The Girl with Glass Feet

The Girl with Glass Feet

3.7 24
by Ali Shaw

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Strange things are happening on the remote and snowbound archipelago of St. Hauda's Land. Magical winged creatures flit around the icy bogland, albino animals hide themselves in the snow-glazed woods, and Ida Maclaird is slowly turning into glass. Ida is an outsider in these parts who has only visited the islands once before.

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Strange things are happening on the remote and snowbound archipelago of St. Hauda's Land. Magical winged creatures flit around the icy bogland, albino animals hide themselves in the snow-glazed woods, and Ida Maclaird is slowly turning into glass. Ida is an outsider in these parts who has only visited the islands once before. Yet during that one fateful visit the glass transformation began to take hold, and now she has returned in search of a cure.

The Girl with Glass Feet is a love story to treasure, "crafted with elegance and swept by passionate magic and the yearning for connection. A rare pleasure" (Katherine Dunn, author of Geek Love).

Editorial Reviews

New York Times Book Review Robin Romm

Fantastically imagined.... The hybrid form of the book--fairy tale, myth, psychological realism and fantasy--impresses. But Shaw's most delightful offerings are the vivid details he provides to make the magical real.... As Ida turns to glass, Midas must continue his own transformation, from hardened to human. The end of the book, saturated with color and emotion, is risky and brave like the message it imparts. Only a heart of glass would be unmoved.
Washington Post Elizabeth Hand

Ali Shaw has created a memorable addition to [the] fabulist pantheon in his gorgeous first novel, The Girl with Glass Feet.... Over the course of this eerie, bewitching novel, the mixture of love and grief and the imminence of death become as memorable as Ida's mysterious, dreadful transformation and Midas's more achingly human one ... Shaw acknowledges the influence of writers like Andersen, Kafka and Borges (Shaw's menagerie of perfectly detailed, marvelous creatures could have stepped from the pages of "The Book of Imaginary Beings"). But it's Andersen's melancholy tales, steeped in loss and a brooding sense of fatedness, that shimmer around the edges of The Girl with Glass Feet. Every character in this novel yearns for a love that seems just out of reach: Midas's unhappy parents; Henry Fuwa; Carl Maulsen, who loved Ida's mother; Emiliana, the island woman who might have a cure for Ida's illness; Ida herself--all of them are bound by threads of betrayal and desire and hope, until Fate cuts those threads, calmly and without remorse.
The Boston Globe Buzzy Jackson

The Girl with Glass Feet is a love story, not just about two people falling in love, but also about love itself: its power, its limits, and its consequences.... Although Shaw's novel is set in the present, everything's turned askew, resulting in a world that is at once banal--the car won't start; the coffee's getting cold--and fantastical--glass feet; glass hearts. Shaw makes the crucial decision to leave the human emotions and relationships in the realm of the believable, while embedding them in terrain that is ever so slightly surreal. Somehow it's never implausible. Shaw is at his best when describing the fantastical world he's created. His language manages to be poetic and economical.... The look, the sound, and the scent of St. Hauda's Land stay with you after turning the last page of this beautiful novel.
Wichita Eagle Lisa McLendon

Ali Shaw's engrossing and moving debut novel ... is a story of a strange land and its strange inhabitants, but at heart it's a sincere but unsentimental love story.... The joy that Ida and Midas share, after Midas takes those first risky steps toward love, is so beautifully captured that their happiness beats back the drear and shadows.... The dreamy atmosphere curls around you until you see, hear and smell the moors and bogs.... The ending bridges the gap between fairy tales old and new.
The Chicago Sun-Times Vikram Johri

Ali Shaw shows immense promise with his deft use of language, which sings in a book that is at its heart filled with sadness. The soft light on the island plays coyly with the thick vegetation, casting glorious shadows and producing a riot of images all ably captured by Midas' camera and Shaw's prose.
The Washington Times Corinna Lothar

Ali Shaw has a gift for storytelling and an obvious love of language. His descriptions are poetic and original.... The Girl With Glass Feet is a work of great imagination and talent. Mr. Shaw never tells us what causes the glassification, but that leaves the reader open to decide whether the tale is merely a modern fairy tale, or whether turning into glass is in itself a metaphor for a larger, human condition that creates change bringing moments of pain and pleasure.
The San Francisco Book Review Ariel Berg

Ali Shaw offers the rare delight of a world freshly and richly imagined.... The story is soothingly spellbinding, pulling the reader with steady delicacy into the hearts and minds of its characters amid the enthralling murmur of the fantastical.

