Christine Lakin ushers listeners into a magical and mysterious world with her lovely narration of this audiobook. Myra has inherited a fascinating dollhouse from her step-grandmother. Shy and reclusive, Myra is catapulted into the limelight when her blog about the mansion goes viral. Across the country, Alex, who toils away in his family's furniture business, lives in a curious house that his father despises. The two protagonists learn of each other when Alex meets a fan of Myra's blog. Lakin's calm and endearing tone invites listeners into the mysteries of the toy mansion, giving it all the wonder it deserves. Every character speaks in a nuanced voice, making the story seamless. This is a delight to listen to. S.K.G. © AudioFile 2023, Portland, Maine
The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone
Narrated by Christine Lakin
Audrey BurgesUnabridged — 9 hours, 57 minutes
The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone
Narrated by Christine Lakin
Audrey BurgesUnabridged — 9 hours, 57 minutes
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Overview
From her attic in the Arizona mountains, thirty-four-year-old Myra Malone blogs about a dollhouse mansion that captivates thousands of readers worldwide. Myra's stories have created legions of fans who breathlessly await every blog post, trade photographs of Mansion-modeled rooms, and swap theories about the enigmatic and reclusive author. Myra herself is tethered to the Mansion by mysteries she can't understand-rooms that appear and disappear overnight, music that plays in its corridors.
Across the country, Alex Rakes, the scion of a custom furniture business, encounters two Mansion fans trying to recreate a room. The pair show him the Minuscule Mansion, and Alex is shocked to recognize a reflection of his own life mirrored back to him in minute scale. The room is his own bedroom, and the Mansion is his family's home, handed down from the grandmother who disappeared mysteriously when Alex was a child. Searching for answers, Alex begins corresponding with Myra. Together, the two unwind the lonely paths of their twin worlds-big and small-and trace the stories that entwine them, setting the stage for a meeting rooted in loss, but defined by love.
Editorial Reviews
11/14/2022
In Burges’s lackluster debut, a reclusive Arizona copywriter blogs about a magical dollhouse from her childhood. When Myra Malone was five, she was in a car accident with her grandfather’s partner, Trixie, who died in the crash. Myra inherited Trixie’s dollhouse and went on to lead a hermit-like existence, due in part to the scars on her face from the accident. Trixie had hinted about the dollhouse’s magic to young Myra, and, now in her 30s, Myra maintains a blog that describes the house’s rooms and furniture, which Alex Rakes recognizes as a miniature replica of his childhood home. He and Myra begin corresponding as more is revealed about the not-so-nice Rakes family (Alex’s father is bigoted, his grandmother conniving), their connection to the strange dollhouse (somehow, rooms and furniture appear and then vanish), and other ways that Myra and Alex are linked. Alex’s unpleasant, ailing father, meanwhile, hints that these ties might put Alex in danger. While parts of the plot work, the work is sunk by a plodding pace and a dearth of explanation about what drove the Rakes family’s misdeeds. There’s a fun premise, but overall, this is one to pass. (Jan.)
