Blackthorn Winter

( 9 )

Overview

With her parents on a trial separation, the last thing fifteen-year-old Juliana wants is to be dragged by her mother to an artists' colony in England. Halfway across the world, Juliana misses her father terribly. But soon she has bigger worries when the sleepy town of Blackthorn is set on its heels by the murder of one of its own. Juliana feels compelled to solve the crime, but she is shocked and frightened when she uncovers clues that have chilling parallels to her own mysterious past. Can she figure out ...

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Blackthorn Winter: A Murder Mystery

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Overview

With her parents on a trial separation, the last thing fifteen-year-old Juliana wants is to be dragged by her mother to an artists' colony in England. Halfway across the world, Juliana misses her father terribly. But soon she has bigger worries when the sleepy town of Blackthorn is set on its heels by the murder of one of its own. Juliana feels compelled to solve the crime, but she is shocked and frightened when she uncovers clues that have chilling parallels to her own mysterious past. Can she figure out who the murderer is before anyone else—herself included—gets hurt?

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Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
"Mystery fans will enjoy this well-plotted story, which [combines] budding romance, family problems, amnesia, international travel and murder."—Kirkus Reviews
Publishers Weekly
Narrator Juliana Martin-Drake, 15, feels "Nothing is the way it should be." Her mother has brought Juliana and her nine-year-old siblings from their California home to England while she and their father have a "trial separation." Blackthorn, a picturesque artists' colony by the sea, should be an idyllic spot, but Juliana feels the loss of her father deeply. Upon her arrival, she begins to sense a strange smell and to hear repeatedly a voice in her head ("Wake up, please wake up-oh no-help! Help! Come quick!"). Within days, one of the artists is found murdered. Juliana believes that the police have too quickly arrested one of the village "lager louts" and thinks she may have found a clue to point them in the right direction. Reiss (Sweet Miss Honeywell's Revenge) peppers the narrative with colorful British vocabulary and details of claustrophobic village life. Through Juliana's narrative, readers learn that she was adopted and likely born in England; memory flashbacks return to her, and the author plants clues about the recent murder and suggests its connection to an earlier death in the community. The memories of her past point her to further clues that add up to a suspenseful and satisfying climax. Ages 12-up. (Jan.) Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
School Library Journal
Gr 7 Up-Broken into its components, this book promises a great mystery: a teenaged heroine with tragic buried memories beginning to resurface; a cold, windswept winter in a colorless English seaside town; a pushy, witchlike busybody mysteriously murdered; a cute guy next door; and two warmly lovable younger siblings for comic relief. Unfortunately, the author has difficulty balancing the plot, the necessary explanations of background, a mysterious tone, and her narrator's character. "I have a memory problem," Juliana confesses, but it takes another 58 pages of meeting new characters and having "strange, weird feelings" before she finally tells readers what the problem is and muses upon why she has it. The wonderfully visceral setting and intriguing cast of characters almost make up for the baffling narrator, but ultimately the link between the two simultaneous mysteries proves tenuous, and the identity of the murderer no mystery at all.-Rhona Campbell, Washington DC Public Library Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Sometimes being pleasant and predictable is a good thing. Mystery fans will enjoy this well-plotted story, which packs budding romance, family problems, amnesia, international travel and murder into a few short days in the lives of American adoptee Juliana Martin-Drake, her mother and her two younger siblings. The family has temporarily moved to a small village in England so that Mrs. Martin-Drake can rekindle her career as an artist and decide whether to remain in her marriage. Juliana just wants to go home. When her mother's friend, a woman universally despised, is found dead, Juliana investigates, subsequently finding herself in danger. Although coincidence plays a strong role in her discoveries, none of the action is either out of place or impossible to imagine. In the process of unraveling the mystery, Juliana recovers her memories of the death of her birth mother. Although Reiss's repeated message that adoptive families are no less real than biological ones occasionally seems heavy-handed, in general she melds the various elements of her plot skillfully enough to carry readers along smoothly. (Fiction. 12-16)
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780152061098
  • Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
  • Publication date: 10/1/2007
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 348
  • Age range: 12 - 17 Years
  • Product dimensions: 5.00 (w) x 8.00 (h) x 0.78 (d)

Meet the Author

KATHRYN REISS 's other novels include Pale Phoenix and PaperQuake: A Puzzle, both finalists for the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Young Adult Mystery, and Time Windows, an ALA Best Book for Young Adults. She lives in northern California.

