A Jealous Tongue, Nita Tyndall‘s adult sapphic debut, is a psychological thriller about obsession, manipulation, and the unraveling of reality. When a young translator accepts a prestigious residency in Austria, she becomes entangled in a dangerous relationship with two charismatic women. As her memory begins to fail and strange occurrences haunt the manor, she struggles to determine whether her mind is betraying her or someone wants her gone.
Tyndall is an award-winning author of queer fiction, including Who I Was with Her, Nothing Sung and Nothing Spoken, and Have You Seen This Girl? They are also a translator and former Fulbright Teaching Fellow in Austria. Union Square & Co. will publish A Jealous Tongue on February 9, 2027.
Debutiful is honored to reveal the cover of A Jealous Tongue, designed by Alex Merto. To celebrate the reveal, we’re sharing an exclusive excerpt from the novel’s first chapter, offering readers an early glimpse into Tyndall’s unsettling world of secrets, obsession, and psychological suspense.
ONE
Dear Ms. Dupree,
Herzlichen Glückwunsch! We are pleased to inform you that out of over 500 applicants, you have been accepted as this year’s winner of the Eleonore J. Hopewell Translation Residency, working with Ms. Hopewell and her author, Therese Kaufmann. You will receive a follow-up email shortly with relevant information concerning your stay in Graz, Austria. As the residency duration is a little under three months, please be advised that you will not need a visa, but once your 90 days are up, you must leave the country. In addition to your stay, you will be granted a stipend of EUR 2500 to be paid in cash upon your arrival.
Please note that the residency is not financially responsible for your travel to and from Austria. Any travel you wish to do within the country must be paid for from either your stipend or your own savings. Food will be covered as long as you are lodging with Frau Kaufmann.
Mit freundlichen Grüßen,
Alma Steinberg
Hopewell Resident ’17
There was no one waiting for me at the airport when I landed in Vienna. I had half expected someone with a sign, a poster, like you saw in movies. But when I finally purchased a SIM card and activated my phone, all that was in my inbox was another email from Alma, saying she was so sorry but a family emergency had held her up, and would I be fine navigating to Graz on my own?
You can take the train if you want and get a hotel for a few days until I can come meet you. There’s plenty of good places to stay in Graz.
“Shit,” I hissed. “Shit.”
No. I couldn’t panic about this. Not now, not this early. Graz was three hours away by train. I could take the train and get a hotel for a few days, since I didn’t know Frau Kaufmann’s exact address. Alma had not left me a phone number, but I could email her.
This, at least, wasn’t my fault.
I had not been able to sleep on the plane. I had considered taking a sleeping pill, but my mother’s warnings about not knowing what I would dream, what I might hallucinate, had come back to me, so I had just stayed awake, staring out the window at the endless clouds.
I had no such trouble on the train to Graz. I had managed to buy my ticket, stowed my large suitcases with all the rest, and shoved my backpack under my seat. I tucked my small shoulder bag and my water bottle into the seatback pocket in front of me.
The back of the train was full, but I had managed to snag a seat next to a girl who looked about my age. She had given me an encouraging smile as I sat down, and I leaned back, my eyes growing heavy as the jet lag finally caught up with me, and I slept.
When I woke, the train was lurching along, and my companion was nowhere to be seen. Her things were gone, and because I’d had the aisle seat, no one else had sat next to me. I rubbed my eyes. I’d dreamt our train had entered a tunnel with no exit, plunging us all into some kind of eternal darkness, but as I looked around now, the sun was streaming in and reflecting off the snow on the mountains, hurting my eyes.
Thankfully, I could feel we were slowing to a stop. We weren’t going to keep barreling forward at 150 kilometers an hour with no end in sight like I’d dreamt.
I reached forward for my water bottle just as we left Kapfenberg, then stopped as my hand felt only the netting of the seat pocket in front of me.
I’d put the bottle there with my shoulder bag, hadn’t I? Had I? I leaned down, and with relief I realized my water bottle had simply rolled under the seat in front of me—
But how had it fallen out of the pocket? And where was my shoulder bag? Panic threatened to overtake me as I unzipped all the pockets on my backpack. Maybe I’d tucked the bag in there by mistake. My laptop was still in its pouch; my insomnia and
ADHD meds still in their hidden pocket, but my small bag was nowhere to be seen.
