The maker of swans A novel

O'Donnell (The House on Vesper Sands) delivers an ornate if uneven post-WWII gothic story. Eustace, longtime butler at Mr. Crowe's large country estate, is awakened one night by gunshots. From his window, he sees Crowe with two pistols, as well as a strange woman and an unfamiliar bearded man, who slaps the woman before Crowe leaps on him. By the time Eustace arrives on the scene, the man, later identified as poet David Landor, is dead, and the imperturbable servant immediately takes steps to cover up the apparent murder, calmly concealing the corpse in Landor's own car trunk before calling in a favor. O'Donnell gradually ladles out a series of revelations, for example that Crowe belongs to an ancient secret order of artists. Landor was also a member, and Eustace fears his demise will bring the wrath of the order's mysterious leader onto Crowe. Eustace's efforts to intervene in Crowe's fate alternate with sections featuring Crowe's unusual mute ward, Clara, who is placed in jeopardy by her guardian's actions. While the prose is occasionally memorable (Clara touches a cygnet's neck, the softness of which is "barely palpable, like the weightless glancing of dandelion seeds"), the plot never coheres. It's a beautiful jewel box, but what's inside is a letdown. Agent: Lucy Luck, C&W Agency. (June)

A labyrinthine journey from a master craftsman of language and storytelling. Like O'Donnell's previous book, The House on Vesper Sands, this novel is determined to unfold at its own pace. There are layers of narrative within the framework of gothic suspense, with a limited but rich cast of characters whose backgrounds and motivations are revealed only slowly. One of the pleasures of this genre is seeing how the disparate threads of the novel come together, and O'Donnell weaves a careful tapestry. Central to the story is Eustace, butler--although really much more--to the mysterious Mr. Crowe, who possesses supernatural powers that are never really explained. An act of random violence (which turns out to be not so random) sparks a chain of events which draws Clara, a young mute girl who lives in Mr. Crowe's sprawling mansion, into the clutches of some shadowy villains and, ultimately, to the revelation of her own abilities. Significantly, those powers connect to the act of writing, of imagination, of creation. So it is fitting that the story is reflected by O'Donnell's use of language, which is unfailingly evocative and beautiful. He is able to find poetry in dowdy, simple things, even an arrangement of cutlery or a piece of fabric. The action, when it comes, has an edge like a razor, and even a knife fight is described like a dance. Readers who are looking for a sorcery-driven blockbuster of rollicking heroes will not find it here. This novel is more like a maze that has to be negotiated step by step, with paths that sometimes bend back on themselves or lead to unexpected turns. The conclusion, when it is reached, is strange but satisfying, with a sense of inevitability that is appropriate to the tone of the book. Not a happy ending, perhaps, but the right one. This story requires time and attention, but the rewards are worth the journey. Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Chapter One In the dream, there was nothing. Nothing, and then fire. It came upon the house with the fury of a sudden storm, a gale of flame that swept the cedars from the lawns and obliterated every window. It flung open the doors and thronged the staircases, possessing rooms with effortless violence. It surged among the hallways, avid and primrose bright, inundating the ballroom, rising in moments even to the chandeliers. Eustace saw it all, and he did nothing. He stood in the fire's midst, unmoving and somehow unscathed as he waited to be consumed in his turn. He could not see her, the child, could not have hoped to find her in time. He could not see her, and knew she could not call to him. It was that despair that ruptured his sleep, that flooding grief. When he heard the shots, he had lain awake for some moments already with the bedclothes thrown back, his hand spread on his chest to quieten his heart. He started slightly at the sounds--there were two, in quick succession--but almost welcomed the distraction. Eustace was accustomed enough to gunshots. They were not quite usual, perhaps, but they caused him no particular alarm. But the dream--the dream had been another matter. He could not remember when he had last felt such dread. He clawed at the nightstand for the chain of his watch and found, when he had wrung the dimness from his eyes, that it was a shade after one. It might have been worse. His duties were often irregular, and it was not rare for him to be called from his bed at unpardonable hours. Still, he did not welcome such disturbances. The years of his service had done nothing to soften them. Wearily, but with the smooth economy of long habit, he rose and drew a dressing gown about him. The house, even in these last days of October, was wretchedly cold. The great drapes, as he parted them, were heavy with damp. They would, even at noon, betray almost nothing of their original colour. There was little here that did. Excerpted from The Maker of Swans by Paraic O'Donnell All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.