Winner of the Tiptree Award and a Mythopoeic Award finalist, Cloud & Ashes is a slow whirlwind of language, a button box of words, a mythic fable that invites revisitation. Praise for Cloud & Ashes: "A rich poetic prose laden with fetching archaisms that's unlike anything else being written today. Brilliant and truly innovative fiction, not to be missed."-The Washington Times Greer Gilman is the author of Moonwise. A graduate of Wellesley and the University of Cambridge, she lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. She likes to quip that she does everything James Joyce ever did, only backward and in high heels.

Greer Gilman is the author of the novel Moonwise, which won the Crawford Award and was shortlisted for the Tiptree and Mythopoeic Awards, as well as the World Fantasy Award-winning "A Crowd of Bone." A sometime forensic librarian, she lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

Winner of the Tiptree Award and a Mythopoeic Award finalist, Cloud & Ashes is a slow whirlwind of language, a button box of words, a mythic fable that invites revisitation.

Praise for Cloud & Ashes:

"A rich poetic prose laden with fetching archaisms that's unlike anything else being written today. Brilliant and truly innovative fiction, not to be missed."-The Washington Times

Greer Gilman is the author of Moonwise. A graduate of Wellesley and the University of Cambridge, she lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts. She likes to quip that she does everything James Joyce ever did, only backward and in high heels.

"Jack Daw's Pack"
(Nebula finalist, 2001)
He is met at a crossroads on a windy night, the moon in tatters and the mist unclothing stars, the way from Ask to Owlerdale: a man in black, whiteheaded, with a three-string fiddle in his pack.

"A Crowd of Bone"
(World Fantasy Award winner, 2004)
Margaret, do you see the leaves? They flutter, falling. See, they light about you, red and yellow. I am spelling this in leaves.

"Unleaving" (A new novel-length story.)
When a star falls, we do say: the Nine are weaving. Look! The Road's their skein, that endlong from the old moon's spindle is unreeled. Their swift's the sky. O look! says Margaret. The children of the house gaze up or glance. The namesakes. Look thou, Will. Look, Whin. They stitch your daddy's coat.