Sinister + Spice
a collection of fairytales for the quiet,
the wistful and the strange
About the Bookshop
Sinister + Spice is the idea of a bookshop, a concept enriched by fairytales and a small foray into a certain writer’s audacity (ahem, Sira Fei). But most importantly, it is a "sentient bookshop" that collects short stories about meaning and memory wherever, and whenever, it wanders.Here you will find stories that are gentle, shadowy and strange: like a meadow filled with flowers that bloom only under moonlight. If this intrigues... you are warmly invited to explore, read and even listen (audio is available).You are also welcome to browse our collection of artifacts, many of which are the inspirations behind these tales. All artifacts are available through Etsy and fulfilled by This Far by Design, the studio behind Sinister + Spice.With sincere wishes for peace, warmth, and good reading:The real & fictional staff of Sinister + Spice
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Browse our collection of short stories.
For those who prefer to listen, companion audio is available.
Become a Sinner
The Sinner Circle is the bookshop’s resident, semi-fictional book club. They meet quarterly, but only on evenings that promise rain and a lively atmosphere.Members receive a quarterly newsletter from the Steward containing lore, insights, and the latest umbrella styles favored by the bookstore.Sign up below to receive the newsletter.
Leave a note for the Curator
The Sinister + Spice bookshop is curated by author Sira Fei. The steward will pass along any messages addressed to her.
Message the Curator
The Sinister + Spice bookshop is curated by author Sira Fei. If you'd like to leave her a message, you can drop a note in the form below. The steward will make sure it reaches her.
Welcome to the Steward's Desk. Announcements,
Staff bios and other Imporant matters are maintained here.
Important (and entirely arbitrary) Announcements:
Book shop hours this week: as per usual, unknown
Available now: Carmena's Cloak , The Darkest Fruit and The Goblin Prince fairy tales are online and open to visitors. Do enjoy.
Coming Soon: the Curator has identified three additional stories for the shop. At least one is a blatant vanity project and this Steward approves. Publication will occur over the coming weeks.
The Cappuccino Machine: Do NOT touch. For the love of all that’s holy, dear Sinner Circle, the foamer and frother remain the property of Sinister + Spice. Yes, the book club enjoys certain privileges, but these are not among them. I trust we can avoid drastic measures.
Open position: We are looking for an apprentice Steward. This position is naturally unpaid but only candidates of the highest caliber will be considered. Must be young, literate and able to travel at the drop of the hat, or ... more fittingly, the turn of a page.
Be well. And Read better.Esme Sinclair Jones
Current Steward of Sinister + Spice
Carmena's Cloak
A young woman discovers the quiet magic of reading · 3 min read
Have you ever seen Carmena or her cloak? It is said no two souls who catch a glimpse see it the same way; that it appears as it must, shaped by the moment and the heart of the one who finds it.
AUDIO AVAILABLE
Carmena was a quiet maid, given to listening more than speaking, and thus it was hardly noticed that she learned to read alongside the princess she served. When lessons grew dull, it was Carmena who asked questions - not aloud, but with her eyes - and the princess, amused, learned more for it. In this way they passed their girlhood together: one born to rule, the other content to observe.The maid’s truest happiness, however, lay beyond the palace walls. There was a neighboring forest, peaceful by some accident of nature or neglect of men, where predators never seemed to roam.Carmena stole away there whenever she could. She pressed flowers between the pages of her favorite books to mark her place, napped beneath towering trees, and read in the sunlight as hours slipped quietly past.When the princess was promised to a king in a wealthier kingdom, it was assumed Carmena would follow. She did, though reluctantly. She feared leaving her forest, her books, her small, private joys. Still, she packed her few belongings, among them her mother’s red cloak, the last precious inheritance of a family long gone.The new king was cold, rigid with tradition, and his forests were dark and unwelcoming. There were no quiet paths there, no safe places to linger. Literacy was forbidden to all but the ruling class. Carmena still wove stories in her thoughts and dreams, but time wore her down, as it erodes all things. As the years slipped past, she forgot the peaceful forest and the sunlight, and the only thing that sparked joy was the beautiful red fabric of her mother’s cloak.One particularly harsh winter, the maid grew thin and tired. The Queen, fearing the worst, went to her side and read aloud all the stories Carmena had loved as a girl, for the Queen had never forgotten. Fevers claimed the maid, but as her soul was blanketed in light, all she could hear were the old words gathering around her, comforting her as they once had in her youth.Many say her spirit returned to the peaceful forest, to the old cheerful kingdom, the red cloak warm upon her shoulders. There she waits still, guiding the shy, the thoughtful, and the quietly passionate to sunlit clearings, good books, and sturdy trees beneath which it is always safe to dream.