"Audrey Burges has written a sure-fire hit—lively, stylish, and full of heart. The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone is decorated with gorgeous wordsmithery and magical trimmings, and I loved every minute spent inside."—Sarah Addison Allen, New York Times bestselling author of Other Birds
"The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone is that rare novel: a generous, big-hearted reprieve from our ever-more-troubling reality; a modern fairy tale about how we carry the burdens that choose us, and the magic of finding shelter—and love—when both seem meant for other people. Audrey Burges is a storyteller of warmth, wit, and stunning originality."—Katie Gutierrez, bestselling author of More Than You'll Ever Know
“The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone is a refreshing and unique entry into the genre of mystical realism. Quirky and scarred yet very authentic characters populate this richly told tale of friendship, family, and timeless love. Perfect for fans of Sarah Addison Allen and for all book lovers searching for a fantastic read.”—Karen White, New York Times bestselling author
“There’s nothing small about the worlds Burges makes. Inside her minuscule mansion are entire worlds, a fated romance, and the answers to more than one mystery. Readers of The Lost Apothecary will devour The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone. Love, loss, and loneliness: this book explores it all, with Burges’ characteristic humor and care. This book is a winner.”—Rachel Mans McKenny, award-winning author of The Butterfly Effect
"The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone is a poignant, beautiful debut filled with magic, fate and redemption. This story captured my imagination and I just had to keep reading to see how it would end. I enjoyed every page."—Rachel Linden, author of The Magic of Lemon Drop Pie
“This well-written novel with heart-warming characters is perfect for fans of magical realism by the likes of Sarah Addison Allen and Isabel Allende.”—Library Journal
“Fans of romances with a magical bent will adore this story of a blogger with a mysterious dollhouse that has rooms that appear and disappear overnight—and its connection with a handsome stranger.”—Real Simple
“This creative, engaging debut weaves together an unusual family legacy, a romance between two lonely souls, and a touch of magic in the form of a tiny mansion that seems to know what's best for everyone.”—Booklist
"Burges creates a magical, unique world, and her characters are incredibly lovable...The story alternates between the present and past, slowly weaving together storylines that are extremely satisfying when they finally come together. Perfect for readers who long to escape into a world of magic and romance."—Kirkus Reviews
“This captivating novel of miniature furniture and big themes braids strong friendships, romance, family ties and the importance of stepping outside of one's comfort zone.”—Shelf Awareness
“Audrey Burges's The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone charmingly combines threads of magic, whimsy, romance, grief and loss in a debut novel of great feeling...This captivating novel of miniature furniture and big themes braids strong friendships, romance, family ties, and the importance of stepping outside of one's comfort zone.”—Shelf Awareness
“The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone is a mystical and enchanting tale of love, loss, heartbreak, and finding a connection.”—Smexy Books
10/01/2022
DEBUT Myra Malone is a reclusive writer of a blog that focuses on the minuscule mansion bequeathed to her long ago by her beloved step-grandmother, who died in car accident when Myra was five. The mansion, a dollhouse of sorts, has a life force of its own. Furniture appears out of nowhere; music plays in the rooms. When her childhood home is imperiled, Myra and her friend Gwen reach out to the blog's fans, offering a variety of things—the chance to decorate a room in the mansion, lunch with Myra— and use the funds to save her home. Furniture designer Alex Rakes lives in a home that is eerily similar to the mansion. He wants to meet Myra. Myra begins to slowly venture out of her comfort zone because she is intrigued by the man who is living in the life-size mansion that matches her minuscule one. Alex shares his family drama history with Myra and they begin to connect—but they are connected in ways they do not even realize. VERDICT This well-written novel with heart-warming characters is perfect for fans of magical realism by the likes of Sarah Addison Allen and Isabel Allende.—Melissa Palmer
Christine Lakin ushers listeners into a magical and mysterious world with her lovely narration of this audiobook. Myra has inherited a fascinating dollhouse from her step-grandmother. Shy and reclusive, Myra is catapulted into the limelight when her blog about the mansion goes viral. Across the country, Alex, who toils away in his family's furniture business, lives in a curious house that his father despises. The two protagonists learn of each other when Alex meets a fan of Myra's blog. Lakin's calm and endearing tone invites listeners into the mysteries of the toy mansion, giving it all the wonder it deserves. Every character speaks in a nuanced voice, making the story seamless. This is a delight to listen to. S.K.G. © AudioFile 2023, Portland, Maine
2022-11-29
A reclusive woman avoids the outside world by focusing on a magical miniature house—until the real world starts knocking at her door.
When Myra Malone was 5 years old, a serious car accident killed her beloved stepgrandmother, Trixie, and injured Myra herself. The trauma—both from spending months in the hospital recovering and from losing Trixie—caused Myra to retreat into her home, attending school on her computer and only talking to her parents and her best friend, Gwen. But Trixie didn’t leave Myra completely alone. She left behind a beautifully ornate dollhouse called the Mansion—although Myra would argue that it isn’t a dollhouse, since it’s not a home for dolls. Now, in her 30s, Myra spends her days up in the attic where she decorates the tiny rooms, fills them with handmade furniture, and shares the results on her popular website. Myra’s life is small and contained, but that’s exactly how she likes it—until she discovers that her mother has been running up debt that may cause them to lose their home. In a desperate scheme to make enough money to save the house, Gwen convinces Myra to run an essay contest where, for a fee, her fans can win the chance to meet her. Even though Myra has no interest in anyone coming into her home, she agrees. What she doesn’t expect, though, is an email from a man named Alex Rakes who claims to live in a real-life, full-size version of her miniature, magical house. He’s always felt like there was something mystical about his family mansion, where mysterious music often plays on its own. As he and Myra correspond, the two of them realize that they—and their respective full-size and miniature homes—may share some deep and surprising connections. Burges creates a magical, unique world, and her characters are incredibly lovable. Myra is so lonely and stuck inside her house that it’s impossible not to root for her to open up, and Alex is similarly unmoored. The story alternates between the present and past, slowly weaving together storylines that are extremely satisfying when they finally come together.
