If you enjoyed the Ember in the Ashes series, then jump 20 years into the future and settle into Heir. The world is back to its fraught and fractured ways and it's up to three young heroes to untangle their own lives in the heart of the Empire.

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SABAA TAHIR is a former newspaper editor who grew up in California’s Mojave Desert at her family’s eighteen-room motel. There, she spent her time devouring fantasy novels, listening to thunderous indie rock, and playing guitar and piano badly. Her #1 New York Times bestselling An Ember in the Ashes series has been translated into more than thirty-five languages, and the first book in the series was named one of TIME’s 100 Best Young Adult Books of All Time. Tahir’s most recent novel, All My Rage, won the National Book Award for Young People’s Literature, the Michael L. Printz Award, the Boston Globe-Horn Book Award for Fiction and Poetry.

Visit Sabaa online at SabaaTahir.com and follow her on Instagram @SabaaTahir and TikTok @SabaaTahirAuthor.

\"},{\"id\":\"108036277T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"SABAA TAHIR is a former newspaper editor who grew up in California’s Mojave Desert at her family’s eighteen-room motel. There, she spent her time devouring fantasy novels, listening to thunderous indie rock, and playing guitar and piano badly. Her #1 New York Times bestselling An Ember in the Ashes series has been translated into more than thirty-five languages, and the first book in the series was named one of TIME’s 100 Best Young Adult Books of All Time. Tahir’s most recent novel, All My Rage, won the National Book Award for Young People’s Literature, the Michael L. Printz Award, the Boston Globe-Horn Book Award for Fiction and Poetry.

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Visit Sabaa online at SabaaTahir.com and follow her on Instagram @SabaaTahir and TikTok @SabaaTahirAuthor.\"},{\"id\":\"108036276T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"SABAA TAHIR is a former newspaper editor who grew up in California’s Mojave Desert at her family’s eighteen-room motel. There, she spent her time devouring fantasy novels, listening to thunderous indie rock, and playing guitar and piano badly. Her #1 New York Times bestselling An Ember in the Ashes series has been translated into more than thirty-five languages, and the first book in the series was named one of TIME’s 100 Best Young Adult Books of All Time. Tahir’s most recent novel, All My Rage, won the National Book Award for Young People’s Literature, the Michael L. Printz Award, the Boston Globe-Horn Book Award for Fiction and Poetry.

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Kalei Maristela was dying.

During the battle with her father, Kalei’s connection to the moon was severed. With that loss, something in her has shattered and left her on the brink of death. When the new bones in her body awaken a dangerous magic, she must decide whether to use this second chance for good or for evil. Can she resist descending into corruption and remain true to herself despite the title \"Princess of Death”?

Evhen Lockes was drowning.

Her parents’ murderer holds her brother captive, and Evhen would do anything to get him back. Including traveling to Geirvar, a dangerous land where assassins lurk around every corner. With a distrusting council she can't rely on, and Kalei pushing her away at every turn, Evhen is left to prove herself worthy of the crown bestowed on her before she was ready. But can she save the princess she fell in love with and her kingdom from those who want to see it wiped off the map?",{"_41":1192,"_54":1193,"_56":1194,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47927029629169","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781958607558_p0.jpg?v=1765897052",1333,{"_1083":1196},{"_1085":1197,"_1087":1088},"8.99",{"_1083":1199,"_1094":1200},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":1202},[1203],{"_41":1204,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":1205,"_1104":1206,"_1062":1207,"_1107":1208,"_1113":1188,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46637647069425",{"_41":1192,"_54":1193,"_1080":-5,"_56":1194,"_50":1079},{"_1085":1197,"_1087":1088},{"_72":1187,"_886":1188},[1209],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":1188},[1212,1215,-5,1218,1220,1222,1225,1227,1230,1233,1236,-5,-5,1238,-5,-5,-5],{"_41":1213,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":1214},"gid://shopify/Metafield/56892846801137","[{\"contributorId\":10620984,\"fullName\":\"Kay Adams\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_41":1216,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1130,"_1111":1217},"gid://shopify/Metafield/56892847128817","Dark Depths",{"_41":1219,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/56892847587569",{"_41":1221,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/56892846211313",{"_41":1223,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1224},"gid://shopify/Metafield/56892848570609","SIMON & SCHUSTER",{"_41":1226,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1148},"gid://shopify/Metafield/56892847620337",{"_41":1228,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":1229},"gid://shopify/Metafield/67592264679665","[{\"id\":\"126181004T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Kay Adams is a fantasy author living in big-city Ontario, surrounded by a massive TBR pile and an equally massive teapot collection. A graduate of the University of Toronto’s Celtic Studies program, Kay began weaving worlds and creating characters using a mix of folkloric fascination and celestial curiosity. When she isn’t writing, she can be found scrolling TikTok until her time limit runs out, existing in the same vicinity as her two cats Goose and Ducky, or staring at her rainbow library until a book she wants to read magically materializes—except the books she really wants to read are the ones she’s writing.