Do tell the Curator if you've seen the Cloak. She'd like it returned.
The Darkest fruit
A king makes a dangerous and irrevocable choice · 5 min read
Have you ever wished away a flaw? A thing or aspect about yourself you consider a weakness, or a liability? This is the story of a rare and tempting apple, an obsessive King and an incredible musician named Ranim.
AUDIO AVAILABLE
At the northern edge of the world stands a quiet forest, bereft of birdsong or beasts, it grows thick over the ruins of an old kingdom that once mistook excess for brilliance and cruelty for ingenuity. At the heart of this forest rises a single tree, rooted - it’s said - in the buried throne of a fallen king.Its fruit is flawless: apples so dark red they gleam like jewels dipped in black.If the tree judges a traveler worthy, it grants them one apple, no more. Most who seek its harvest never return.The fruit is consumed in three bites.The first bite frees one from envy, but will leave you an object of pity.
The second strips away all fear, and with it, all good judgment.
The third bite, if taken, passes an unbearable longing to another.A king from the West took all three.He’d fallen desperately in love with a traveling violinist whose beauty and music drew crowds for miles. But she would have none of him. When his longing passed to her, her violin fell silent. There was no longer room for music in her heart; it overflowed now only with passion for the King.The King, both triumphant and reckless, quickly made the musician his wife.But in forcing her desire, he inevitably lost his own. For that was the cost of the third bite: passion, once both sweet and impure, now curdled into disgust. Obsession that had made him feverish and bold…. now cooled into dread.What ultimately ended the King is unclear.Some whisper the Queen’s devotion closed around him one day - severe, jealous and unrelenting - until the force of it left him breathless.When she bent over his grave and coughed up a shard of dark fruit, it shivered once, unfurled velvety black wings, and took flight as a great moth.Clarity returned to her all at once.And with it, the entirety of his kingdom.
Historian’s Note:Queen Ranim I of Western Lyria is a beloved figure of Lyrian history, remembered fondly for ushering in a cultural renaissance that secured Lyria’s prominence on the global map. Far less is said of her ascent to the throne, or of the wooden crown she chose to wear. The queens of Lyria wear it still, and it’s rumored to have been crafted from the remains of an old violin.
Would you visit the Northern Forest for a peek... or a bite?
The Goblin Prince
A prince is seen for who and what he is · 15 min read
Surely you’ve heard of the In-Between? Maybe you call it by another name… it’s a boundary of sorts, a place where the veil between mortals and magic wears gossamer thin. It's ruled by a High Queen who's delivered many judgments, all deserved, all remembered.Still none are spoken of more, than the High Prince Delias.
AUDIO AVAILABLE
Prince Delias stood before the Queen’s Court with a faint, unrepentant smile as the charges laid against him were read aloud. The hall was narrow and crowded, but quiet in that breathless way that signaled anticipation. The creatures that had gathered listened closely, some with open amusement, others with the tight, satisfied look reserved for the downfall of one long hated.“…three mortals cheated of coin, two set against one another for sport, and the matter of the Ferryman’s daughter, whose misfortune you declared diverting,” the clerk concluded.Delias gave a soft laugh. “You make it sound so grave.”The Queen shifted in her throne, restless with the tedium of the morning’s accountings. It was said she herself had once been mortal, but that’s a tale for another time. Her gaze settled on him at last, sharp with impatience.“This amuses?”“That is often the point, is it not, Your Majesty?” he replied, inclining his head, even now, performing.Her answer was a judgment; it was cold and delivered in measured verse:Hawk your lies and lies ye shall own,
Beauty to hide in the marrow of bone.