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Read an Excerpt

Mom glanced over at me impatiently and said, "Come on, Juliana, what's with all the doom and gloom?"

As if she didn't know.

We were driving on a highway in England (a motorway, Mom called it). We were whizzing along-on the wrong side of the road, as far as I was concerned-through a chilly, windy afternoon, with rain from the wet road and the cars ahead sluicing over us in sheets. The wipers' rhythmic swoosh-swoosh had lulled me into a kind of trance as I sat there in the front passenger seat, staring out at the drizzly English day. How could I be filled with anything other than doom and gloom when I'd been dragged away from sunny California (and from Dad) to move to England like this in the middle of the school year? How else was I supposed to feel?

I didn't want to be here in the first place, away from Dad, away from friends, away from everything. In the second place, I felt tricked. Like, where were the little thatched cottages with roses around the doors and diamond panes of glass in every window? Where were the romantic castle ruins and sun-dappled stately homes featured on the "Visions of England" calendar Mom had given me for Christmas? Everything felt wrong. Nothing was the way it should be.

"Faulty advertising," I muttered. We'd landed at Heathrow Airport that morning after an eleven-hour flight, whizzed through passport control and customs, collected our luggage pretty fast, but then had to stand in line for another hour to get our rental car. Finally we'd crammed ourselves and our stuff into the car and set off, driving away from London. We'd been traveling a couple of hours already, and all I'd seen were clusters of dreary brick houses huddling together as if for warmth and wet fields dripping with sheep and cows.

"Fifteen years old, and you've never experienced an English winter," Mom said to me. She didn't even take her eyes off the road, which was probably a good thing, with all those cars driving on the wrong side and everything. "We're going to fix that!" Her voice was maddeningly cheerful.

"It's March, Mom. That's spring," I told her.

"Spring in California," Mom agreed. "But not here. This is still winter."

Our one family trip to England had been years ago, and in summer. We had visited Mom's father. I had a vague memory of Grandad's little house in a big city. It had been hard to fit us all around the kitchen table. After our one visit, Grandad always came to visit us in California instead.

In the backseat my nine-year-old sister and brother woke up. They had been dozing on and off, probably still on California time, ever since we left the airport. Now Ivy and Edmund, also known as the Goops because of their perpetually sticky fingers and dirt-streaked T-shirts, started clamoring about how they wished they could see Grandad Martin again, and more especially Dad-since he wasn't even dead-and it wasn't fair.

"I wish we could see Grandad again, too," Mom said, picking out the one thing we could all agree on. He had lived in the house where Mom grew up until he died three years ago. It had seemed strange not to have him come to us in California for Christmas. And it seemed very strange to be in England now and to know he wasn't here. Somehow that made everything feel even more dreary.

Mom circled our little car off the motorway. "We're almost there. Now you kids are going to love Blackthorn." And then she launched yet again into the irritatingly enthusiastic description of the place where we were going to be living. We'd already heard it a million times.

Mom's voice sounded dreamy. "It's a bustling little village right on the sea, and it's full of artists, Liza says. Just the sort of place where I can really get some work done. Where people respect art." Her voice hardened a little when she said "respect," and I knew she was thinking of Dad back in California. Mom and Dad were having a trial separation. Mom felt that Dad was too busy being a big-shot architect to notice that she wasn't happy anymore. She was homesick for England, she said, and decided that she needed to live there again, and start painting again, and be near other artists.

"People respect art in California, Mom," I said, although I knew it was pointless. We had already had this particular argument over and over.

"The point is that it's time for a change," Mom said firmly. "It's going to be great in Blackthorn. We're starting our new life."

I slumped in my seat and shut my eyes to hold back the sudden prick of tears. I had liked our old life.