\"},{\"id\":\"108427558T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Kay Adams is a fantasy author living in big-city Ontario, surrounded by a massive TBR pile and an equally massive teapot collection. A graduate of the University of Toronto’s Celtic Studies program, Kay began weaving worlds and creating characters using a mix of folkloric fascination and celestial curiosity. When she isn’t writing, she can be found scrolling TikTok until her time limit runs out, existing in the same vicinity as her two cats Goose and Ducky, or staring at her rainbow library until a book she wants to read magically materializes—except the books she really wants to read are the ones she’s writing.\"},{\"id\":\"105210560T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Kay Adams is a fantasy author living in big—city Ontario, surrounded by a massive TBR pile and an equally massive teapot collection. A graduate of the University of Toronto’s Celtic Studies program, Kay began weaving worlds and creating characters using a mix of folkloric fascination and celestial curiosity. When she isn’t writing, she can be found scrolling TikTok until her time limit runs out, existing in the same vicinity as her two cats Goose and Ducky, or staring at her rainbow library until a book she wants to read magically materializes—except the books she really wants to read are the ones she’s writing.\"},{\"id\":\"111949099T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Kay Adams is a fantasy author living in big-city Ontario, surrounded by a massive TBR pile and an equally massive teapot collection. A graduate of the University of Toronto's Celtic Studies program, Kay began weaving worlds and creating characters using a mix of folkloric fascination and celestial curiosity. When she isn't writing, she can be found scrolling TikTok until her time limit runs out, existing in the same vicinity as her two cats Goose and Ducky, or staring at her rainbow library until a book she wants to read magically materializes--except the books she really wants to read are the ones she's writing.\"}]",{"_41":1231,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":1232},"gid://shopify/Metafield/56892848996593","Crowns-of-Blood-and-Salt/Kay-Adams",{"_41":1234,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":1235},"gid://shopify/Metafield/56892845588721","1145682522",{"_41":1237,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/56892847456497",{"_41":1239,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":1188},"gid://shopify/Metafield/56892843852017",{"_33":1241,"_26":1184,"_1062":1242},"YplKpNGehRXcpoMpKuxMM",{"_1064":1065,"_41":1243,"_72":1244,"_1068":1069,"_886":1245,"_893":1246,"_1072":1247,"_1074":1248,"_1081":1252,"_1089":59,"_1090":1255,"_1096":1258,"_931":1267,"_1117":1269,"_1119":1270},"gid://shopify/Product/9091673817329","Infinity Alchemist","9781250890269","AN INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES AND INDIE BESTSELLER!Infinity Alchemist is a spellbinding fantasy novel about a quest that leads three young alchemists toward dangerous truth, legendary love, and extraordinary power. With their signature \"prowess\" (FIYAH) and \"unbridled creativity\" (New York Times Book Review), acclaimed author Kacen Callender turns their formidable skill to young adult fantasy for the first time.The hardcover edition features a beautiful jacket with gold foil and a foil case stamp, an in-world map, and special illustrated endpaper.For Ash Woods, practicing alchemy is a crime.Only an elite few are legally permitted to study the science of magic—so when Ash is rejected by Lancaster College of Alchemic Science, he takes a job as the school’s groundskeeper instead, forced to learn alchemy in secret. When he’s discovered by the condescending and brilliant apprentice Ramsay Thorne, Ash is sure he's about to be arrested—but instead of calling the reds, Ramsay surprises Ash by making him an offer: Ramsay will keep Ash's secret if he helps her find the legendary Book of Source, a sacred text that gives its reader extraordinary power.As Ash and Ramsay work together and their feelings for each other grow, Ash discovers their mission is more dangerous than he imagined, pitting them against influential and powerful alchemists—Ash’s estranged father included. Ash’s journey takes him through the cities and wilds across New Anglia, forcing him to discover his own definition of true power and how far he and other alchemists will go to seize it.Featuring trans, queer, and polyamorous characters of color, Infinity Alchemist is the hugely anticipated young adult fantasy debut from the extraordinary author of Felix Ever After, King and the Dragonflies, Queen of the Conquered and more.\"Spellbinding.\" —AIDEN THOMAS • \"Thrilling.\" —ELANA K. ARNOLD • \"A blast of heart-racing magic.\" —ANDREW JOSEPH WHITE • \"Expands the possibilities of YA fantasy.\" —A. R. CAPETTA Most Anticiptated from Goodreads, Publishers Weekly, Book Riot, Bookpage, The Nerd Daily, and more!At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.","

AN INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES AND INDIE BESTSELLER!

Infinity Alchemist is a spellbinding fantasy novel about a quest that leads three young alchemists toward dangerous truth, legendary love, and extraordinary power.

With their signature \"prowess\" (FIYAH) and \"unbridled creativity\" (New York Times Book Review), acclaimed author Kacen Callender turns their formidable skill to young adult fantasy for the first time.

The hardcover edition features a beautiful jacket with gold foil and a foil case stamp, an in-world map, and special illustrated endpaper.