On the surface, the book is magical, seemingly as transparent as Ida's toes. Like all the best fairy tales, though, it's tinted with a pervading sense of unease that sticks with the reader long after the cover is closed. Midas's love for a woman who is leaving the real world he despises, Ida's lost grip on humanity, the very land on which they meet, are all deeper and darker than they seem, making this a book well worth reading.
author of Geek Love Katherine Dunn

This lovely fable is a chain of linked mysteries with accelerating suspense that propels the reader deep into Shaw's world of marvels. That world is crafted with elegance and swept by passionate magic and the yearning for connection. A rare pleasure.
Bookpage Julie Hale

Written in the tradition of magical realists like Haruki Murakami and Gabriel Garcia Marquez, The Girl with Glass Feet is a singular, slippery narrative that defies easy categorization. Shaw writes finely honed prose and knows how to wring maximum suspense out of a tightly woven plot. His is an accomplished first novel--a hypnotic book with an atmosphere all its own.
Minneapolis Star Tribune

The Girl with Glass Feet is weirdly beautiful and highly entertaining.
The Guardian (UK)

Shaw has worked the great tradition of European fairy tales and come up with an ingenious story ... A magical fable of fate and resignation.
The Oxford Times (UK) Helen Peacock

The Girl with Glass Feet is not just special--it's remarkable.... [This] debut novel conjures up the extraordinary and fantastic, yet places it firmly in our digital world.... It's a very visual novel--readers who enjoy using their imagination will adore it.
Aberdeen Press and Journal Morag Lindsay

A haunting and magical tale.... One of the most original and memorable love stories I've read in a long time.... It takes a real talent to create such an imaginative setting yet still make readers believe and care about the characters, but first-time novelist Ali Shaw pulls it off in dazzling style, spinning an unforgettable story so vividly described that the reader is only too willing to suspend disbelief in order to be transported into his sad and lovely world.
Robin Romm
The hybrid form of the book—fairy tale, myth, psychological realism and fantasy—impresses. But Shaw's most delightful offerings are the vivid details he provides to make the magical real…The end of the book, saturated with color and emotion, is risky and brave like the message it imparts. Only a heart of glass would be unmoved.
—The New York Times
Elizabeth Hand
The Italian historian Carlo Ginzburg has traced myriad examples of mutilated feet across centuries and cultures, from ancient Greece to ancient China. He believes the motif represents an archetype of what he calls "mythical and ritualistic lameness." The British novelist Ali Shaw has created a memorable addition to this fabulist pantheon in his gorgeous first novel…Shaw acknowledges the influence of writers like Andersen, Kafka and Borges (Shaw's menagerie of perfectly detailed, marvelous creatures could have stepped from the pages of The Book of Imaginary Beings). But it's Andersen's melancholy tales, steeped in loss and a brooding sense of fatedness, that shimmer around the edges of The Girl With Glass Feet.
—The Washington Post
Publishers Weekly
The cold northern islands of St. Hauda's Land are home to strange creatures and intertwining human secrets in Shaw's earnest, magic-tinged debut. Ida Maclaird returns to the archipelago to find a cure for the condition her last visit brought her—she is slowly turning into glass. The landscape is at once beautiful and ominous, and its residents mistrustful, but she grows close to Midas Crook, a young man who, despite his intention to spend his life alone, falls in love with Ida and becomes desperate to save her. Their quest leads them to Henry Fuwa, a hermit biologist devoted to preserving the moth-winged bull, a species of insect-sized winged bovines; to Carl Mausen, a friend of Ida's family whose devotion to her mother makes him both ally and enemy; and finally to Emiliana Stallows, who claims to have once cured a girl with Ida's affliction. Each of these characters' histories intertwine, though their motivations surrounding Ida are muddled by their loyalties. Both love story and dirge, Shaw's novel flows gracefully and is wonderfully dreamlike, with the danger of the islands matched by the characters' dark pasts. (Jan.)
Library Journal
Ida Maclaird is turning to glass from her feet up, one painful shard at a time. She has returned to St. Hauda's Land, a remote group of islands that hosts such oddities as tiny moth/cow hybrids, searching for answers. There she meets the reclusive Midas Crook, who prefers to experience life through his camera lens. As Ida becomes more enmeshed in Midas's life, we learn that the cold and desolate landscape has long been host to failed love affairs and tragic lives. Can Ida be saved? Or any of the other dismal characters? This debut from former bookseller and Bodleian Library worker Shaw features some inspired prose and haunting imagery. Still, the bleak tone and unrelenting tales of woe will weigh heavily on most readers, though those with a neo-gothic bent or a fondness for the darker offerings of authors like Charles de Lint and John Crowley may be drawn to Shaw's work. VERDICT Optional reading as we wait to see if any buzz follows this one over the Atlantic (it's been long-listed for the 2009 Guardian First Book Award). [See Prepub Alert, LJ 9/15/09.]—Jenn B. Stidham, Houston Community Coll.-Northeast\
Kirkus Reviews
Emotional entanglements on a faraway frozen island are shaped by romance and tragedy in a melancholic yet whimsical British debut. Albino crows, ice, gray vistas and an animal that can turn living things white all accentuate the monochrome palette Shaw uses to paint his imaginary landscape, the snowy archipelago of St. Hauda's Land, and to characterize the people who live there-fragile, isolated or abandoned. Ida Maclaird, slowly turning to glass from the feet up, has returned to St. Hauda's to find Henry Fuwa, a scientist she believes can help with her strange condition. While on the island, she's living in the cottage of Carl Maulsen, who loved but lost Ida's mother. A clandestine love affair also shadowed the parents of Midas Crook, whose mother was Henry's lover. Shy, inexperienced Midas is trying to live a life completely unlike that of his suicidal father, and when he meets Ida he slowly opens up to his feelings for her. Together they visit Henry, whose weird science includes a less-than-encouraging evaluation of Ida's ailment: It's both fast-moving and incurable. Although kept apart by Carl and various plot delays, Ida and Midas eventually become lovers, but little time remains, and both must confront their deepest fears as Shaw winds his tale toward a magical final scene and a more prosaic epilogue. At its best, this strikingly visual novel shrugs off self-consciousness and a sense of strain to become captivatingly ethereal.