Perfect for readers who long to escape into a world of magic and romance.
Product Details
| BN ID: | 2940175709279 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Random House |
| Publication date: | 01/24/2023 |
| Edition description: | Unabridged |
| Sales rank: | 984,883 |
Read an Excerpt
¥1¥
An Unpredictable Place to Start
(From The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone, 2015)
Once upon a time, there was a house.
Now, before you read any further, stop a moment. Take a deep breath, if you're into that sort of thing, and think. I want you to visit the place that popped into your head when you read those words, because they opened almost every story I ever heard as a child, and if you're going to spend some time here with the Minuscule Mansion, those words are as good a place as any to get started. Once upon a time, there was a house.
What kind of a house do you see when you close your eyes? How many rooms are in it, and what's inside them? If you could live there, where would you sleep, what color would your guest towels be, and how would you take your tea? What music would echo against the walls? Is it coming from a fancy stereo, or an old Victrola?
If you're a fairy-tale kind of person, maybe you've conjured up a stone cottage with a narrow, arched front door-you'd have to duck down so you wouldn't hit your head on the wooden frame, and if you look carefully, maybe you'll see a gentle depression at the top of the curved timber where countless visitors have done just that. Maybe that's why there's a friendly, tufted ottoman right by the entry, so you can plop right down and rub your noggin for a bit while you look around.
Or maybe fairy tales aren't your thing. That's fine. My friend Gwen isn't a sparkles-and-gingerbread kind of person, either, and the house in her head is a glass beachfront affair, all sleek surfaces and light, like Superman's Fortress of Solitude with considerably more Prada and pool boys. Also, she has a pet dolphin for some reason? Just go with it. Everyone gets to imagine their own walls, and the wonders they hold, without having to think about how well dolphin poop dry-cleans out of Italian leather. (No, I don't know why she lets the dolphin on the couch, either, but I'm not here to judge.)
Anyway. Whatever your house is-wherever you'd dream of spending your own once-upon-a-time-it's yours because you make it that way. You get to pick out the furniture and the artwork, the cans stacked in the cabinets, the knobs you use to open them, because it's your imagination, and that's your only limit.
It's mine, too, except I get to do something else: I get to make mine real.
I suppose some people have that ability, too-endless money and time to make their dreams take shape-but I don't have that. What I do have is a minuscule house that is also very, very large. A mansion, in fact. The Mansion. (It gets irate when I don't capitalize.) And the Mansion is a canvas for a very particular kind of art. It's a gallery of tiny dreams-some my own, some inherited, some generously shared with me by friends and family and people like you. And I get to use those dreams to populate an entire world. I can make a little bathroom with a seafoam claw-foot tub, or a bedroom with itty-bitty roses sprigged on every surface. If I can't find the right china cabinet for the dining room, I can make what I want to see, because the ones who taught me-my grampa Lou and his wife, Trixie-handed down every bit of their skill in woodworking, painting, sculpting, and sewing, and what they didn't teach, I've taught myself. I know what gemstones look like water and what pen can draw the most convincing chain stitch on a washcloth that's too small to sew. I can be eclectic or traditional, modern or romantic, and the Mansion absorbs those dreams into its walls.
I wasn't sure whether, or how, to share them with anyone else. But I'm willing to give it a try.
¥2¥
Parkhurst, Arizona, 2015
This teapot wants to be part of the room, but it can never really belong.
