed between two thick black tomes. She gasped in recognition. The Legends of Viridia.

Immediately, a memory rose in her mind. The autumn Nomi and Renzo had turned twelve, he was given this same book of legends to study, and she’d demanded to know what it said.

It was against the law for women to read. It was against the law for women to do almost anything, really, except birth babies and toil in factories and clean the houses of rich men.

But Nomi couldn’t let it go. And Renzo couldn’t resist showing off what he knew. Slowly, surely, he had taught her to read.

It had been the best few months of Nomi’s life. They’d spent their nights hunched by a guttering candle as Nomi haltingly read and reread the story of the moon and her lover, the terrors of the deep, and—her favorite—the tale of two brothers driven apart by a mysterious tattooed woman with a golden eye. Only Serina knew their secret. Renzo once asked if she wanted to learn too. But Serina preferred to be read to, the same stories over and over, while she practiced her embroidery. When spring had come and Renzo’s school had exchanged the book of legends for one of math equations, Nomi and Serina had continued to tell each other the stories from memory. But it was never quite the same.

She drew the book from the shelf, caressing the embossed letters on the cover. It was made of the same soft leather, only without the battered corners and bent cover. She hugged the book to her, remembering every night she and her brother had pored over the pages, teasing out the pronunciation and meaning of each word.

This book was home to her, more than the palazzo and its fine furnishings could ever be.

She couldn’t bear to leave it behind. Surely no one would miss a small book of stories. It slipped down the front of her dress so quickly, so easily, she could almost convince herself it had been the book’s desire, not her own. She hurried into the corridor, arms crossed protectively over her chest.

She was nearly back to the gallery when two men rounded the corner right in front of her.

The Heir and his brother.

Nomi bowed her head and waited for them to pass, arms tightening over the hidden book.

“—should be up to me, not the magistrates,” the Heir was saying, anger edging his words. He stopped speaking when he saw her.

Nomi should have curtsied. She should have kept her head down, like any other handmaiden. But she was caught off guard, unprepared, and without meaning to, she met his gaze.

The Heir’s eyes were deep brown and held a silent intensity. He stared at her as if he could puzzle out her history, her secret hopes, everything. With one look, he laid her bare.

Cheeks burning, she finally tore her gaze away.

“Who are you?” Malachi demanded.

“Nomi Tessaro,” she murmured.

“And what exactly are you doing here, Nomi Tessaro?” The Heir’s voice filled with suspicion.

Nomi bowed her head. “I’m—I’m a handmaiden. I was just…” Her voice petered out. She couldn’t remember what she was supposed to have been doing. The book burned through her skin.

“Come on, Malachi, we’re late,” Asa said, running an impatient hand through his hair. His black suit shadowed Malachi’s white one, down to the gold embroidery, but there was something more relaxed, almost untidy about him.

Malachi ignored his brother and stepped closer to Nomi, his muscled frame trapping her against the wall. “You were just what?”

The attempt at intimidation had the opposite effect. Nomi bristled, a familiar, instinctive fury momentarily squashing her panic.

Her spine straightened. She lifted her chin and faced the Heir’s steely gaze with one of her own. Defiance radiated from her in waves. “I was using the lavatory,” she said clearly. “It’s just there,” she added, nodding toward the other end of the hall, “if you need to go.”

Asa snorted, but the Heir did not look amused. His cheeks flushed an angry red.

Horror rose, bitter at the back of Nomi’s throat. She dropped her gaze. Serina had asked her to behave. And she couldn’t, not even for ten minutes. The audacity of what she’d just said… the expression the Heir had no doubt seen in her eyes.…

“You may go,” Malachi said at last, but it sounded more like a sentence than a reprieve.

Nomi scurried into the gallery as the men continued on their way, her heart beating a panicked rhythm. The sharp edges of the book she’d stolen dug into her skin.

She hurried to the corner where she’d left her bag, and slipped the book in among her things. She was almost certain the Heir hadn’t seen it. But her impertinence had been damning enough.

The rest of the evening she waited, eyes pinned to the open doorway, wondering when her world would end.



SERINA’S FIRST BALL was almost exactly as she’d imagined. The long, gleaming ballroom teemed with movement, the prospective Graces as glittering and colorful as a school of fish. The mirrored walls and endless gold filigree caught the light of a dozen crystal chandeliers. Musicians sat in a corner by a wall of arches leading to the terrace, their fingers flitting so fast across their instruments Serina couldn’t follow them.

