The Winter of the Dollhouse

by Laura Amy Schlitz Narrated by Laura Knight Keating

Overview

This captivating coming-of-age story is touching, funny, and beautifully layered, with a fairy-tale ending that only Newbery Medalist Laura Amy Schlitz could deliver.

On a gloomy November night, eleven-year-old Tiphany Stokes saves an old lady from collapsing in the street. An antique doll named Gretel watches them, longing for Tiph to rescue her from life in a shop window. Though none of these three characters realizes it, their worlds are about to change: Gretel will no longer be a precious prisoner. The old lady-is she a witch?-will discover the secret hidden in her long-neglected dollhouse. And Tiph-whose parents rejoice that she is “never any trouble”-will become a thief, a dog walker, an actor, and best of all, a friend.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher

Newbery Medalist Schlitz (Splendors and Glooms) braids parallel story lines into a cozy fantasy that lauds the power of connection to uplift and inspire. . . . Intricately detailed and nuanced characters, relatable domestic scenes with emotional heft, and evocative writing make for an enchanting, gratifying read.
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

In this deep and wide-ranging narrative, Schlitz takes an innovative approach to storytelling. . . .A great choice for readers who like dollhouses, English bulldogs, and the intriguing possibility of fantasy worlds that hide in plain sight.
—The Horn Book (starred review)

Schlitz tenderly develops her characters, giving each a rough-edged complexity. . . .It’s Schlitz’s clear-eyed portrayal of Tiph’s emotional inner life that anchors this cozy fantasy, with the dolls’ nocturnal adventures providing lift.
—Kirkus Reviews

The skillfully intertwined stories increase readers’ interest in the well-imagined characters. An appealing, original novel from an Newbery Award–winning author.
—Booklist

Kirkus Reviews

2025-05-30
A shared interest in dolls and dollhouses forms the foundation of an unexpected intergenerational friendship.

Tiphany Stokes, a preteen, and Szilvia Rózsahegyi, a self-described “old bat,” are new to town, and both are lonely. So when Tiph does the old woman a good turn outside the dollhouse store whose window she haunts, the ensuing conversation leads to a business arrangement: Tiph will walk Ms. Rózsahegyi’s dog and clean her cat’s litter box. Her new employer instructs Tiph to call her Szilvia Néni, the Hungarian for “Aunt Szilvia,” which Tiph instantly Americanizes to Néni Szilvia, and a friendship grows. In interleaved chapters, another begins between two antique dolls, Gretel and Little Red Riding Hood, who find their way from the dollhouse store to Néni Szilvia’s house: Red as part of the old woman’s project to restore the dollhouse her father built for her decades ago and Gretel in Tiph’s pocket. By night, the two dolls explore their new environs, “daredevil” Red coaxing the more timid Gretel out of her comfort zone. Schlitz tenderly develops her characters, giving each a rough-edged complexity. Her portrayal of Tiph’s relationship with her stepmother is especially skillful. Tiph is a basically decent kid, but she’s far from perfect. It’s Schlitz’s clear-eyed portrayal of Tiph’s emotional inner life that anchors this cozy fantasy, with the dolls’ nocturnal adventures providing lift. Main characters present white.

More character study than anything else, this book delves deep.(Fantasy. 10-12)

Product Details

BN ID:	2940192329566
Publisher:	Recorded Books, LLC
Publication date:	09/02/2025
Edition description:	Unabridged
Age Range:	10 - 13 Years

Read an Excerpt

Prologue: Gretel
On the day before Thanksgiving, Mr. DiLucca, the owner of the dollhouse store, unlocked the wooden case where a four-inch doll had spent the past eleven months. He unwrapped her and stood her in the shop window.
The doll, Gretel, itched and tingled. Her whole body felt like a foot that had gone to sleep and was waking up again. There was so much to see outside the window: traffic lights shining like wet lollipops, lime and lemon and cherry. Cars swooped back and forth, and so did people on foot; sometimes there were children, sometimes there were dogs.
It was exciting to be out in the world again. Last Christmas, Mr. DiLucca had placed Gretel in the window next to a gingerbread house he’d bought from the bakery. From the day after Thanksgiving until Christmas Day, Gretel had stood with her hand raised, as if she were about to steal a dollop of icing. Gretel was a doll, so her hand couldn’t get tired, but she disliked the pose. She knew that gingerbread houses led to trouble: witches and cages and red-hot ovens.
She also found out that gingerbread houses attracted mice. Gretel had enjoyed the company of the mice, until Mr. DiLucca discovered mouse droppings in the window. That was the end of the gingerbread house. Gretel was afraid it was also the end of the mice, though she couldn’t be sure. After the gingerbread house was thrown away, she was shut up in the cabinet again.
Now she stood bright-eyed and wide awake as Mr. DiLucca arranged the window. He draped holly and red beads at the edge of the shelf and tiny gold lights that flashed like fireflies. To one side of Gretel he placed a round mirror and a ring of snowy cotton. Three-inch ice-skaters glided around and around the glass. On the other side was a miniature bakery, fifteen inches square. A motherly-looking doll in an apron stood behind the counter, serving a boy doll in a sailor suit. Gretel liked looking at the cakes and buns. If she had been human, her nostrils would have twitched like the nose of a rabbit.
Mr. DiLucca set an open book in front of Gretel. He sprinkled silver stars over the pages, and said under his breath, “That’ll do.”
Gretel didn’t bother to look at the book. She knew it was Grimms’ Fairy Tales, and she knew the picture by heart: a gingerbread house with two children beside it. That was her story, “Hansel and Gretel.” The doll maker who crafted her had made a Hansel doll as well. Sixty years ago, they had been gifts for a brother and sister.
The boy had complained when he found a doll in his Christmas stocking. He said that dolls were for girls. He said—loudly, too—that dolls were stupid. But when no one was looking, he scooped up Hansel and hid him in his pocket.
After that, Hansel was free. He was loved, and the boy provided him with splendid adventures. Hansel was a pirate in the bathtub and sailed on a ship made from scrap wood. He rode in the coal car of an electric train and between the spines of a plastic stegosaurus. In time, both his china hands chipped off and his face grew grimy. Then, somehow, he was lost. The boy cried and searched for him a long time, but Hansel was never found.
There was no danger of Gretel being lost. The sister who owned her was too old for dolls. She stored Gretel in a box at the back of her closet, next to a family of plastic horses she had also outgrown. After many years in the dark, the toys ended up in a secondhand store, where Mr. DiLucca found Gretel and bought her. “An original Von Schwangau!” he gloated, “and in perfect condition! She’s really a museum-quality doll. She’s worth a fortune.” But for some reason, Gretel had not sold. Her clothes were too plain, and her face was too serious. The price Mr. DiLucca set on her was too high. Two or three times a year, a serious collector would visit the shop, and he would unpack Gretel and try to sell her.
The serious collector was always an adult, which was a disappointment; Gretel didn’t like grown-ups very much. At worst—witches and stepmothers—they were dangerous; at best, they were less interesting than children. She didn’t want to belong to a collector, who would keep her in a glass case. She wanted to play.
She wanted a child.
Watching the street now, she felt the stirrings of hope. Children passed by. Some stopped to peer in the window. A few even dared to come inside. Mr. DiLucca smiled a false smile and told them not to touch.
Twilight turned from blue-violet to dim gray. Mr. DiLucca locked the shop door and turned off the lights. He went upstairs to his workroom or perhaps his apartment; Gretel didn’t know. What she did know was that nobody would buy her after the shop was closed.
Gretel slept.

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