For Ash Woods, practicing alchemy is a crime.

Only an elite few are legally permitted to study the science of magic—so when Ash is rejected by Lancaster College of Alchemic Science, he takes a job as the school’s groundskeeper instead, forced to learn alchemy in secret.

When he’s discovered by the condescending and brilliant apprentice Ramsay Thorne, Ash is sure he's about to be arrested—but instead of calling the reds, Ramsay surprises Ash by making him an offer: Ramsay will keep Ash's secret if he helps her find the legendary Book of Source, a sacred text that gives its reader extraordinary power.

As Ash and Ramsay work together and their feelings for each other grow, Ash discovers their mission is more dangerous than he imagined, pitting them against influential and powerful alchemists—Ash’s estranged father included. Ash’s journey takes him through the cities and wilds across New Anglia, forcing him to discover his own definition of true power and how far he and other alchemists will go to seize it.

Featuring trans, queer, and polyamorous characters of color, Infinity Alchemist is the hugely anticipated young adult fantasy debut from the extraordinary author of Felix Ever After, King and the Dragonflies, Queen of the Conquered and more.

\"Spellbinding.\" —AIDEN THOMAS • \"Thrilling.\" —ELANA K. ARNOLD • \"A blast of heart-racing magic.\" —ANDREW JOSEPH WHITE • \"Expands the possibilities of YA fantasy.\" —A. R. CAPETTA

Most Anticiptated from Goodreads, Publishers Weekly, Book Riot, Bookpage, The Nerd Daily, and more!

At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

",{"_41":1249,"_54":1250,"_56":1251,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47767523361009","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781250890269_p0.jpg?v=1765509316",1285,{"_1083":1253},{"_1085":1254,"_1087":1088},"9.99",{"_1083":1256,"_1094":1257},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":1259},[1260],{"_41":1261,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":1262,"_1104":1263,"_1062":1264,"_1107":1265,"_1113":1245,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46518405628145",{"_41":1249,"_54":1250,"_1080":-5,"_56":1251,"_50":1079},{"_1085":1254,"_1087":1088},{"_72":1244,"_886":1245},[1266],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":1268},"[\"Celebrate Pride with NOOK (p4027)\",\"Transgender Voices & Stories (p9055)\"]",{"_1111":1245},[1271,1274,1276,1278,1280,1282,1285,1288,1291,1294,1297,-5,1299,1301,-5,-5,-5],{"_41":1272,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":1273},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51598709129457","[{\"contributorId\":21046296,\"fullName\":\"Kacen Callender\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_41":1275,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1130,"_1111":1244},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51598709522673",{"_41":1277,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1134,"_1111":862},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51598709653745",{"_41":1279,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51598710178033",{"_41":1281,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51598708506865",{"_41":1283,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1284},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51598711095537","Macmillan",{"_41":1286,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1287},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51598710309105","274",{"_41":1289,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":1290},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51598712144113","[{\"id\":\"115837938T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

\\\\\\\"Richly built. This is magical.\\\\\\\" —Booklist, starred review

\\\\\\\"Callender builds a rich environment that echoes real-world injustices...political intrigue, a fascinating magic system, and heart-pounding action propel the plot and, combined with Ash’s unfurling relationships with Ramsay and the rest of the supporting cast, result in a refreshingly affirming and tender standout fantasy.\\\\\\\" —Publishers Weekly, starred review

\\\\\\\"Phenomenal.\\\\\\\" —ReactorMag.com

\\\\\\\"Infinity Alchemist is full of smart dialogue and moves with the kind of pace that will keep readers drawn in, but it is the overriding feeling of empathy throughout that elevates this resonant fantasy.\\\\\\\" —BookPage

\\\\\\\"This elaborate adventure leads to some surprising places—readers will thrill to the high-stakes predicaments and appreciate the characters’ attempts to remain true to themselves, no matter the cost.\\\\\\\" —Horn Book

\\\\\\\"A thrilling adventure full of magic.\\\\\\\" —Book Riot

\\\\\\\"Featuring a cast of queer and trans characters entangled in a gorgeous romance, Infinity Alchemist is a thrilling, expansive adventure and a bold exploration of family lost and found.\\\\\\\" —Elana K. Arnold, author of Damsel

\\\\\\\"Kacen Callender has story alchemy unlike any other. Central relationships twine with deeply felt magic to transmute expectations and expand the possibilities of YA fantasy. This novel introduces a world of grounded conflicts that never loses touch with our own—and boundless power that brims with possibility.\\\\\\\" —A. R. Capetta, Lambda-winning author of The Brilliant Death series

\\\\\\\"Infinity Alchemist is a spellbinding, fast-paced and deeply romantic fantasy that thoughtfully explores the meaning of power, who is worthy of it, and what people are willing to do in its pursuit. Kacen Callender's diverse cast of queer and polyamorous characters provides some much-needed representation to the YA fantasy genre.\\\\\\\" —Aiden Thomas, New York Times bestselling author of The Sunbearer Trials

\\\\\\\"Callender steps into YA fantasy with a rush of adrenaline and power. A high-stakes world of magic and deception where characters are queer, trans, polyamorous, and loved without question; this is a blast of heart-racing magic you won’t want to miss.\\\\\\\" —Andrew Joseph White, New York Times bestselling author of Hell Followed With Us

\"},{\"id\":\"91976926T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Featuring a refreshingly diverse cast of characters, Infinity Alchemist is a dynamic and high-stakes romantasy that will resonate with fans of Gallant and Ace of Spades. Riddled with tension that will make this fully realized world feel all the more palpable, this is a brilliant introduction to a brand-new world.