Fully blind shall all be to your grace,
Till sight beholds your truest face.The crowd erupted in gasps and nervous giggles as Delias doubled over in pain and… transformed.A small ornate mirror clattered against the stone at his feet.“Thrice each day ye shall look upon thy face in that mirror,” she commanded. “Fail, and the judgment will ripen. Depart fair prince. You are banned from this Court until you return corrected.”Delias opened his mouth, or what remained of it, to argue. He was outraged, but, with humiliating laughter still ringing in his ears, he was abruptly transported to a market, run by mortals, by the smell of it, the mirror held tightly in a gnarled fist that only moments before had been an elegant ringed hand.In a fit of temper, he tried to dash the mirror against the packed earth, but something, likely the Queen’s meddling, turned the motion back upon him.He was forced to look.Tusks split his lip. A wet shine of spittle coated a too-pointed chin. His skin was sickly, sallow and wrong. His raven dark hair had been replaced by three oily strands slick against his newly exposed scalp.Delias, Prince of Delight and Despair, was now a goblin.A reprimanding caw sounded above him. He tilted his misshapen head to see a large raven perched atop a rough awning.“And just whose side are you on?” he spat, narrowing his eyes. “No kin of mine, you are, that much I can see.”The raven held his gaze for a moment, then began to preen its feathers, indifferent.He huffed, then took in his surroundings. The market stank of wet wool, onions, oil and smoke. Disgusting. From what he could tell, he had been placed in a merchant’s stall, replete with a wooden table, a cracked stool that didn’t look like it could hold the weight of a man, let alone a Prince, and a scatter of painted cards that were, in a word, meaningless.The Queen’s compulsion forced his jaws wide.“Hear your fate,” he heard himself call bitterly. “Learn what fortune waits.”Strangely, she’d left his voice intact. It remained rich and fluid and carried easily. People startled and turned to look. Then they saw the source and recoiled. None came near that first day, nor the second, nor the many days thereafter.Occasionally a curious soul would approach and stare openly at the cluster of warts upon the tip of his nose, or flinch in terror when his smile exposed the inner wet black of his lips… and several rows of sharp teeth.Even so, a handful of the desperate, and the earnest, approached his stand, seeking their fortunes. Delias gleefully misled them all, causing the loss of homes, families and dignity. His spree of mischief was only interrupted by a sudden and ominous pressure that had started just under his right eye. He got the distinct (and correct) impression, that the Queen was cross. In an abrupt about face, Delias chose to resist his darker urges, reasoning it was safest to avoid the pleasures that had gotten him sentenced in the first place.In the earliest days of his exile, he had attempted to ignore the mirror, but the judgment had been precise. Thrice a day, the Queen had commanded, and he quickly learned the cost of defiance. Boils came first, then more warts, and when his legs began to bow beneath him, he chose at last to comply. From that day forward, he kept the mirror near.“Do you see how the creature admires itself?” he’d once heard a woman stage-whisper while he dutifully observed his reflection. He’d hissed at her, to the delight of the raven, who cawed in amusement. She and her companion hurried away, both making signs to ward off evil as they fled.Boredom and impatience soon usurped his rage. He called to mortals daily, hoping one of the wretches would truly see him, but visitors were few and far between, all of them blind to the truth.“Crow!” he sometimes called in frustration, “do you see me?” The raven would tilt its head, as if considering, but offer no reply.Yet Fortune had not abandoned him entirely. In the span of a few days, the Prince had captured the regard of not one, but two mortals. The first was a richly dressed man, portly and vaguely villainous though the Prince could not have said why. Perhaps it was the touch of greed in the man’s ice blue gaze. The raven, at any rate, had taken an immediate dislike to him and promptly shat upon his broad shoulder.