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• ONE •

That winter there were reports in the newspaper of an iceberg the shape of a galleon floating in creaking majesty past St. Hauda’s Land’s cliffs, of a snuffling hog leading lost hill walkers out of the crags beneath Lomdendol Tor, of a dumbfounded ornithologist counting five albino crows in a flock of two hundred. But Midas Crook did not read the newspaper; he only looked at the photographs.

That winter Midas had seen photos everywhere. They haunted the woods and lurked at the ends of deserted streets. They were of such multitude that while lining up a shot at one, a second would cross his aim and, tracking that, he’d catch a third in his sights.

One day in mid-December he chased the photos to a part of the woods near Ettinsford. It was a darkening afternoon whose final shafts of light passed between trees, swung across the earth like searchlights. He left the path to follow such a beam. Twigs crunched beneath his shoes. A bleating bird skipped away over leaves. Branches swayed and clacked against each other overhead, snipping through the roving beam. He kept up his close pursuit, treading through its trail of shadows.

His father had once told him a legend: lone travelers on overgrown paths would glimpse a humanoid glow that ghosted between trees or swam in a still lake. And something, some impulse from the guts, would make the traveler lurch off the path in pursuit, into the mazy trees or deep water. When they pinned it down it would take shape. Sometimes it would form a flower of phosphorescent petals. Sometimes it drew a bird of sparks whose tail feathers fizzed embers. Sometimes it became like a person and they’d think they saw, under a nimbus like a veil, the features of a loved one long lost. Always the light grew steadily brighter until—in a fl ash—they’d be blinded. Midas’s father hadn’t needed to elaborate on what happened to them after that. Lost and alone in the cold of the woods.

It was nonsense, of course, like everything his father had said. But light was magic, making the dull earth vivid. A shaft of it hung against a tree trunk, bleaching the cracked bark yellow. Enticed, Midas crept towards it and captured it on camera before it sank back into the loam. A quick glance at his display screen promised a fine picture, but he was greedy for more. Another shaft lit briars and holly ahead. It made the berries sharply red, the leaves poisonously green. He shot it, and harried another that drifted ahead through the undergrowth. It gathered pace while Midas tripped on roots and snagged his ankles on strands of thorns. He chased it all the way to the fringe of the wood, and followed it into the open, where the scrubland sloped down and away from him towards a river. Crows wheeled in a sky of oily rags. Hidden water gurgled nearby, welling into a dark pool at the bottom of the slope. Above the pool, the ray of light dangled like a golden ribbon. He charged down the slope to catch it, feet skidding on mushy soil and sharp air driving into his lungs as he stumbled the last distance down to the banks. A sheet of lacy ice covered the water and prevented reflections, so all he could see in the pool was darkness. The ray had vanished. The clouds had coalesced too fast. He was panting, hanging his head and resting with hands on knees. His breath hung in the air.