Which meant my passport was gone. That, and the cash I’d withdrawn a few days before the trip.
I checked my backpack a few more times, my movements more and more frantic each time. The bottles of my medication rattled around. I hadn’t taken any of my meds in twenty-four hours, at least, and my head hurt. Hastily, I popped one of my ADHD meds and dry swallowed it, grimacing at the taste.
Thirty pills. Twenty-nine, now. Twenty-nine pills exactly for a ninety-day residency. I couldn’t bring more than thirty days’ worth in with me since it was a controlled substance and couldn’t get more without an Austrian doctor’s prescription.
I pinched the inside of my wrist to calm down before recapping the bottle, trying to take a few deep breaths. I could not freak out over this. My first time outside the US, and I was already delayed and my stuff was gone.
The tears threatened to well up anyway. There was a man reading in the seat across the aisle from mine. He was good-looking, maybe early forties, with ruddy pink skin. The title of his book was in English, so I took a chance.
“Excuse me,” I began. “Um, sorry—sorry to bother you, but did you—did you see if anyone took my bag? It was a small red shoulder bag.” I willed my voice not to tremble, though it was no use.
“Oh, that was yours? I assumed it was your seatmate’s,” he said. His accent was British, maybe London, though I couldn’t fully place it. His face softened at the panic evident on mine. “I guess it wasn’t. Did you have anything important in there?”
“My passport,” I said. “And my cash. Which—that’ll be fine, I think, but my passport—”
“It’s all right,” he said. “You’re American, yes? Call the embassy in Vienna and explain what happened. They’ll be able to help you.” He gave me a tight smile. “Happened to me summer before last on holiday in Italy. Our embassy expedited me one, and I was able to fly home. If it’s just the cash and the passport she took, I daresay you’re lucky.”
“Thank you,” I said, and sniffed. “I’ll—I’ll do that.” The man reached into his pocket and handed me a tissue. It was scratchier than the ones I bought at home, but I wiped my eyes with it gratefully.
“If you’d like, you can sit with me for the rest of your journey,” he said. “I can assure you from one English-speaker to another, I won’t steal your things.”
“That’s kind of you,” I said, though the panic in my chest did not lessen. My mother’s refrain all throughout my girlhood had been to not trust men, no matter their intentions. Even as kind as he seemed, I couldn’t shake that feeling.
Then again, the girl next to me had stolen my passport, so. My mother’s warnings, for once, hadn’t accounted for that.
I tossed my tissue in a bin at the end of the aisle and grabbed my backpack and water bottle. The man stood to let me into the window seat. I kept my backpack clutched in my lap.
“Where are you headed?” he asked. “Graz,” I said. “I’m—doing a residency there.”
“Are you an artist?” “Translator,” I said. “I’m studying with this author.” I showed him one of the books I’d brought—Therese Kaufmann’s debut, Das Vöglein.
“Ah,” he said. “How nice. I’m afraid I don’t know much about translation.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “What . . . what’s brought you to Graz?”
“Opera,” he said. “I have an engagement there. My French, at least, is better than my German. You’re welcome to come to a performance, if you like. I’m sure I can reserve you a ticket.”
“I don’t know much about opera,” I confessed. “That’s all right, you don’t need to. There are subtitles— I’m assuming you can at least read German, if you’re a translator. Plus, if you read Faust in college, you’ll know the story.”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t realize there was an opera of Faust.” It had been a long time since I’d read it. “Who are you?”
“Mephistopheles,” he said, and winked. “One of the better baritone roles out there, though we’re doing the Gounod version, not Spohr. Though I take it that means nothing to you.”
“It doesn’t,” I said. “But you’re . . . you’re the devil,” I said, and he smiled.
“Only in the show. What did you say your name was?” “Emily,” I said, though it wasn’t. I didn’t want him to know my real name. My mother’s paranoia again.
“Nice to meet you, Emily. I’m Paul. I do hope I’ll see you in the audience. We open next week, if you’ll be able to get away so soon?”
“I’ll try,” I said, just as a voice crackled over the loudspeaker. “Graz. Endstation. Bitte alle aussteigen. Dieser Zug endet hier. Please exit the train. This train terminates here.”