\"},{\"id\":\"115837939T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

KACEN CALLENDER is the bestselling and award-winning author of multiple novels for children, teens, and adults, including the Stonewall Honor Book Felix Ever After and the National Book Award for Young People's Literature winner King and the Dragonflies. Their adult fantasy, Queen of the Conquered, was a World Fantasy Award 2020 winner for Best Novel, named one of the 100 Best Fantasy Novels of All Time by Time Magazine and one of the 50 Best Fantasy Novels of All Time by Esquire.

\"},{\"id\":\"89508299T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"KACEN CALLENDER is the bestselling and award-winning author of multiple novels for children, teens, and adults, including the Stonewall Honor Book Felix Ever After and the National Book Award for Young People's Literature winner King and the Dragonflies. Their adult fantasy, Queen of the Conquered, was a World Fantasy Award 2020 winner for Best Novel, named one of the 100 Best Fantasy Novels of All Time by Time Magazine and one of the 50 Best Fantasy Novels of All Time by Esquire.\"},{\"id\":\"99728546T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"KACEN CALLENDER is the bestselling and award-winning author of multiple novels for children, teens, and adults, including the Stonewall Honor Book Felix Ever After and the National Book Award for Young People's Literature winner King and the Dragonflies. Their adult fantasy, Queen of the Conquered, was a World Fantasy Award 2020 winner for Best Novel, named one of the 100 Best Fantasy Novels of All Time by Time Magazine and one of the 50 Best Fantasy Novels of All Time by Esquire.\"}]",{"_41":1292,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":1293},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51598711521521","Infinity-Alchemist/Kacen-Callender",{"_41":1295,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":1296},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51598707982577","1143456477",{"_41":1298,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51598710046961",{"_41":1300,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":1268},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51598712242417",{"_41":1302,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":1245},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51598706671857",{"_33":1304,"_26":1184,"_1062":1305},"kCBmCZTIcZHjqmhaqr7rt",{"_1064":1065,"_41":1306,"_72":1307,"_1068":1069,"_886":1308,"_893":1309,"_1072":1310,"_1074":1311,"_1081":1316,"_1089":59,"_1090":1319,"_1096":1322,"_931":1331,"_1117":1333,"_1119":1334},"gid://shopify/Product/8921058902257","Armoire of Adventures: Threads of Magic Stories","2940184312545","Will Thali's past disrupt her future? When Thali's beat up armoire shows up in the palace, so do the memories. Before the world's fate rested on her and her friends, she was the youngest child of a famed merchant lord and warrior lady with the best brother anyone could ask for. From fancy dinners and formal balls to helping move and sell products at the market, Thali's life was full of adventures and new people.Join her palace friends as they settle in to hear a cozy series of short stories. From warriors, healers, and friends with special animals, we'll hear encounters that both shaped her youth and created long term friendships that she may need to rely on in the challenging times ahead. Will the memories bring up fondness or fear? Are her friends going to want something from Thali now that she's royal or will she be able to depend upon their friendship? What will her new friends think of her old ones? Will the reminiscing change the decisions she's making for her own future?","Will Thali's past disrupt her future?   

When Thali's beat up armoire shows up in the palace, so do the memories. Before the world's fate rested on her and her friends, she was the youngest child of a famed merchant lord and warrior lady with the best brother anyone could ask for. From fancy dinners and formal balls to helping move and sell products at the market, Thali's life was full of adventures and new people.

Join her palace friends as they settle in to hear a cozy series of short stories. From warriors, healers, and friends with special animals, we'll hear encounters that both shaped her youth and created long term friendships that she may need to rely on in the challenging times ahead.   