"Are you okay?"

He spun around and felt his foot skid on a clot of soil. He fell forward and stumbled up again with filthy hands and cold muddy patches on his knees. A girl sat neatly on a fl at rock. Somehow he’d not seen her. She looked like she’d stepped through the screen of a 1950s movie. Her skin and blond hair were such pale shades they looked monochrome. Her long coat was tied at the waist by a fabric belt. She was probably a few years younger than him, in her early twenties, wearing a white hat with matching gloves.

"Sorry," she said, "if I surprised you."

Her irises were titanium gray, her most striking feature. Her lips were an afterthought and her cheekbones flat. But her eyes . . . He realized he was staring into them and quickly looked away.

He turned to the pond in hope of the light. On the other side of the water was a field marked out by a stringy barbed- wire fence. A shaggy gray ram stood there, horns like ammonites, staring into space. Past that the woods began again, with no sign of a farmhouse attached to the ram’s field. Nor was there any sign of the light.

"Are you sure you’re okay? Have you lost something?"


He turned back to her, wondering if she might have seen it. It was on the rock beside her, beamed through a hole in the clouds.

"Shh!" He spent half a second aiming, then took the shot.

"What are you doing?"

He scrutinized the image on the camera’s screen. A fine photo, all told. The girl’s half of the stone steeped in a tree’s forked shadow, the other half turned to a hunk of glowing amber. But wait . . . On closer examination he had made a mess of the composition, cropping the ends of her boots. He bent closer to the screen. No wonder he had made the mistake, for the girl’s feet sat neatly together in a pair of large boots many sizes too big for her. They were covered in laces and buckles like straightjackets. A walking stick lay across her lap.

"I’m still here, you know."

He looked up, startled.

"And I asked you what you were doing."


"Are you a photographer?"


"You’re a professional?"



He frowned.

"You’re an unemployed photographer?"

He waved his hands in vague directions. This complicated question often worried him. What other people could not realize was that photography wasn’t a job, a hobby or an obsession, it was simply as fundamental to his interpretation of the world as the effect of light diving in his retinas.

"I cope," he mumbled, "with photography."

She raised an eyebrow. "It’s rude to photograph people without their consent. Not everyone enjoys the experience."

The ram grunted in its field.

She carried on. "Anyway, may I see it? The photograph you took of me."

Midas timidly held out the camera, tilting it slightly towards her.

"Actually," he explained, "um, it’s not a photo of you. If it were I’d have framed it differently. I wouldn’t have cropped the tip of your, erm, boot. And I’d have asked permission."

"Then what’s it a photograph of?"

He shrugged. "You could say it was the light."

"Can I take a closer look?"

Before he’d had a chance to figure out how to word a sentence to say no, not really, not quite, he wasn’t that comfortable with other people handling his camera, she reached up and took it. The carry strap, still slung around his neck, forced him to step unbearably close to her. He winced and waited, leaning backwards uncomfortably, to keep as much of himself as far as he could from her. His eyes drifted back to her boots.

They weren’t just big. They were enormous on a girl so thin. They reached almost up to her knees.

"God, I look awful. So shadowy." She sighed and let the camera go. Midas straightened up and took a relieved step backwards, still staring at her boots.

"They were my dad’s. He was a policeman. They’re made for plodding."

"Oh. Ah . . ."

"Here." She opened her handbag and took out her wallet, finding inside a dog-eared piece of photograph showing her in denim shorts, yellow T-shirt and sunglasses. She stood on a beach Midas recognized.

"That’s Shalhem Bay," he said, "near Gurmton."

"Last summer. The last time I came to St. Hauda’s Land."

She offered him the photo to take a closer look. In it, her skin was tanned and her hair a roasted blond. She wore a pair of flip-flops on small, untoward feet.

A snort behind him made Midas jump. The ram had made a steamy halo for his horned head.

"You’re quite a jumpy guy. Are you sure you’re all right? What’s your name?"