“I do believe this is our stop, Emily,” Paul said, standing to let me pass. I awkwardly clutched my backpack to my chest and brushed past him before settling it on my back. I began to hoist my suitcase from the luggage rack, and Paul appeared at my elbow.
“Let me,” he said, and reached over me to grab my suitcase, which he then insisted on carrying down onto the platform. For one wild moment, I worried he would run off with it and I would be stranded with no passport and no clothes, but then he let the handle go, and I—almost reluctantly—took it.
“I . . . someone’s waiting for me,” I said, though it wasn’t true. Alma had said I could find a hotel in Graz myself.
“No worries, I’ve got a bus to catch,” he said. “But here— let me give you my number so you can let me know which performance you want to go to, and I’ll get the box office to hold a ticket.”
He was already holding out his hand for my phone before he’d even finished his sentence. I couldn’t refuse.
“You use WhatsApp, right? You’re American, so maybe not.”
“I do,” I said. I used it to text the only friend I still had from before I had dropped out of my MFA program—Caterina, or Cate, a budding translator from Milan who worked in Italian, French, and Russian. I watched as Paul put in his number and then sent a text to himself so he’d have mine, which instantly killed any plans I had to never contact him.
“I do hope to see you in the audience,” he said, handing my phone back to me. If I’d been a girl in a 1920s romance, perhaps this sort of forwardness would have been charming to me—this brusque insistence from an older man.
But I wasn’t. “I’ll see if I can make it,” I said, because what else was I supposed to say? For a wild moment, I thought he’d take my hand and kiss it, but he just shook it instead.
“Auf Wiedersehen, Emily. I hope the rest of your trip is better than today and that you get your passport back.” He gave me a wink and walked off, and after a moment, it was like he’d never even been there at all.
I walked outside the station, overwhelmed by all the noise, the people, the wide circular space ahead of me. I did not have Therese’s phone number and did not want to email Alma—I didn’t want to disturb her if she was away on a family emergency, didn’t want to seem needy or incompetent so early. I could find a hotel easily enough, give myself some time to calm down, and then tomorrow hopefully Alma would email me with what to do next.
Slowly, the edges of the panic receded, leaving me with just a dull headache and still-shaking hands. With some resolve, I quickly googled hostels in the area and headed over to where the buses seemed to be stationed.
As I walked toward one of the buses, a woman caught my eye. She looked to be in about her early forties, tall and pale and lean, with dyed burgundy hair, gray roots peeking through. She was smoking, and I watched as she took in my luggage, my coat, the confused look on my face.
She began to approach me, and I tightened the grip on my suitcase, my mother’s old warnings of people trying to scam me echoing in my head along with the fact that someone had already stolen my passport today.
“Ms. Dupree?” she asked, and I was so startled at hearing my own name that I just stared at her before finally nodding. She broke into a smile, accentuating the crow’s feet around her eyes, and that, of all things, reassured me. Surely someone who smiled so much meant me no harm.
“I’m Martina, Frau Kaufmann’s driver,” she said, her English musically accented. “Alma emailed and said she was held up, but Therese and I figured that didn’t mean you had to be. I’m so sorry for the confusion.”
The relief that flooded through me was so strong, it nearly bowled me over. I was not going to have to find a hostel or walk with my suitcase.
“I—thank you,” I said breathlessly, reaching out to shake her hand. Any suspicion I had had of her died away instantly. My mother would have been appalled. I’d had to talk her out of the pepper spray she’d tried to foist on me right before I went through security.
I followed Martina back to her car, an older Volkswagen Golf. She popped the trunk open and looked at me.
“Do you need help with your bags?” “I—yes,” I said, and she lifted my large rolling suitcase with ease, setting it in her trunk. Martina motioned for my backpack, but I shook my head. “I’ll keep this, if that’s all right.
I—I had some trouble with it on the train. Is there an embassy in Graz?”
“What sort of trouble?” she asked as she crossed over to the driver’s side door.
“Someone stole my passport. And . . . and my cash,” I mumbled, embarrassed all over again that it had happened to me, that I had let it happen to me by letting my guard down and sleeping. I knew better.