Will the memories bring up fondness or fear? Are her friends going to want something from Thali now that she's royal or will she be able to depend upon their friendship? What will her new friends think of her old ones? Will the reminiscing change the decisions she's making for her own future?",{"_41":1312,"_54":1313,"_56":1314,"_50":1315,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47795035963633","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/2940184312545_p0.jpg?v=1765557917",1290,1996,{"_1083":1317},{"_1085":1318,"_1087":1088},"4.99",{"_1083":1320,"_1094":1321},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":1323},[1324],{"_41":1325,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":1326,"_1104":1327,"_1062":1328,"_1107":1329,"_1113":1308,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46328781897969",{"_41":1312,"_54":1313,"_1080":-5,"_56":1314,"_50":1315},{"_1085":1318,"_1087":1088},{"_72":1307,"_886":1308},[1330],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":1332},"[\"Indie Reads (p915)\",\"Indie Books (p913)\"]",{"_1111":1308},[1335,1338,-5,1341,1343,1345,1347,1349,1352,1355,1358,-5,1360,1362,-5,-5,-5],{"_41":1336,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":1337},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43205000921329","[{\"contributorId\":30216269,\"fullName\":\"Camilla Tracy\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_41":1339,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1130,"_1111":1340},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43205001314545","Threads of Magic",{"_41":1342,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43205001806065",{"_41":1344,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43205000462577",{"_41":1346,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":163},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43205002821873",{"_41":1348,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1148},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43205001904369",{"_41":1350,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":1351},"gid://shopify/Metafield/62039224516849","[{\"id\":\"112365671T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Camilla is a lover of many mediums of storytelling. She loves to write YA fantasy with strong heroines who triumph, find love, and adventure with their animals sidekicks. She always has projects on the go and loves to consume stories of all kinds – books, shows, movies, plays, amongst many others.
When she is not writing, Camilla is often found exploring animal behavior, crafting, drinking a hot beverage, and clicker training her animals.
Come visit her at CamillaTracy.com
Or on instagram @camilla_tracy\"}]",{"_41":1353,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":1354},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43205003182321","Armoire-of-Adventures/Camilla-Tracy",{"_41":1356,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":1357},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43204999938289","1147296396",{"_41":1359,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43205001674993",{"_41":1361,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":1332},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43205003673841",{"_41":1363,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":1308},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43204998725873",{"_33":1365,"_26":1184,"_1062":1366},"NRlH_LL1vbpTXUghuugqG",{"_1064":1065,"_41":1367,"_72":1368,"_1068":1069,"_886":1369,"_893":1370,"_1072":1371,"_1074":1372,"_1081":1377,"_1089":59,"_1090":1380,"_1096":1383,"_931":1392,"_1117":1394,"_1119":1395},"gid://shopify/Product/9087503696113","Curious Tides","9781665939294","Two starred reviews! “A marvel in atmosphere.” —Chloe Gong, #1 New York Times bestselling author of These Violent Delights Ninth House meets A Deadly Education in this gorgeous dark academia fantasy “that will capture readers like a rip current” (Publishers Weekly, starred review) following a teen mage who must unravel the truth behind the secret society that may have been involved in her classmates’ deaths.Emory might be a student at the prestigious Aldryn College for Lunar Magics, but her healing abilities have always been mediocre at best—until a treacherous night in the Dovermere sea caves leaves a group of her classmates dead and her as the only survivor. Now Emory is plagued by strange, impossible powers that no healer should possess. Powers that would ruin her life if the wrong person were to discover them. To gain control of these new abilities, Emory enlists the help of the school’s most reclusive student, Baz—a boy already well-versed in the deadly nature of darker magic, whose sister happened to be one of the drowned students and Emory’s best friend. Determined to find the truth behind the drownings and the cult-like secret society she’s convinced her classmates were involved in, Emory is faced with even more questions when the supposedly drowned students start washing ashore—alive—only for them each immediately to die horrible, magical deaths. And Emory is not the only one seeking answers. When her new magic captures the society’s attention, she finds herself drawn into their world of privilege and power, all while wondering if the truth she’s searching for might lead her right back to Dovermere…to face the fate she was never meant to escape.","Two starred reviews!
“A marvel in atmosphere.” —Chloe Gong, #1 New York Times bestselling author of These Violent Delights

Ninth House meets A Deadly Education in this gorgeous dark academia fantasy “that will capture readers like a rip current” (Publishers Weekly, starred review) following a teen mage who must unravel the truth behind the secret society that may have been involved in her classmates’ deaths.

Emory might be a student at the prestigious Aldryn College for Lunar Magics, but her healing abilities have always been mediocre at best—until a treacherous night in the Dovermere sea caves leaves a group of her classmates dead and her as the only survivor. Now Emory is plagued by strange, impossible powers that no healer should possess.

Powers that would ruin her life if the wrong person were to discover them.

To gain control of these new abilities, Emory enlists the help of the school’s most reclusive student, Baz—a boy already well-versed in the deadly nature of darker magic, whose sister happened to be one of the drowned students and Emory’s best friend. Determined to find the truth behind the drownings and the cult-like secret society she’s convinced her classmates were involved in, Emory is faced with even more questions when the supposedly drowned students start washing ashore—alive—only for them each immediately to die horrible, magical deaths.

