Jane Steele (35 page)

For reasons that are obvious to everyone kind enough to read this book, I dedicated it to Jane Eyre and Nicholas Nickleby, who have given me many hours of literary joy since childhood (and who unfortunately led quite parallel lives of undeserved squalor and questionable headmasters). Jane has often tugged at my heartstrings, however, while Nicholas once caused me to guffaw aloud on the New York subway system, which drew incredulous stares. I’d be remiss if I failed to mention Jonathan Small and the gaunt, devoted Mrs. Danvers to boot; thus, thank you endlessly to Charlotte Brontë and Charles Dickens, as well as to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Daphne du Maurier, whose smudgy literary fingerprints are likewise all over this volume.

Thank you to every stunningly fabulous talent at William Morris Endeavor, first and foremost the magnificent Erin Malone, who fixes my mojo when it frequently nosedives. From the moment I first emailed her about Jane Steele years ago, she has been waving magic pom-poms every step of the way. Tracy Fisher and Cathryn Summerhayes, you are splendid midsummer goddesses, as all my foreign publishers (to whom I am also deeply grateful) are well aware. To everyone at WME who has been of such tireless assistance, I am forever grateful.

I had the honor of working with Kerri Kolen on my debut novel, and it feels sublime to have such a fantastic and kindly powerhouse in my corner again. Though she is but little, she is fierce—and brilliant, and I adore her. Thank you as well to Ivan Held, Katie McKee, Alexis Welby, Ashley McClay, and every other person who makes my employment by Putnam and Penguin Random House feel like such a privilege. Grateful thanks to Claire Baldwin and Sherise Hobbs at Headline, whose notes and encouragement were equally appreciated.

My family, as ever, have heaped support on me to the point I’m beginning to resemble an overbuilt skyscraper—but I need it all, and I thank you. My friends deserve a collective vacation to Aruba for talking me down whenever I flounder; to every school chum and coworker and actor and Sherlockian and just plain fellow nerd, thank you from the bottom of my heart. My husband, Gabriel, quietly makes me fish tacos with homemade corn tortillas when the writing is going poorly and I’m being a complete jackass, which is probably the definition of devotion, so I thank him most of all.

Finally, as ever: Reader, I thank you. Your collective existence will forever baffle and delight me.

Lyndsay Faye is the internationally bestselling author of the critically acclaimed books
Dust and Shadow
;
The Gods of Gotham
, which was nominated for an Edgar for Best Novel;
Seven for a Secret
; and
The Fatal Flame
. Faye, a true New Yorker in the sense she was born elsewhere, lives in Queens with her husband, Gabriel.

lyndsayfaye.com

facebook.com/authorlyndsayfaye

twitter.com/lyndsayfaye

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Translation: “Do you like your cake?” “It isn’t very good, Mamma.” “Poor little dear.”

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Water-carrier, a lowly menial occupation on the battlefield.

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Children.

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Come here.

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Villain.

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Sikh sword.

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Foreigner.

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Ruffians.

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Butler.

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Constable.

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A poem written by Guru Gobind Singh in the classic Punjabi heroic ballad style.

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Corporal.

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Pistol.

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Dancing girls.

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Dry land between the five rivers of the Punjab. The word
Punjab
itself translates literally to “five rivers.”

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A highly aggressive, violent madness which can occur seasonally in male elephants.

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The son of a maharajah.

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The regent of the last Maharajah, her son Duleep Singh.

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Beautiful women.

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Indian hemp.

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A derogatory term in India for a Western foreigner.

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