But Martina just shook her head. “It’s getting worse and worse—the theft. People are getting desperate. My cousin had someone take his wallet right out of his pocket on the U-Bahn. He didn’t notice until three stops later. They’re very good, these thieves,” she added. “Not good for you, though. You can call the embassy as soon as you get settled; they’ll be able to help. There’s no embassy in Graz, but the one in Vienna should ship you your passport, no problem. But at least you have time, yes? You’re not leaving us for three months.” She gave me a tight smile. “Are you looking forward to the residency?”
“I—yes,” I said, because this was the expected answer. In truth, I was terrified and apprehensive, because it was starting to sink in now that I really would be here for the next three months of my life—and that I had no clue what I was doing.
The drive from the station in Graz took us through the mountains, and I watched as Martina deftly navigated the car over twists and turns, my stomach in knots. I had visions of us plummeting over the side any time we met another car, but
Martina was a good driver, and the car was small. I could only imagine what the bus would have been like.
Martina seemed content not to make small talk, for which I was grateful—I’d read in my extensive searching before the trip that at least Austrians, compared to Americans, were not as bothered by silence. As someone who’d never been great at small talk, this quiet was perfectly fine with me.
I had just started to doze off when the road shifted under us, giving way to dirt and gravel, and I jolted awake.
“Apologies,” Martina said, laughing, “I always try to make that transition smoothly, and of course it never works. We’re here, though.”
“Here?” I stared. We were on a winding path through the woods, the trees so densely packed, I almost couldn’t see the sun. I shivered even though Martina had the heat going; it was much colder up here than I had initially anticipated.
“The villa is just a little ways up,” she said. “If you do ever take the bus, you’ll have to walk, though it’s only about a kilometer, and it really is quite lovely. Or if I’m around, I’ll pick you up; I can give you my number.”
“All right,” I said, craning my neck to look out the window, shocked at how much the woods here reminded me of home.
“Schau,” Martina said, and it took me a second to comprehend her before my head whipped around and I was staring at the place I would be calling home for the next three months.
Villa had been underselling it. It was a Schloss, a castle, a golden-yellow color with towers reaching high over the trees. The sun was sinking as we pulled in, setting the castle ablaze in
orange light. I could see a white gazebo around the back before we rounded the drive and it disappeared from view. I imagined there must be a magnificent garden before chiding myself that the terrain here wouldn’t be suited to something like that.
“No one—no one mentioned it’s a castle,” I said, and Martina laughed.
“Takes my breath away every time,” she said. “And I’ve worked for Frau Kaufmann for almost twenty years. She inherited it from her grandfather; it’s been in the family for about a century. Her great-great-grandfather was some sort of Graf or something, I don’t know.”
“Oh,” I said. Of course he’d been some sort of nobility. I had been wondering, secretly, how she was able to support herself on a writer’s salary, but perhaps it was different here. Even in one semester of the MFA program, we’d had it drilled into us that while writers made very little, translators made a fraction of that, so it had to be something we loved.
That warning had scared me, because just one semester of grad school had cost me more than two years of my undergrad had. If I was never going to be able to pay that back, if I wasn’t even sure of my own talent—what was I doing there?
What was I doing here?
Martina helped carry my bags into the foyer. As we made our way inside, I couldn’t help but stare at the grand archway and winding staircase that led up to a landing with giant windows framed by dark velvet drapes. I was conscious all the while of the marble flooring and praying my luggage wheels wouldn’t
scuff it. The house looked like something out of a fairy tale, or a gothic novel—I couldn’t decide which.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Martina asked, and I blushed to be caught admiring it so openly. “Therese does most of the restoration and upkeep herself, though I help sometimes.”
At her words, there was the sound of a pair of heels on marble, and I looked up.
Therese Kaufmann was making her way down the hallway toward us. I had half expected her to descend from the grand staircase, but no, she was just walking down the hall. She was not as tall as I had imagined—almost my height. Younger, too, since it was hard to discern her age from her author photo, which hadn’t been updated since at least 2010. Her hair was light brown and pulled back into a low, severe ponytail that belied the softness of her actual facial features—her face was round, with deep-set eyes and a strong nose. She wore a cardigan that looked handmade; I wondered whether she had done it herself.
For a moment, I felt like I was supposed to drop down into a curtsy but restrained myself. Martina was staring at me appraisingly, and I realized Therese was now standing in front of me, waiting.