And Emory is not the only one seeking answers. When her new magic captures the society’s attention, she finds herself drawn into their world of privilege and power, all while wondering if the truth she’s searching for might lead her right back to Dovermere…to face the fate she was never meant to escape.",{"_41":1373,"_54":1374,"_56":1375,"_50":1376,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47750960546033","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781665939294_p0.jpg?v=1765476951",1316,1992,{"_1083":1378},{"_1085":1379,"_1087":1088},"10.99",{"_1083":1381,"_1094":1382},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":1384},[1385],{"_41":1386,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":1387,"_1104":1388,"_1062":1389,"_1107":1390,"_1113":1369,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46513035149553",{"_41":1373,"_54":1374,"_1080":-5,"_56":1375,"_50":1376},{"_1085":1379,"_1087":1088},{"_72":1368,"_886":1369},[1391],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":1393},"[\"Dark Academia (p10108)\"]",{"_1111":1369},[1396,1399,1402,1404,1406,1408,1410,1412,1415,1418,1421,-5,1423,1425,-5,1427,1430],{"_41":1397,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":1398},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51400691712241","[{\"contributorId\":29325034,\"fullName\":\"Pascale Lacelle\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_41":1400,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1130,"_1111":1401},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51400692039921","The Drowned Gods Trilogy",{"_41":1403,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1134,"_1111":862},"gid://shopify/Metafield/62244376379633",{"_41":1405,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51400692629745",{"_41":1407,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51400691253489",{"_41":1409,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1224},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51400693776625",{"_41":1411,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1148},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51400692760817",{"_41":1413,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":1414},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51400694956273","[{\"id\":\"108442753T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Chapter 1: Emory

TODAY WAS THE FIRST DAY of a new moon, and on the banks of the Aldersea, the tide was low.

There was a time when these facts meant nothing to Emory Ainsleif, but that was before the night her very life hinged on those details. Now the moon was no longer just a moon, the tide was something to fear, and though Emory was grateful for the sun still shining in the late-summer sky, unease gathered like stones in her stomach.

Aldryn College for Lunar Magics rose up ahead, ivy-clad buildings crowning the steep hill that plunged into the restless sea below. Emory dug her nails into her palm as the taste of salt water filled her mouth, a phantom impression she had yet to shake. Blood swelled from the wound. She closed her eyes, savoring the twinge of pain before the magic in her veins could heal it. It was an ordinary sort of pain. Comforting, almost. Nothing like the aching throb of images that surged in her mind—a blood-slick column of rock, a spiral burned in silver on her wrist, four bodies splayed on the sand—as if coaxed free at the sight of Aldryn.

That particular pain she couldn’t heal away, no matter how she tried to ease it.

“You’re New Moon, then?”

Emory startled. The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror, motioning to her hand, where the sigil of her lunar house glistened darkly on her pale skin. A black circle wreathed in silver narcissus. It glared back at her as if taking offense at the trickle of blood marring its surface. Guiltily, she wiped at it, seeing only death in its delicate ink.

“What’s your tidal alignment?”

“Healing.”

The driver whistled an impressed note. His own hands gripping the wheel were bare. Everyone was born with the capacity for magic, a drop of it in their blood, but only those who proved proficient enough bore their house’s sigil and studied at places like Aldryn.

“I’ve got a second cousin who’s in House New Moon too,” the driver said. “Shadowguide. Works at a morgue in Threnody.” He repressed a visible shudder, grumbling something under his breath about how the dead should be left alone.

Emory could almost hear the pointed comment Romie might have made. People fear what they don’t understand, she would say, nose tilted up in disdain at such small-mindedness. But there’s beauty in death, you know.

Indeed, no one would ever dare frown upon a Healer, whose touch could prove more efficient than any modern medicine, but some magics, like a Shadowguide’s ability to commune with spirits, or a Reaper’s death touch, made most people uneasy—especially those with little to no magic. They don’t understand like we do that death is just as much a part of the sacred cycle as life, Romie would say.

It didn’t make losing her any easier.

“Here we are,” the driver exclaimed as the cab crested the hill. “Aldryn College.”

Everything in Emory seized as the heavy iron gates creaked their welcome, silver-wrought motto splitting down the middle as they opened: Post tenebras lux; iterum atque iterum.

After darkness, light; again and again.

Gravel crunched beneath the cab’s wheels. Emory had the sudden urge to tell the driver to stop, turn back, but the gates closed behind them with a clang of finality. Nerves rattled on the heels of nausea as she took in the familiar stone steps up to the inner courtyard, flanked by towering elms. Here the driver stopped. Emory handed him a few coins, clutched the strap of her bag. No sooner had she stepped out of the cab than she wished she’d stayed in it forever, already missing the anonymity of that liminal space, the feeling of being nowhere and nowhen and no one for as long as she remained between the life she’d left at home this very morning and the one waiting for her at Aldryn. The person she would have to become here.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she climbed those eight steps, one for each of the moon’s phases: a step for the new moon, three for the waxing, one for the full moon, and three for the waning.

She faltered at the top just as she had last year, though her nerves back then had been tinged with excitement, not dread. This is it, college at last, Romie had mused on their first day of freshman year, all starry-eyed as she took in the fabled campus. We get to reinvent ourselves here, be whoever we please. And though Emory had been eager to do just that, she never understood why someone like Romie would want to be anyone but herself, so effortlessly charming and unique in a way Emory had only ever dreamed of being.

