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I, Medusa

Von:

Ayana Gray

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TaschenbuchCHF 21.10

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Beschreibung

Informationen zum Autor Ayana Gray is a New York Times bestselling author. Her works have been translated into eleven languages across five continents. She currently lives and writes in Arkansas. I, Medusa is her adult debut. Klappentext NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • A captivating villain origin story ( People Book of the Week) reimagining one of the most iconic monsters in Greek mythology as a provocative and powerful young heroine This first edition paperback features gorgeous sprayed edges with a snakeskin pattern! Ayana Gray brings her fresh, dynamic storytelling to one of the most monstered, maligned, and misunderstood women of Greek myth, imagining all the girls that Medusa was and could have been.Jennifer Saint, bestselling author of Ariadne AN NPR BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR Meddy has spent her whole life as a footnote in someone else's story. Out of place next to her beautiful, immortal sisters and her parentsboth gods, albeit minor onesshe dreams of leaving her family's island for a life of adventure. So when she catches the eye of the goddess Athena, who invites her to train as an esteemed priestess in her temple, Meddy leaps at the chance to see the world beyond her home. In the colorful market streets of Athens and the clandestine chambers of the temple, Meddy flourishes in her role as Athena's favored acolyte, getting her first tastes of purpose and power. But when she is noticed by another Olympian, Poseidon, the course of Meddy's promising future is suddenly and irrevocably altered. When her locs are transformed into snakes as punishment for a crime she did not commit, Medusa must embrace a new identitynot as a victim, but as a vigilanteand with it, the chance to write her own story as mortal, martyr, and myth. Exploding with rage, heartbreak, and love, I, Medusa portrays a young woman caught in the crosscurrents between her heart's deepest desires and the cruel, careless games the Olympian gods play. Leseprobe I Meddy! I straighten at the sound of my name, doing my best to look attentive. The effort is entirely wasted on my mother. Her dark, glittering eyes are already fixed on me, and narrowed with familiar disapproval. You aren't paying attention, she accuses. Do it again. I stifle a whine as she ushers me, none too gently, to the center of our veranda. Once I am in the correct stance, she claps. Begin. A slave seated nearby on a wooden stool starts to pluck a short-necked lute, filling the warm morning air with a sweet melody. On cue, I pivot, raising my arms and clapping in time with the music while attempting to ignore the stiff ache in my biceps. I focus on the heady scent of flowers in the distance, on the hard press of the tile against the ball of my foot. I try to lose myself in the song's rhythm, and when I close my eyes, I pretend I'm somewhere else, anywhere else. Barely a minute passes before my mother tuts. The music halts. Stop grimacing, she says irritably. You're moving like you're in pain. I am in pain, I mutter. I've done this dance a hundred times. My mother remains unmoved. You'll do it a hundred more times, if that's what it takes, she warns. You must be perfect. The gods gracing our halls will expect nothing less. This is a reminder I do not need. Tomorrow night, my parents will host a feast under the guise of celebrating the start of spring, but I've spent enough time watching the political games of gods to understand the real reason for the occasion. My sisters and I are now all of age, which means it is time to see us made useful. For my parents, this means married. The gods of the Sea Court won't be the only ones in attendance. My mother speaks as though she were privy to my thoughts. There may very w...