Myra stopped typing and watched the cursor blinking back at her, waiting for her next insight. Every word was curated and every letter was hot pink. When she closed her eyes, she could see faces staring back at thousands of screens, longing to set foot into the tiny room. She stepped away from her desk and crouched in front of the Minuscule Mansion on its wide platform in the cabin's attic, peering into the diminutive library at the rear of the house. She reached tentative fingers toward the teapot with its painted porcelain daisies and pushed a silver tray underneath it, trying to make it seem less incongruous with the library's fireplace. She set two rocking chairs on either side of the painted flames.
It was wrong. It was all wrong. Worse, it was far beneath her standards.
"This one doesn't work." She rocked back on her knees and stared at the room. "I'll give it a minute, but I don't think I'm going to change my mind."
Gwen looked up from her own laptop without missing a keystroke, her face studiously neutral. Myra could tell she was trying not to roll her eyes. "You've been working on the library for how many weeks now? How long do you think you're going to be able to enthrall them with Nancy Drew and the Case of Where the Hell Should I Put this Teapot?"
"You said I need to use it. This was your idea, not mine." Myra's work on the library was, like all things in the Mansion, entirely for herself. But her stories, her photographs, and her intricate curation of the house absorbed the attention of her followers-first hundreds, then thousands, then (how?) hundreds of thousands-who anxiously awaited each new posting from The Minuscule Mansion of Myra Malone. The site had been Gwen's idea, and when the miniatures started showing up on Myra's doorstep a few weeks after it went live, Myra's shock had given way to discomfort. The Mansion belonged to her. She had not invited visitors. But Gwen checked the packages each weekend, gleefully updating the Mansion's social media accounts with effusive thank-yous for whatever tiny porcelain clown or small set of matching brass andirons had arrived unbidden in that week's mail.
"I said you needed to try to use something someone sends you," Gwen said. "As an experiment. You don't need to use everything-you shouldn't, actually, because the more exclusive you are, the more they'll try to get in. It'll increase traffic."
"I'm going to put things back the way they were. This isn't going to work."
Gwen plopped her laptop down on the attic's wide floorboards. "Far be it from me to second-guess the great Myra Malone, but let me check something." She stood, strode to Myra's side, and snatched the teapot from the Mansion, scrutinizing its delicate porcelain in her palm.
"Really?" Myra looked up with relief. It was rare for Gwen to grasp the seriousness of these decisions.
"Yep. It's just a goddamn teapot, not an ancient Mayan talisman you've got to place just right or be crushed by a giant stone boulder. It's a shame. You've been pushing it around for twenty minutes, so it kinda got my hopes up that it might be something important."
"No one's making you stay here, you know. You could head on back to your office, Gwen, and leave me to work."
"I love you, too, Myra." Gwen stuck out her tongue and was instantly seven years old again and teasing her childhood friend, despite the fact they were both thirty-four. "And it's Saturday. Saturday is always our site-updating day. Don't forget The Minuscule Mansion is an investment for me, too-I'm still counting on it being something big. Pun absolutely intended." She scooped up a tiny rocking horse from its corner of the library, releasing it to sway back and forth on the palm of her hand in time to the pensive motion of her head. The chipped paint of its red saddle caught the light as Gwen weighed and rejected ideas without ever speaking aloud. Watching Gwen think was like watching a spectator of a tennis game that no one else could see. "You could auction space, you know. Sell spots in the Mansion. Whole rooms that people could decorate." She gasped. "An essay contest!"
"No." Myra didn't feel the need to elaborate. She took the rocking horse from Gwen's hand and put it back in its corner of the library. "Please be careful," she said. "I made that horse with Trixie and Grampa."
Gwen scowled, more at the rejection of her brilliant idea than the rocking horse reprimand. She was a planner. No small idea was safe from her efforts to expand it; vast multimedia empires structured themselves in her head. Myra wished, sometimes, that she'd never even shown Gwen the Mansion. But that would have meant going back decades, back when they were both seven and Gwen shoved her way into Myra's attic after she moved into the neighborhood and announced they were going to be best friends forever.
At the time, Myra hadn't left her house in close to eighteen months. When the hospital finally discharged her, she was five and a half years old. She had spent half a year clinging to life, and when she clawed her way back into the waking world, she discovered its every detail dwarfed and terrified her. It was too big. Only the cabin felt safe. It was safe because her grandfather, Grampa Lou, had slotted its beams and walls together himself long before she was born, imbuing the structure with the sense of calm he always inspired. It was safe because its attic sheltered the Mansion, which had belonged to Trixie-Grampa's wife-before the accident that killed her and nearly killed Myra. It was safe because the Mansion sheltered Myra's soul in ways she couldn't explain, giving her new worlds to explore-on a more manageable scale-and then whisking those worlds away, a secret between Myra and the house.