"Hey look, the dog is driving that car!" Edmund shouted, and of course my eyes flew open to check it out. It looked so weird. In what should be the driver's seat of the car passing us sat a huge shaggy dog. As the car pulled ahead, the dog hung his head out the side window-open despite the miserable drizzle-and looked back at us, panting. Surreal, I thought. But what else was new these days? My whole life had been feeling as surreal as one of Mom's paintings ever since her decision to leave Dad. On a trial basis, of course.

"Keep your eyes on the road, Dog!" Ivy yelled out her window.

"And look there," added Edmund, "that other car doesn't even have a driver!"

"It's a ghost driver," declared Ivy, and both Goops broke out in tandem, ghostly whoooo-ooooos.

Our car followed the winding exit road to a narrower lane, where a sign announced: BLACKTHORN, 3. The lane, lined on both sides by high green hedgerows, bordered green fields dotted with white sheep and stands of gnarled trees. Almost like one of the calendar pictures, except for the constant patter of rain and the darkening sky.

"It's like night already," Edmund piped up. "And so foggy. Must be a storm coming."

"A huge, torrential storm," Ivy added with relish. "With thunder and lightning and floods."

"I don't think so," Mom replied in a mild voice, switching the headlights to low to help her see through the fog. "Remember, England is pretty far north. It just gets dark early here in the winter-and stays light long into the night in the summer. Remember how it stayed light till nearly ten o'clock when we visited Grandad?"

I didn't remember that, but-speaking of light-in the distance I could just make out other headlights approaching us. As the car neared, I could see that it was a long, low sports car, and a teenage boy was driving. He had bright red hair. But wait-of course he couldn't be the driver; the left-hand seat was the passenger side in England. The driver sat on the right. It was a man wearing a leather cap like somebody in an Italian movie. Twigs and leaves flew against my window as Mom veered hard against the hedges, trying to give the passing vehicle as much room as possible. The driver in the leather cap raised his hand to wave as he zoomed past, disappearing into the fog.

"Hey!" protested Edmund. "He nearly hit us, Mom!"

And Ivy declared, "He nearly ran us off the road!"

I was thinking the same thing. I was also thinking that the boy in the car had been very cute. I had told myself I was going to be surly and sour and not get the least bit interested in anything to do with this move to England, but a cute boy was something I hadn't expected. Did he live around here, or was he just passing through on his way to somewhere else?

"You'll get used to these narrow lanes," Mom was saying calmly. "They crisscross the whole country. Take a good look at the hedges, kids-they were planted hundreds of years ago as fences to divide property and to keep animals in the fields. The roads can't be widened without ripping out the old hedges. And they're home to all sorts of animals. Badgers and foxes . . ." Mom's voice trailed off as we rounded a bend in the lane and the fog lifted. A village that must be Blackthorn suddenly came into view.

"Whoa," I murmured.

"Whoa is right," said Ivy excitedly.

"Major whoa!" yelled Edmund right in my ear. "I can smell the ocean!"

I could, too, with the usual sick jolt to my stomach and a flutter of panic. I pushed the flutter away resolutely as I always did. I was just not a seaside sort of person.

Mom glanced over at me. "Our cottage isn't particularly near the water at all. Don't worry, honey. And you'll get used to the ocean air in no time. It's good and fresh and healthy."

I pressed my hands against my stomach and nodded. I couldn't help but look out the window now with interest. After all the weeks of talking about it, all the upsets and troubles, all the packing and arranging, all the good-byes to friends and promises to stay in touch . . . it was really happening. We were here.

Not a thatched roof in sight. Not a single rose trellis framing a doorway. No brilliant-hued gardens of flowers at all. Only one color had been used for this painting: gray. Or grey, as Mom said you'd write it in England. Gray stone buildings, two and three stories tall, marched downhill along both sides of the narrow street. The road split to allow for an island of dense, leafless shrubs, whose bare branches made a darker gray silhouette against all the other gray. They were planted thickly and had twined together to form what looked like an impenetrable, thorny thicket.

"Those bushes are called blackthorn," Mom said as we passed. "They're where the village got its name. They can look like trees, too, and grow to be something like nine or ten feet tall."

"It's like a movie set," Edmund exclaimed, "for a ghost story!"

"Or a mystery," shuddered Ivy. "All this foggy fog."