For Emory, college was a chance to be known as more than what she’d been all her life: the girl who hailed from nowhere, who always came second-best, who’d been terrified of not getting into Aldryn because her magic was wholly unremarkable compared to her best friend’s.

It offered a clean slate, the first page in a new notebook just waiting to be filled.

She ran a finger along the scar on the inside of her wrist, a silver spiral that started at the base of her thumb and stopped on the tangle of stark blue veins at her pulse point. Her gaze went to the fountain at the center of the lawn, where the Tides of Fate guarded the names of the drowned. It was too late now to erase what had been written in silver and blood, she thought. Too late to even ponder such things, it seemed: the quad was void of its usual hum of activity, and the few stragglers hurrying through the cloisters made Emory realize just how late her train had been as the dean’s voice echoed from the assembly hall where she was giving her usual welcome speech.

Emory swore. As much as she dreaded this part—yearned to run to her dorm instead, shut herself in, and avoid everyone on campus for the rest of term—she had come back for a reason, equipped with a plan. And it all started here.

She tried to ease into the dark wood-paneled room unnoticed, but the heavy door slipped from her grasp and slammed shut behind her. Heads turned her way. Emory’s cheeks burned, and for a split second, she caught herself searching the sea of faces for the one person who might have made this easier. She could almost picture it: Romie waving her over to the seat she would have saved for her. An anchor in the storm as she’d always been, before everything had changed and the girl Emory had known since childhood started slipping away, swept up by something more sinister than the tide that took her.

But Romie was not here. And neither, apparently, was Romie’s brother. Relief and guilt churned in Emory’s stomach at his absence. Before she could dwell on it, she tightened her fingers around her satchel and took the first empty seat she could find. Chin held high, she tried to adopt the devil-may-care attitude Romie might have had in her place, but still she felt the furtive glances thrown her way, heard the murmurs rising.

That’s the girl who came back from the caves.

The student who survived the Beast.

The one the tide did not claim.

Dean Fulton called for silence. “I must insist once more that students stay clear of Dovermere Caves. After the tragic events of last spring, it begs repeating: Dovermere is unsafe, its tides unpredictable, and as such it remains strictly off-limits.”

Her dark eyes flitted toward Emory as she continued. “I urge you to remember those who have fallen. Remember Quince Travers and Serena Velan of House New Moon, and Dania and Lia Azula of House Waxing Moon. Remember Daphné Dioré and Jordyn Briar Burke of House Full Moon, and Harlow Kerr and Romie Brysden of House Waning Moon. Remember their names. Honor them by ensuring no other ever knows the same horrible fate. There is no glory to be found in those caves. Only death.”

Emory’s nails dug into her skin again as students looked her way. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to break. She’d spent months preparing for this moment, hoped the summer holiday might allow for things to settle—for the shock of tragedy to fade and the students of Aldryn College to forget, as she had tried so desperately to.

Eight of her classmates dead, and Emory the only one left standing.

She thought the images that burned behind her eyes might be visible for all to see. Nine freshmen standing in a circle around a column of rock, their bloody wrists bearing a spiral mark that glowed silver in the dark. The sound of the tide rushing in earlier than it should have, death eager to have its fill. The sea and the stars and her name whispered in her ear.

Bodies on the sand.

Foolish of her, really, to think such a thing might be so easily forgotten.

The dean kept talking, but Emory didn’t hear a word. Only when students stopped staring did she let out a breath, slowly uncurl her fists. Blood bloomed beneath her nails; her palms were a mess, but already the wounds were smoothing over, her healing magic surging with barely a thought from her to answer the pull of the new moon that governed it. She latched onto this small comfort as the pressure in her veins lessened. All summer she’d felt this inexplicable pressure, like an itch she couldn’t scratch that grew to a painful throb unless she drew blood.

She eyed the row of windows behind the dean, wary of the breeze they let in. She swore she heard a whisper slithering in, the sea calling to her, looking to wrap around her limbs, desperate to pull her down, down, down toward the Deep—

Emory saw him out of the corner of her eye. He sat a few rows away, a barrier between her and the windows, the sea beyond. Dusty light fell on the side of his face as he peered at her over a shoulder, casting the rest of his features in shadows. His unflinching stare pulled her up to the surface, made everything go quiet. She recognized his boyish good looks, those thick-lashed eyes: they were the first living thing she’d seen after waking next to those broken and bloated bodies.

You’re alive, she remembered him saying, his words nearly drowned out by the swelling tide. You’re all right. And she’d clung to them so desperately, those words. A life raft keeping her afloat.

Keiran Dunhall Thornby was the perfect embodiment of his lunar house, the bright light of a full moon bursting with promise, and his presence alone had chased away all the darkness from that moonless night. He looked at her now with such intensity, as if he needed to see that she was indeed still alive. Everyone around them seemed to disappear, and for a second it felt like they were back on that beach, shivering against the horrors strewn around them.

But then she blinked. He turned away. And just like that, the moment dissolved between them like sea-foam across the sand.

