Crush on This: The House of Gardenias by Isabel Cañas

Set during a revolution in a fictional version of Mexico, The House of Gardenias follows sixteen-year-old Minerva Treviño as she tries to survive both human and supernatural horrors. Author Isabel Cañas pulled from her own experiences living in countries during periods of political change to explore power, colonization, grief, and what it feels like when everything around you is shifting and you have no control over what happens next.

Read on to get a peek under the cover and pick up The House of Gardenias, out now!

The House of Gardenias

by Isabel Cañas
Published by: Dutton Books for Young Readers
on September 29, 2026
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A debut gothic YA from the USA Today bestselling author of The Hacienda and The Possession of Alba Díaz.
Sixteen-year-old Minerva has spent her whole life in the slums of the capital city of an unnamed country that resembles colonial Mexico. Though she lives in the shadow of constant government turmoil, her empty belly and her father’s brutality don’t leave time for politics—especially since her older brothers ran away. Minerva can’t take another beating or miss another meal, so she steals flees to a wealthy loyalist neighborhood to win a job as a lady’s maid to an elderly widow.
Minerva and Encarnación del Valle—the proud and acerbic widow—form an unlikely duo. They are both survivors in their own ways, stubborn and used to being underestimated. For a time, Minerva is happy. She has food and safety in a house lit and warmed by magical chispa. Why should she care who runs the country or how her employer afford the magic?
But when the viceroy sweeps back into power on a wave of horrific bloodshed that sweeps away any hope Minerva had of seeing her brothers again, Encarnación retreats to the del Valle’s mountainside estate, the Casa de la Gardenias. Minerva finds herself surrounded by dozens of more experienced servants and the cruel, scheming younger del Valles, but the living are the least of anyone’s worries at the Casa de las Gardenias, and soon Minerva discovers that this ancient estate is home to forces far older and more bloodthirsty than the fascist del Valles or the liberal guerrillas amassing in the surrounding wilderness.

Excerpt

A bone-deep chill fell over the house with evening’s mist. A fire roaring in the heart fought a valiant, if losing, battle.

I set the tray on a table next to the deep armchair where Señora Encarnación sat and poured the alcohol into a tiny crystal glass. Eugenia and Octaviana sat on the far side of the fireplace and pulled needlework into their laps. The former looked determined to ignore Señora Encarnación’s presence entirely.

“Draw my bath with saffron and salts, Minerva,” Señora Encarnación said. “Then fetch me when it is ready.”

I left the warmth of the living room and stared up at the central staircase. Part of me was desperate to be away from strange voices and faces, from the tangle of dynamics between del Valles and servants alike that twined around my ankles and threatened to trip me at every turn.

And yet . . .

Another part of me would prefer to remain down here, close to the warmth of the fire and other people, even if that meant being mocked by servants or ignored by del Valles.

My feet were heavy on the first few steps. One, two steps—one, two followed the echo, a whisper behind my turned back.

Chispa lamps lined the walls all the way to the final landing. Despite this, the darkness seemed to grow denser as I ascended. On the third floor, only the landing was lit. Señora Encarnación must be the only family member staying up here.

The hall stretched long and black before me.

“I should have brought a lamp. I should have brought a lamp.”

I repeated this as I hastened to the door, wood creaking beneath each of my steps. My palm was clammy and heavy on the crystal door handle.

The memory of the dark figure flickered in the back of my mind. Apprehension skittered down my spine like a line of beetles.

There were lamps on the mantel above the fireplace. Just five paces from the door. I could make it there.

“It was a trick of the light,” I said, and I thrust the door open.

One step. Two.

I reached out into the darkness, hands held high, grasping for the corner of the mantel.

Three. Four. Five.

Something slipped past me. A breeze. That brush of air felt when someone walked past.

It snatched my breath away with it.

My left palm collided with the sharp corner of the mantelpiece. Heart hammering in my throat, I pawed for the lamp.

There—cold metal, curved into a base. Its dust stuck to the fear-foul sweat on my palms.

I turned it on.

Golden light ignited at the bottom of the lamp, a honey-thick pool of it. A butterfly lifted delicate wings and rose, shedding fragments of gold from its back and wings as a bird shook off rain. Light filled the glass, growing stronger and brighter; its glow fell on my face and my arms as I lifted the lamp in my hands.

I faced the room.

“There is no one here.” I forced my voice to be firmer than it wanted to be. “Just me.”

The darkness swallowed the words whole.