"That’s unusual."

He shrugged.

"Not so unusual if it’s your own name, I suppose. Mine’s Ida."

"Hello, Ida."

She smiled, showing slightly yellowed teeth. He didn’t know why that should surprise him. Perhaps because the rest of her was so gray.

"Ida," he said.

"Yes." She gestured to the speckled surface of the rock. "Do you want to sit down?"

He sat a few feet away from her.

"Is it just me," she asked, "or is this an ugly winter?"

The clouds were now as thick and drab as concrete. The ram rubbed a hind leg against the fence, tearing his gray wool on the barbed wire.

"I don’t know," Midas said.

"There’ve been so few of those crisp days when the sky’s that brilliant blue. Outdoor days I like. And the dead leaves aren’t coppery, they’re gray."

He examined the mush of leaves at their feet. She was right. "Pleasing," he said.

She laughed. She had a watery cackle he wasn’t sure he enjoyed.

"But you," he said, "are wearing gray." And she looked good. He’d like to photograph her among monochrome pines. She’d wear a black dress and white makeup. He’d use color film and capture the muted flush in her cheeks.

"I used to dress in bright colors," she said, "saffrons and scarlets. Jesus, I used to have a tan."

He screwed up his face.

"Well, you were always bound to enjoy black-and-white winters. You’re a photographer." She reached over and shoved him playfully in a way that stunned him and would have made him shriek if he weren’t so surprised. "Like the wolf man."

"Um . . ."

"Seeing in black and white like a dog. As for me, I like colorful winters. I really want them to return. They were never this dreary before."

She kept her feet still as she sat, not shuffling them about and poking at the ground as he had the habit of doing.

"So what do you do? If you’re not a professional photographer?"

He remembered from nowhere what his father had said about never talking to strangers. He cleared his throat. "I work for my friend. At a florist’s. It’s called Catherine’s."

"Sounds fun."

"I get paper cuts. From the bouquet paper."

"A florist must be a nightmare for a black-and-white photographer."

The ram hoofed at slushy dirt.

Midas gulped. These had been more words than he had spoken in some weeks. His tongue was getting dry. "What about you?"

"Me? I suppose you could say I’m unemployable."

"Um . . . Are you ill?"

She shrugged. A fleck of rain hit the rock. She smoothed her hat further onto her head. Another raindrop fell on the leather of one boot, making a reflective spot above the toes.

She sighed. "I don’t know."

More rain fell icy on their cheeks and foreheads.

Ida looked up at the sky. "I’d best head back." She picked up her walking stick and carefully pushed herself to her feet.

Midas looked back up the slope he’d charged down. "Where’s . . . back?"

She gestured with her walking stick. Away down a winding riverbank path. "A little cottage that belongs to a friend."

"Ah. I suppose I’d best be going, too."

"Nice to meet you."

"And you. Get . . . Get well soon."

She waved gingerly, then turned around and moved away along the path. She walked at a snail’s pace, cautiously placing her stick before each step, like she was rediscovering walking after a bedridden spell. Midas felt a tug inside him as she left. He wanted to take a picture, photograph her this time, not the light. He hesitated, then shot her from behind, her shuffling figure backdropped by the water and the ram’s gray field.

• TWO •

She’d developed a particular way of walking to accommodate her condition. Step, pause, step instead of step, step, step. You needed that moment’s pause to make sure you’d set your foot straight. Like the opening gambits of a dance. Her boots were thick and padded, but one accidental fall or careless stumble could do irreparable damage that would finish her off for good, she supposed. That would be that.

And what was it like, walking on bone and muscle, on heels and soles? She couldn’t remember. Now walking felt like levitation, always an inch off the ground.

The river kept quiet, here pattering down a short cascade, there brushing over a weed-covered rock that looked like a head of green hair. Ida kept hobbling, occasional raindrops dissolving into her coat and making the wool of her hat wet. That was another problem with this bloody stupid way of getting about: you couldn’t move fast enough to keep warm. She pulled her scarf over her chin and ice-cold nose.

Thickets of holly dipped their branches in the river. A moth landed on a cluster of bright berries. She stopped walking as it fanned its wings. They were furred brown and speckled with lush greens.

"Hi," she said to the moth.

It flew away.

She walked on.

She wanted the moth back. Sometimes when she closed her eyes she saw more color than she could in a whole day on St. Hauda’s Land with them open.