It was a far cry from her cramped living room, where an instructor had taught her to dance with Renzo as her partner. They’d had no music—only the dogged beat of the instructor clapping his hands.

Here, the sparkling music curled and spun, and Serina twirled and smiled in the arms of the Superior’s finely dressed dignitaries, thrilled to be at the center of the glamour, one of the glittering, colorful fish.

But there was a flaw in the fairy tale. The Heir didn’t appear.


  • Praise for Grace and Fury:


    "The Handmaid's Tale meets The Bachelor, Grace and Fury is fast-paced, feminist, and a perfect summer read."—Bustle

  • "The Handmaid's Tale gets a YA twist in this debut...The pace is quick, the ending promises a sequel, and the plot couldn't be more relevant. Buy an extra copy--this should find an audience."—Booklist

  • "Banghart...breathes new life into this feminist story of oppression and resistance. The sisters...shift and grow, adding depth to each character. Fans of Keira Cass and Marie Rutkoski will be drawn to this absorbing story and left eager for another installment."—Publishers Weekly

  • "The timely YA response to The Handmaid's Tale."—Hypable

  • "Banghart's prose is florid and engaging, and she expands the drama explosively. Fans of The Hunger Games will appreciate the similar plotting in this first installment of a planned trilogy. An easy hand-sell that will find a willing audience in those who have enjoyed Dhonielle Clayton's The Belles and Stephanie Garber's Caraval."—SLJ

  • "Grace and Fury's blend of fantasy, feminism and political thriller will likely appeal to fans of The Hunger Games, Marie Rutkoski's Winner trilogy and Sabaa Tahir's An Ember in the Ashes. The dual narratives create plenty of suspense, and the growth and transformation of these two sisters is engrossing."—Shelf Awareness

  • "...a dystopian YA delight."—Frolic

  • "If you're looking for a new read to add to your ever-growing list, Grace and Fury is one you shouldn't miss. It's full of suspense, deception, and #girlpower."—Her Campus

  • "Fiercely feminist and beautifully rebellious. A story of finding sisterhood in the face of oppression that will stay with me forever."—Kass Morgan, New York Times bestselling author of The 100 series and Light Years

  • "Two sisters fight for freedom in a fantasy novel with a blisteringly fast pace and a cathartic ending."—Kate Elliott, New York Times bestselling author of the Court of Fives series

  • "A cathartic, action-packed read about women taking back power."—Elly Blake, New York Times bestselling author of the Frostblood Saga

  • "Fierce, fun, [and] fast-paced... empowering from start to finish and doesn't flinch in proving that sometimes the life you want isn't the one you expected -- and you won't know until you fight for it."—Sarah Henning, author of Sea Witch

  • Praise for Queen of Ruin:

    "A cathartic, action-packed read about women taking back power."—Elly Blake, New York Times bestselling author of the Frostblood Saga

  • "A fierce story of sisterhood and survival. Absolutely riveting. I couldn't help but cheer for these ferocious young women."—Kaitlyn Sage Patterson, author of The Diminished

  • "Empowerment-flavored brain popcorn."—Kirkus Reviews

On Sale
Jun 4, 2019
Page Count
336 pages

Tracy Banghart

About the Author

Tracy Banghart is the author of several young adult books, including the Grace and Fury series and A Season of Sinister Dreams. Love Like Chocolate, her debut picture book, is a love letter to two of her favorite things: her family and chocolate. When Tracy isn't writing, she's baking delicious treats with her husband and children, and trying to keep their pets from stealing a bite. She invites you to visit her online at or on Twitter @tracythewriter.
Alina Chau is the author and artist of Marshmallow & Jordan and the illustrator of Bonnie’s Rocket by Emeline Lee, The Rise (and Falls) of Jackie Chan by Kristen Mai Giang, and the APALA Honor-winning The Nian Monster by Andrea Wang, among others. She is also an award-winning filmmaker whose credits include the Emmy Award-winning Star Wars: The Clone Wars animated series and numerous bestselling games. Her creative vision is strongly influenced by her Chinese-Indonesian upbringing, and she invites you to visit her online at or on Instagram @alinachau.

Learn more about this author