Myra defined the boundaries of her life by the walls around it. She remained as closed off as the Mansion itself, hinged shut within her own body. Her only friendship existed because Gwen created it with sheer force of will-and a lack of other available options-as she barreled up the attic stairs from grade school, then college, and then graduate school to find Myra exactly where she'd left her: indoors, upstairs, decorating rooms no one else saw. Until finally, six months ago, Gwen stamped her foot and insisted the Mansion was too beautiful not to share with the outside world, tossing Myra's latest printout of a story into the air with frustration and yelling that it was time to let the hundreds of pages of prose live somewhere people could see them. If you won't share yourself, then at least share your work. Share the stories about your work. Let the world come to you.
It was too late now to rescind the invitation-Gwen's, certainly, to say nothing of the legions of virtual visitors she'd attracted. Now Myra had this teapot-hundreds of teapots, in fact, in different sizes and designs. Boxes and bags overflowing with teapots, coffeepots, chocolate pots, even a couple of itsy-bitsy brass samovars. All vying for a spot in the Mansion. Myra absently grasped the stone acorn charm around her neck, moving it back and forth on its chain as she gazed at the library again. Volumes of Plath and Baudelaire sat on its stained cherry shelves, waiting for high tea to be laid before the marble fireplace with its cheerful painted flames.
This teapot wants to be part of the room, but it can never really belong.
Myra knew exactly how the teapot felt.
She tucked it back in its packaging and brushed her hands down the front of her slacks, removing the last traces of the outside world from her skin. Below her, in parts of the cabin she avoided, precarious stacks of unopened boxes and crates leaned against every wall, narrowing hallways and shrinking rooms. And below that, hidden underneath the boxes, were envelopes of increasingly garish shades, their yellows and oranges and reds meant to convey the same urgent warnings as a venomous animal. Danger. Danger. Ignore me at your peril.
Time is running out.
¥3¥
Parkhurst, Arizona, 1987
"Do I have any little girls looking for presents? Anyone? I guess I've gotta drive this boat on back to the present store, then." Grampa Lou held his hands atop his forehead like a visor, turning his head from side to side, a periscope blind to the small pair of yellow pigtails bouncing just underneath its line of sight.
Myra knew that he could see her. She knew that he was teasing. But her grandfather had a particular way of teasing that could veer from lighthearted to oblivious, taking too much time to recognize that his six-year-old granddaughter was not enjoying the joke.
When she realized her jumping wasn't enough to get his attention, Myra shouted, "Grampa, you have me! You have me. I'm looking for presents!"
"You? Oh, no. You're not a little girl. You're old enough to drive now, surely?"
"Grampa! No. I'm only six."
"I'm pretty sure that's old enough, my little acorn." He scooped Myra up in his arms and brushed his rough fingers against her necklace, which she'd never taken off since Trixie clasped it on her neck for her fifth birthday. "Little acorn" was Trixie's nickname for her, one that stuck for the whole family after Lou married Trixie when Myra was two. "Trixie'd be so happy to see how careful you are with that necklace, Myra."
Myra gathered the acorn in her hand, its warmth and heaviness always a surprise. "It reminds me of her. Should that make me sad?"
"Remembering the people we love is always a little sad when they're gone. But a little happy, too. Now, let's start some driving lessons." Lou started walking Myra toward the car, opening the driver's-side door of his enormous Lincoln sedan, so out of place in this mountain suburb perched on the edge of the Mogollon Rim with its dirt roads, its typical traffic only trucks and SUVs. He plopped her behind the wheel and put her hands on the wide circle of leather-wrapped metal, the surface cold as ice but covered in skin. Myra heard a shout behind them.
"Dad? What do you think you're doing?" Myra's mother, curlers still in her hair, a lit cigarette dangling from her perfectly painted mouth, ran up the gravel drive toward them. The screen door on the cabin's entry hissed and slammed shut behind her. "Get her out of there."
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