“Wealth will come to you soon good sir!” the Prince called as the man cursed, using a handkerchief to address his fouled coat. He paused in his efforts, smiled thinly at Delias, and departed.The second was a young woman with hair shorn close to the scalp, pale and narrow framed, reeking of herbs and recent fever. Charcoal stained her fingers, and she sat a little apart, sketching while others kept their distance.“Fever-addled, that one,” someone muttered once.“Aye. Gone wrong since the sickness. Best leave her be.”Delias rarely listened to mortal chatter but these stood out. On the second day of noticing her, he began to suspect she was drawing him. On the third, he was sure of it. Fury propelled him up and across the market. When he arrived at her seat, he viciously tore a page from her hands.To his surprise, and bemusement, the charcoal image was not the goblin the world beheld, but instead the Prince he truly was: bright-eyed, tall, and terrible in his dark beauty.“Girl,” he said slowly, “you may be of use.” And from that hour forward, he kept her near, certain the Queen’s curse was on the cusp of breaking.But hope was short-lived.Days passed with no change in his circumstance. What was initially possibility became perplexity. How could she see him and the curse not relent?He remained at the stall, though he gradually noticed he was no longer compelled to hawk his wares. This, more than anything, convinced him the girl was the key.“Girl,” he would say, “draw me better tomorrow. You are close, but not close enough.”She’d obey, somewhat besotted with him. She delivered drawings of such fine detail he himself felt he could step off the page, his raven feather cape rippling in phantom wind, his face a study of perfect angles.But something was lacking. Something had to be missing.“My name is Iris,” she said to him once and he’d stared at her imperiously until her face flushed with discomfort.“I… what do the others see you as?” she asked at last. She was not ignorant of the talk in the market.“Lies,” he growled. “They see lies.”And so the days passed. She sketched. He judged.“The crown is imperfect,” he snapped one afternoon. “Correct it. It has more jewels and less feathers.”Iris looked at his brow in confusion. “But... I see more crow feathers than gemstones,” she confessed. “They blend so beautifully with your dark hair.”She paused. “What do you see in the mirror?”It was an innocent question, but Prince Delias felt it like a blow to the liver.“Never mind all that.” He dismissed her question entirely, uncomfortable and unwilling to explain.Long lived beings are notoriously bad at understanding the passage of time, and Delias was no exception, but he was sure only a span of days had passed since he’d last seen the rich man at the market. The man returned one dark night, the market empty as it usually was in those hours, while Delias slept fitfully in his stall, having no home to return to during exile. He was awakened by rough hands seizing him and shoving him into a golden cage.“I hear the girl calls it ‘majesty’,” the rich man shared with a pair of hired hands.“I don’t know how it managed to curse her eyes, but that shall sweeten the draw.”Before long Delias found himself heaved out of a wagon, the cage hoisted into the air, ready for display above a jeering crowd.“Gather round! Gather close!” the rich man called across the fairgrounds.“Look if you dare! This goblin can curse your eyes to see illusion or false truths!”“Can he fix mine eyes to cherish the looks of my missus?” a man called, but his laughter was cut short when a sturdy woman, presumably the missus in question, clouted him on the head.The crowd howled with laughter and drew closer to Delias’ cage.For a few coins, men, women and children could come to gawk at him and his ugliness. The Goblin Prince, they called him, and Delias would grind his sharpened teeth in fury. He remembered other times, other cages, where he stood gesturing at foolish mortals he’d ensnared and found himself reflecting that the laughter, then, as now, sounded the same.The rich man had absconded with Delias’ mirror as a curiosity and each day without it, his looks deteriorated further. The crowd was both repulsed and fascinated by his clear decline.It was the girl who freed him.She broke the lock when no one watched, thrust the mirror into his hands as though she understood it mattered, and fled with him into the smoke and noise of the fairgrounds before the wealthy man could return.She quietly offered her shoulder when she noticed the Prince was limping; his time without the mirror had mercilessly hobbled his feet.