The year is 1908 and the continental nation of Kergazin has just had its government flipped on its head – by a group of ragtag teenagers, no less.  The year is 1908 and the letters have not stopped coming.  The year is 1908 – and Tillis Fernsby, newly fledged chemist and rumored political revolutionary is tired. So very, very tired. She’s not yet nineteen, for goodness sake! These letters have but one request – tell the story. The story of a perfect storm, of schemes and underhanded maneuvers and layer upon layer of trauma and injury, grief and rage. The catch? It had to be an account full of quips and clever foreshadowing and commentary. Nothing terrible or horrific or real in its page. Sanitized for the masses. No, she says, she wants her journals published. A memoir, of a sort. A testament to her and what she’s lived through.  Tillis Fernsby does not want to be a footnote in a history book, only a piece of someone else’s story. She wants to be a triumph. In these pages, that is what she is – raw, honest, brutal. Sometimes unflinchingly so. But, it is what the world deserves. What her family deserves. What she deserves.  And, by the gods, does she have a story to tell.