“Ms. Dupree,” Therese said, and extended her hand. I shook it, aware of how clammy and cold mine were.
“Frau Kaufmann,” I said. My voice shook, just slightly. “Please, call me Therese,” she said. “I hope your journey was smooth.”
“Smooth enough,” I said. I didn’t want to get into what had happened with my passport, didn’t want that to be her first impression of me. “You have a lovely home.”
“I know,” she said. “A lot of work has gone into making it that way. I’ll give you the tour when you aren’t so jet-lagged. For now, I assume you’ll want to get settled.”
“Please,” I said. Then, “If you don’t mind me asking, where’s Eleonore?”
“Also delayed on business, I’m afraid. Her flight in London was grounded due to weather; I’ve been working on getting her on the next one, but they’re all booked until next week.” She grimaced. “But we can certainly begin without her; she won’t mind,” she added, and I saw her exchange a glance with Martina. “Martina, if you’ll take Ms. Dupree’s bags to her room? The two of you can join me for dinner, though I won’t be offended if you simply want to sleep,” she said, and it took me a moment to register that she was talking to me.
“Sounds good,” I said, and followed Martina up the staircase to my room. I did not pay attention to the layout of the house, knowing I’d get a tour later and too tired to really take in anything. Martina opened the door to a small bedroom that overlooked the back gazebo. The room was more modern than the rest of the villa, with golden walls and simple dark wooden furniture that did not look like it had come from IKEA.
“Your bathroom is down the hall; you’ll share with Eleonore when she arrives,” Martina said. “You’d think a place this large would have more bathrooms, but it is what it is.”
“Thank you. Where’s your room?” “Oh, I don’t live here,” she said. “I live in Graz. Much more to do. I have a husband,” she added. “I can’t just abandon him to drive Therese around; she doesn’t pay me that well.” She laughed at her own joke, then set a hand on my shoulder.
“I can tell Therese to call off dinner, if you’re tired; you look like you’re about to fall over.”
“I—that might be nice,” I said, even as my stomach grumbled slightly. I could just eat later. I’d never been particularly adept at paying attention to my body’s hunger cues. “Sleeping, I mean.”
“I’ll let her know, then. Oh—I almost forgot to give you my number. If you ever need a ride, just call.”
“Yes,” I said, unlocking my phone and passing it to her. Martina quickly put her number in and passed the phone back to me.
“I mean it—call if you need me,” she said. “It’ll just be you and Therese for a few days until Eleonore arrives, though I suppose it’ll be good for your jet lag to not start working right away. I can take you into town tomorrow to get some groceries, if you’d like.”
“I would like that,” I said. Martina gave me a warm smile, accentuating her crow’s feet again. I was grateful she was here, grateful she was around, if Alma couldn’t be. I did not have to worry about being intimidated by her the way I was with Therese and Eleonore.
“Just call me when you’re ready, then, and I’ll come get you. Good luck with your residency.” She gave my shoulder a squeeze before letting herself out of my room.
As soon as she left, I collapsed onto the bed, sinking down into one of the oversize pillows. It was finally hitting me that this was to be my life for the next three months. Applying to the residency had been a whim encouraged by a few friends. I had never expected to actually get it.
But I had. And for the next three months, I didn’t have to worry about my mother, or finding a job, or what I was going to do with the rest of my life. Here, at least, I could be the envy of my former cohort rather than the one who had dropped out.
The other German speakers had gushed over Eleonore and Therese from day one. I had read one of Eleonore’s translations in my German class in undergrad, but nothing beyond that. When I’d heard about the residency, I’d gone to the library in a fit, checking out every one of her books that was available and staying up until three to read them.
Eleonore’s translations were incredible, I had thought. It was clear she was skilled, playing with the language in a way I could not, my own early attempts at translation clumsy and awkward. But I had not had the originals to compare her work to.
I wondered if Therese would let me borrow them. I wanted to see what she was like, unfiltered by Eleonore.
It was a stroke of luck, I thought at the time, Eleonore being delayed—though I felt guilty even as I thought it. A few days alone to get to know Therese, to get to know her work before I embarked on this residency with her translator. Maybe it would even help endear me to Eleonore, if Therese liked me.
I did not know how wrong I would turn out to be.