"A murder mystery . . . ," I added. I cracked my window and sniffed the air experimentally. My stomach clenched again at the fresh blast of sea air overlaid with woodsmoke-and something else. I breathed through my mouth.

We drove on. The paved road was gray and the sky above it was gray, and the seawall at the bottom of the street was gray, with gray water churning beyond. I decided I could tough it out. I rolled my window down further and felt the damp, cold fog on my face, and I smelled salt. And . . . there it was again. Something else besides. A smell-or was it just a feeling?-of something wrong.

What was I smelling that made me feel suddenly quite desolate and lost in this gray place? I'd been joking about the murder mystery, but what was I smelling that made me think of . . . death?

And where had I smelled it before?

Copyright © 2006 by Kathryn Reiss

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system,
without permission in writing from the publisher.

Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the work should be mailed to the following address: Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc.,
6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

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First Chapter

Mom glanced over at me impatiently and said, "Come on, Juliana, what's with all the doom and gloom?"

As if she didn't know.

We were driving on a highway in England (a motorway, Mom called it). We were whizzing along-on the wrong side of the road, as far as I was concerned-through a chilly, windy afternoon, with rain from the wet road and the cars ahead sluicing over us in sheets. The wipers' rhythmic swoosh-swoosh had lulled me into a kind of trance as I sat there in the front passenger seat, staring out at the drizzly English day. How could I be filled with anything other than doom and gloom when I'd been dragged away from sunny California (and from Dad) to move to England like this in the middle of the school year? How else was I supposed to feel?

I didn't want to be here in the first place, away from Dad, away from friends, away from everything. In the second place, I felt tricked. Like, where were the little thatched cottages with roses around the doors and diamond panes of glass in every window? Where were the romantic castle ruins and sun-dappled stately homes featured on the "Visions of England" calendar Mom had given me for Christmas? Everything felt wrong. Nothing was the way it should be.

"Faulty advertising," I muttered. We'd landed at Heathrow Airport that morning after an eleven-hour flight, whizzed through passport control and customs, collected our luggage pretty fast, but then had to stand in line for another hour to get our rental car. Finally we'd crammed ourselves and our stuff into the car and set off, driving away from London. We'd been traveling a couple of hours already, and all I'd seen were clusters of dreary brick houses huddlingtogether as if for warmth and wet fields dripping with sheep and cows.

"Fifteen years old, and you've never experienced an English winter," Mom said to me. She didn't even take her eyes off the road, which was probably a good thing, with all those cars driving on the wrong side and everything. "We're going to fix that!" Her voice was maddeningly cheerful.

"It's March, Mom. That's spring," I told her.

"Spring in California," Mom agreed. "But not here. This is still winter."

Our one family trip to England had been years ago, and in summer. We had visited Mom's father. I had a vague memory of Grandad's little house in a big city. It had been hard to fit us all around the kitchen table. After our one visit, Grandad always came to visit us in California instead.

In the backseat my nine-year-old sister and brother woke up. They had been dozing on and off, probably still on California time, ever since we left the airport. Now Ivy and Edmund, also known as the Goops because of their perpetually sticky fingers and dirt-streaked T-shirts, started clamoring about how they wished they could see Grandad Martin again, and more especially Dad-since he wasn't even dead-and it wasn't fair.

"I wish we could see Grandad again, too," Mom said, picking out the one thing we could all agree on. He had lived in the house where Mom grew up until he died three years ago. It had seemed strange not to have him come to us in California for Christmas. And it seemed very strange to be in England now and to know he wasn't here. Somehow that made everything feel even more dreary.

Mom circled our little car off the motorway. "We're almost there. Now you kids are going to love Blackthorn." And then she launched yet again into the irritatingly enthusiastic description of the place where we were going to be living. We'd already heard it a million times.

Mom's voice sounded dreamy. "It's a bustling little village right on the sea, and it's full of artists, Liza says. Just the sort of place where I can really get some work done. Where people respect art." Her voice hardened a little when she said "respect," and I knew she was thinking of Dad back in California. Mom and Dad were having a trial separation. Mom felt that Dad was too busy being a big-shot architect to notice that she wasn't happy anymore. She was homesick for England, she said, and decided that she needed to live there again, and start painting again, and be near other artists.

