Enter the World of T. Kingfisher, a Master of Genre
New York Times bestselling author T. KINGFISHER is a master of genre!
Writing across fantasy, horror, and romance, T. Kingfisher ingeniously blends genres to captivate readers of all stripes with charming characters, fairy tales turned on their heads, and a unique brand of storytelling.
Hemlock & Silver by T. Kingfisher
Healer Anja regularly drinks poison.
Not to die, but to save—seeking cures for those everyone else has given up on.
But a summons from the King interrupts her quiet, herb-obsessed life. His daughter, Snow, is dying, and he hopes Anja’s unorthodox methods can save her.
Aided by a taciturn guard, a narcissistic cat, and a passion for the scientific method, Anja rushes to treat Snow, but nothing seems to work. That is, until she finds a secret world, hidden inside a magic mirror. This dark realm may hold the key to what is making Snow sick.
Or it might be the thing that kills them all.
On sale 8.19.2025
About T. Kingfisher
T. Kingfisher (she/her) writes fantasy, horror, and occasional oddities. She lives in New Mexico with her husband, dogs, and chickens who may or may not be possessed.
Excerpt from Hemlock & Silver
I had just taken poison when the king arrived to inform me that he had murdered his wife.
The poison was a distillate of chime-adder venom, which burned my sinuses when I took it off my wrist the way that some people take snuff. The king was a tired man of medium height, with sandy hair and deep grooves worn into the sides of his face. I hadn’t recognized him at first when he stepped through the door of the stillroom. Well, why would I? The king was someone that I had seen far off, at the head of a long table or perched on a throne.
Without context, he was simply a well-dressed man who had come in without even knocking. Still, he had looked naggingly familiar, and I thought perhaps he was one of my father’s friends, so I simply said, “Wait a moment, please,” and turned back to stripping rosemary leaves off thin wooden stems. (I always process rosemary after snorting adder venom. The fragrance of the rosemary helps to clear out the awful burnt smell of the venom.)
Then the little voice in my head whispered, One moment please, Your Majesty, and recognition crashed over me like cold water.
I spun back toward the man in the doorway. He wasn’t standing in profile so I couldn’t see if his face was the same one that was stamped on coins, but Saints help me, he was wearing a circlet, a thin little silver thing, and surely no one would wear that except royalty. Which meant he really was the king after all, except that he was standing in my workroom, where he had no business being. And I had just ordered him to wait.
I panicked and tried to curtsey, but when I clutched for my skirts, I dropped the rosemary and the leaves went spilling down over my skirt and clung to the fabric, sticky with sap.
“Your Majesty,” I croaked. My mouth was so dry that I half-expected to hear my tongue rasp against the roof of my mouth. “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize… that is, I didn’t expect…”
Could I ask him to turn sideways so that I could check his profile? No, probably not.
He did not look angry. He smiled faintly while I brushed futilely at my skirt. “Mistress Anja?” he asked.
I nodded. That was my name, although I won’t swear that I wouldn’t have nodded no matter what he’d said.
“You have doubtless heard that I killed my wife,” the widowed king said. “It’s true, I did.”
The words made no sense to me. They might have been a mouse’s squeak or a beetle’s click. I stared at the king with my sinuses full of venom and my mind full of nothing at all.