She’d always liked to be in places where tightly packed hips, shoulders and backsides danced against yours, a dazzle of colors whirling on dresses and shirts. She’d held off sleep using the sheer pleasure of company, be it huddled in a freezing tent wearing a thick jumper or trading stories over card games in friends’ flats until morning came. There was none of that to be had on these islands.

She had with her the tatty St. Hauda’s Land guidebook she had bought on her trip to the archipelago in the summer. When she had opened it that winter, for the first time since that trip, grains of white sand fell from its spine.

She’d had more enthusiasm for the place in summertime. She had read, with pity for the islanders, about the lurching industrial fishing boats that trawled from the mainland to intrude in the archipelago’s waters, scooping whole pods of speared whales from the water and turning them to blubber and red slop on their slaughterhouse decks. She had read of local whalers who sailed farther and farther out to sea in little boats their fathers and grandfathers had fished in. Some had not returned, either when storms blew up or generations-old vessels failed them. She read how, when they returned with dismal catches, the market was already saturated by the meat from the mainland. Whaling families began to move away, taking their youngsters with them. Ida’s guidebook tried to draw a line under this, but sounded delirious instead. Tourists would never be attracted, as the authors hoped, by the drab architecture of Glamsgallow’s seafront. Nor by the plain rock walls of Ettinsford’s church. Nor by the fishery guildhall at Gurmton, whose painted ceiling of seamen and sea creatures, all depicted with underwhelming skill in the muted colors of the ocean, was compared hopelessly optimistically to the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

It was wrong to count on the landscape, although it could be impressive at times. Other island destinations had more dramatic coastlines than St. Hauda’s Land, which showcased more than anything the insidious sea. Ida had wondered when the guidebook’s map was sketched, for entire beaches shown on the map were these days buried under the weight of water. An impressive natural rock tower called Grem Forst (locally known as the Giant’s Lamphouse) was described in flowery prose as a star attraction. The lumberjack sea had been at work, cutting away at the rock with its adze of waves. Unwitnessed one evening, the Lamphouse toppled. It broke into a string of boulders peeking meek faces out of the tide.

Inland, the archipelago had only foul-smelling bogs and haggard woodland to attract holidaymakers. Ida doubted the islands could survive the peddling of this kind of tourism. If anything, the guidebook should trumpet the one thing it was careful to avoid.

Loneliness. You couldn’t buy company on St. Hauda’s Land.

He’d been an odd one, that boy with the camera. Such a distinctive physique: pale skin so taut on his skeleton, holding himself with a shy hunch, not ugly as such but certainly not handsome, with a demeanor eager to cause no trouble, to attract no attention.

Made sense. She reckoned photographers wanted you to behave as normal, as if they and their cameras weren’t there.

She liked him.

She hesitated (taking her next careful step along the river path). There were more pressing things than one skewed island man. Like finding Henry Fuwa, her first skewed island man.

Henry Fuwa. The kind of man who was either pitied or scoffed at. The kind of person who might be seen on a bus paired with the only empty seat, while passengers chose to stand in the aisle. A man she had come back all this way— braved the heaving sigh of the ferry deck and the retreat of color—to pin down. Out of everyone she’d met since what was happening started happening to her, only Henry had offered any clue about the strange transformation happening beneath her boots and many- layered socks. She had not even known it was a clue when he offered it, because back on that summer trip she had still been able to wriggle her toes and pick the sand out from between them.

Wind stirred the branches of the firs overhead. The memory of the clue he had given her was a dripping tap in the dead of night. The moment you blocked out the dripping, you realized you’d done so, and that made you listen again.

He had said it in the Barnacle, that ugly little pub in Gurmton, six months ago when the earth was baked yellow and the sea aquamarine.

"Would you believe," he had said (and back then she had not), "there are glass bodies here, hidden in the bog water?"

Night mustered in the woods. Shadows lengthened across the path and Ida could barely see where track ended and root began. The half moon looked like it was dissolving in the clouds. A bird called out. Leaves rustled among worm-shapes of trunks. Something shook the branches.

She hobbled onward in the dark, eager to be inside, to root out colors in the safety of the cottage. Tomorrow she would look again for Henry Fuwa. But how did you find a recluse in a wilderness of recluses?

Excerpted from The Girl With Glass Feet by Ali Shaw.

Copyright © 2009 by Ali Shaw.

Published in 2010 by Henry Holt and Company, LLC.

All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Publisher.

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