"People respect art in California, Mom," I said, although I knew it was pointless. We had already had this particular argument over and over.

"The point is that it's time for a change," Mom said firmly. "It's going to be great in Blackthorn. We're starting our new life."

I slumped in my seat and shut my eyes to hold back the sudden prick of tears. I had liked our old life.

"Hey look, the dog is driving that car!" Edmund shouted, and of course my eyes flew open to check it out. It looked so weird. In what should be the driver's seat of the car passing us sat a huge shaggy dog. As the car pulled ahead, the dog hung his head out the side window-open despite the miserable drizzle-and looked back at us, panting. Surreal, I thought. But what else was new these days? My whole life had been feeling as surreal as one of Mom's paintings ever since her decision to leave Dad. On a trial basis, of course.

"Keep your eyes on the road, Dog!" Ivy yelled out her window.

"And look there," added Edmund, "that other car doesn't even have a driver!"

"It's a ghost driver," declared Ivy, and both Goops broke out in tandem, ghostly whoooo-ooooos.

Our car followed the winding exit road to a narrower lane, where a sign announced: BLACKTHORN, 3. The lane, lined on both sides by high green hedgerows, bordered green fields dotted with white sheep and stands of gnarled trees. Almost like one of the calendar pictures, except for the constant patter of rain and the darkening sky.

"It's like night already," Edmund piped up. "And so foggy. Must be a storm coming."

"A huge, torrential storm," Ivy added with relish. "With thunder and lightning and floods."

"I don't think so," Mom replied in a mild voice, switching the headlights to low to help her see through the fog. "Remember, England is pretty far north. It just gets dark early here in the winter-and stays light long into the night in the summer. Remember how it stayed light till nearly ten o'clock when we visited Grandad?"

I diidn't remember that, but-speaking of light-in the distance I could just make out other headlights approaching us. As the car neared, I could see that it was a long, low sports car, and a teenage boy was driving. He had bright red hair. But wait-of course he couldn't be the driver; the left-hand seat was the passenger side in England. The driver sat on the right. It was a man wearing a leather cap like somebody in an Italian movie. Twigs and leaves flew against my window as Mom veered hard against the hedges, trying to give the passing vehicle as much room as possible. The driver in the leather cap raised his hand to wave as he zoomed past, disappearing into the fog.

"Hey!" protested Edmund. "He nearly hit us, Mom!"

And Ivy declared, "He nearly ran us off the road!"

I was thinking the same thing. I was also thinking that the boy in the car had been very cute. I had told myself I was going to be surly and sour and not get the least bit interested in anything to do with this move to England, but a cute boy was something I hadn't expected. Did he live around here, or was he just passing through on his way to somewhere else?

"You'll get used to these narrow lanes," Mom was saying calmly. "They crisscross the whole country. Take a good look at the hedges, kids-they were planted hundreds of years ago as fences to divide property and to keep animals in the fields. The roads can't be widened without ripping out the old hedges. And they're home to all sorts of animals. Badgers and foxes . . ." Mom's voice trailed off as we rounded a bend in the lane and the fog lifted. A village that must be Blackthorn suddenly came into view.

"Whoa," I murmured.

"Whoa is right," said Ivy excitedly.

"Major whoa!" yelled Edmund right in my ear. "I can smell the ocean!"

I could, too, with the usual sick jolt to my stomach and a flutter of panic. I pushed the flutter away resolutely as I always did. I was just not a seaside sort of person.

Mom glanced over at me. "Our cottage isn't particularly near the water at all. Don't worry, honey. And you'll get used to the ocean air in no time. It's good and fresh and healthy."

I pressed my hands against my stomach and nodded. I couldn't help but look out the window now with interest. After all the weeks of talking about it, all the upsets and troubles, all the packing and arranging, all the good-byes to friends and promises to stay in touch . . . it was really happening. We were here.