“You must be fatigued,” she said softly, unaware of how badly the curse had progressed.“Yes,” he said simply, too prideful to acknowledge the truth.Their progress was slow, but uninterrupted, and soon enough the pair stood in front of her home.He did not like the look of the place.It was humble, low-ceilinged, and far too small.“You live here?” he asked at the threshold, his disdain poorly concealed.“I do,” she said simply as she prepared to have them enter.He tightened his grip on her upper arm suddenly. A foreign feeling had bloomed in his chest: caution.“Are others here?” he asked stiffly.“No,” she said, a crackle of recent grief roughened her words, “it’s just me.”As she led him through the door, she explained.“Plague took my family,” she said, pulling a stool forward for him to rest. “My mother. My father. My sister.”She took a shaky breath.“I survived.”Delias said nothing. In truth, he was not sure what to say. He watched her move about the room with quiet purpose.“What little we had is mine now. It is enough,” she announced.He glanced about again. It most certainly was not enough. The place was cramped and overstuffed with papers and oddities. Drawings crowded the walls, all of them alive with a degree of perception that unsettled him. On a rough table he spied a small group of carvings, all small and intricate, some unfinished.One, set apart, drew his eye.It was him.Or near enough.The lines were not yet complete, but the shape was unmistakable: the cant of the shoulders, the lift of the chin, the suggestion of something both dangerous and beautiful held in balance.He stared at it longer than he meant to.“No one comes here,” she was saying, his silence must have made her uncomfortable. “They are afraid of what I might still carry.”“Finally, you tell me something of value,” he groused.“What?” The girl had grown still, staring at him.“What do you mean what? This isolation is an advantage. If those people come looking…” He didn’t finish the sentence, figuring he didn’t have to.“I see,” she said slowly, too slowly and Delias felt a flash of dread.
There was something in her eyes, a dawning realization that felt dangerous.The mirror grew hot in his grip.“You’re not a good person,” she whispered, almost too herself.“Get out,” she said, soft at first.Panicked, he stood awkwardly. “Wait,” he began, a note of pleading in his voice.“Get out now!” she repeated, this time as a shout.“Iris-”The mirror shattered.It splintered with such force there was a flash of light, heat and glittering shards of glass cut into his face and hands.When he opened his eyes, reaching for Iris, he was on his knees in the throne room, prostrate before his Queen.“Iris,” he said again, confused and, more distressingly, unsure.“Ah, you’ve returned,” the High Queen said. The large raven was perched beside her, eating berries out of her palm.Delias looked at the creature resentfully. “I knew you were a damned spy.”“Spy?” the Queen echoed. The bird shot him a frigid glance before snapping its beak down on a berry.
“Sable here is your savior. Who do you think helped that ordinary girl break the lock and recover your mirror?”“She’s not-” Delias began, but then grew silent.“You contradict your Queen?”“No, your Majesty,” he said quickly, head bowed.“Well, get up then,” she said testily. “You may rise.”He stood, a dusting of glass falling from his coat like glittering rain. A shard of the old mirror, fine as an eyelash, was embedded in his right eye. As his spine straightened with the fluid grace he was accustomed to, he understood the curse was well and truly broken. He was restored.But to what, he was no longer sure.
AN AFTERWORDThere’s a story in the villages about a local woman of modest means who built a small fortune carving goblins in wood and stone, likenesses so peculiar and specific, many swore they seemed almost alive.The small grotesques were placed above doorways and beside hearths, for it was believed they frightened away otherworldly mischief and the most odious forms of luck… or, at the very least, encouraged them to find purchase elsewhere.
Now... what did you see?
publish pending
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