Not a thatched roof in sight. Not a single rose trellis framing a doorway. No brilliant-hued gardens of flowers at all. Only one color had been used for this painting: gray. Or grey, as Mom said you'd write it in England. Gray stone buildings, two and three stories tall, marched downhill along both sides of the narrow street. The road split to allow for an island of dense, leafless shrubs, whose bare branches made a darker gray silhouette against all the other gray. They were planted thickly and had twined together to form what looked like an impenetrable, thorny thicket.

"Those bushes are called blackthorn," Mom said as we passed. "They're where the village got its name. They can look like trees, too, and grow to be something like nine or ten feet tall."

"It's like a movie set," Edmund exclaimed, "for a ghost story!"

"Or a mystery," shuddered Ivy. "All this foggy fog."

"A murder mystery . . . ," I added. I cracked my window and sniffed the air experimentally. My stomach clenched again at the fresh blast of sea air overlaid with woodsmoke-and something else. I breathed through my mouth.

We drove on. The paved road was gray and the sky above it was gray, and the seawall at the bottom of the street was gray, with gray water churning beyond. I decided I could tough it out. I rolled my window down further and felt the damp, cold fog on my face, and I smelled salt. And . . . there it was again. Something else besides. A smell-or was it just a feeling?-of something wrong.

What was I smelling that made me feel suddenly quite desolate and lost in this gray place? I'd been joking about the murder mystery, but what was I smelling that made me think of . . . death?

And where had I smelled it before?


Copyright © 2006 by Kathryn Reiss

All rights reserved.
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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 9 )
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Sort by: Showing all of 9 Customer Reviews
  • Posted October 26, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    Reviewed by coollibrarianchick for TeensReadToo.com

    Fans of the Nancy Drew stories will enjoy this latest book by Kathryn Reiss. BLACKTHORN WINTER is a well-written "who done it?" mystery that leaves you wondering until the very end. <BR/><BR/>Blackthorn is a perfect place for a mystery to take place. It is a damp, gloomy town in England, an artist's colony with some very interesting residents. All the residents seem to be busybodies, knowing a little too much gossip and happenings in the town. It's a far cry from sunny California, where Juliana and her family used to live. <BR/><BR/>Her mom, facing a crumbling marriage and wanting to explore her artistic roots further, made Juliana and her brother and sister move to England with her. The adjustment wasn't easy - she was away from her Dad, her friends, and everything else she knew. England, at least where she was, didn't look like any of the pictures in the calendar Mom bought her. Even worse, Juliana had a constant nagging feeling that something wasn't right. <BR/><BR/>The book has two mysteries intertwined together. The first mystery that has to be solved is finding the murderer of Liza Pethering. As you delve further into the book you will discover that finding the culprit is easier said than done. The person arrested is the easy choice, but not particularly the right choice. The second mystery has to deal with Juliana's past, which has to be unraveled so she can move forward. At five years old, Juliana joined the Martin-Drake family. Ever since she was little, Juliana has had trouble with recalling memories of her past. It seems that she can't remember anything before she was five. <BR/><BR/>Did something happen to her to make her repress the memories? Are the two mysteries tied together somehow? All she knows is that she must solve both of them before another person, maybe herself, becomes the next victim.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 13, 2008

    A good summer read!

    It's got horror,suspense,and romance.:)A perfect laying in the hammock with a glass of lemonade book.You will enjoy this book(I did.)

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted May 14, 2006

    Another Great Kathryn Reiss Book

    This book by Kathryn Reiss is wonderful, just like all of her other books. But this one I think is one of the best. The mystery in this book is exciting, but it doesn't go as far into the whole murder mystery thing as you would expect. It talks about it, but you know all you need to. It is definitely one of my favorites, and Kathryn Reiss is definitely one of my very favorite authors.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 8, 2013

    REA!! READ THIS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    THIS IS AN AWESOME BOOK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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  • Posted January 10, 2013

    Old English Village, charming neighbors, and murder! Blackthorn

    Old English Village, charming neighbors, and murder!
    Blackthorn Winter is a great story for a stormy or snowy evening,
    with warm tea and toast, and a scented candle.
    I hope your imagination sweeps you away to cobblestone streets, English gardens, and the rustling of leaves. 

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 14, 2008

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    Posted October 5, 2009

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 16, 2009

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 3, 2010

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