Emory stroked the spiral mark on her wrist, half expecting it to start glowing silver like it had when it first appeared through whatever odd, ancient magic lived in Dovermere. She remembered the way Keiran had grabbed her wrist that night, the curious expression on his face as he’d frowned at the mark that was mirrored on his own wrist—twin spirals a dull silver on their skin. It had haunted her all summer, how impossible it was that he should be marked with the same symbol, because he wasn’t in the caves that night, hadn’t been there for the ritual that marked each student foolish enough to have been. Still, he’d found her on the beach in the middle of the night. As if he’d been waiting for her—for someone—to make it out of those caves alive.

He knew something about what happened in Dovermere, she was certain of it. It was the only reason she’d bothered coming back to Aldryn—the one thing that managed to pull her out of this ocean of grief she’d been drowning in. She would stop at nothing now to get answers.

“... and I wish each of you an enlightening term. Thank you.”

The dean’s parting words pulled Emory from her daze. Students were already out of their chairs, chattering excitedly as they exchanged handshakes and pats on the back and questions about each other’s summers. She felt painfully disconnected from it all.

Gaze fixed on Keiran, she steeled herself for what she needed to do. Her thoughts raced in tandem with her heart as she mentally listed all the questions she wanted to ask him. Just walk up to him, she told herself. It’s as simple as that. None of it felt simple, though. Without Romie here to do all the talking for her, it was up to Emory now to be bold, something her quiet, timid self balked at.

Keiran’s eyes found hers as she approached, and she was glad her steps didn’t falter. She balled her clammy hands into fists at her side, pushed her trepidation down—and stopped short as a group of upperclassmen caught up to Keiran, stealing his attention away from her.

Emory watched, deflated, as a pretty redheaded girl kissed him on the cheek and a few boys clasped his hand enthusiastically, and through it all Keiran smiled a dimpled smile, such ease and charm emanating from him that it was hard to reconcile the image with the half-drenched boy in her mind.

She thought she heard her name spoken in the chaos of voices. Someone waved at her from halfway across the hall. Penelope West, one of the few friends Emory had made outside of Romie last year, and a fellow New Moon student she’d shared most of her classes with. She’d always liked Penelope, but with her too-bubbly nature and chattiness that could go on forever, the thought of facing her—of facing anyone, really—was suddenly unbearable.

Getting answers from Keiran would have to wait.

Before Penelope could reach her, Emory slipped quietly from the assembly hall, yearning for the solace of her room.

The noonday sun beat down on the quad, great curtains of it falling between the columns that lined the cloisters. Emory cut across the lawn toward the underclassmen dormitories. She slowed near the fountain, where the Tides of Fate—Bruma, Anima, Aestas, and Quies—cast long shadows on the ground. The four deities who ruled over the lunar houses stood in the middle of the basin with their backs to each other, forming a circle in the proper order of the cycle they represented: young Bruma of the New Moon, beautiful Anima of the Waxing Moon, motherly Aestas of the Full Moon, and wise old Quies of the Waning Moon. Appropriately, the sunlight touched only Anima and Aestas, casting the other two in shadows.

Each Tide faced a different path to one of four academic halls: there was moody Noviluna Hall, its door painted black like the new moon sky that gave those of Emory’s house their powers of cleansing darkness and divination; vibrant Crescens Hall, which saw to those born on a waxing moon, their magic tied to growth, amplification, and manifestation; stately Pleniluna Hall, which catered to those who bore the power of the full moon, tied to light, protection, purity, and mindfulness; and Decrescens Hall, as dark and mysterious as the waning moon students who dealt in secrets and dreams, memories and death—and who had been Romie’s peers when she was alive.

There was a fifth hall, but no Tide watched over House Eclipse, and no path led to its door, a nondescript, nearly hidden thing.

Emory stopped by the fountain. Her fingers skimmed the surface of the sacred water, said to have been blessed by the Tides themselves. The water came from Dovermere, a network of caves as mythical as the Tides and in part what had attracted Aldryn’s founders to build their college so close to it. Students were expressly forbidden to take water from the fountain, much less use it in their bloodletting practices—a way for those of the four main lunar houses to access their magic whenever their ruling moon phase wasn’t in position, their power otherwise remaining dormant in their blood. Still, touching the water was meant to be grounding.

It wasn’t.

Emory noticed the delicate flowers floating on the surface, two for each lunar house: black narcissus, indigo hollyhocks, white orchids, purple-black poppies. Eight flowers, one for each of the names she knew had been added to the silver plaques at the Tides’ feet, souls consigned to their care so they might watch over them in the Deep.

A name and a flower for each student claimed by the sea.

And suddenly the flowers weren’t flowers at all, but bodies trapped in a cave with the deadly sea all around them. Emory turned from the fountain just as the door to House Eclipse opened.

The student who emerged made her stomach plummet.

Basil Brysden was tall and long-limbed, with a badly buttoned shirt and unruly brown curls that fell to his chin. He hugged a pile of books close to his chest, head bent low as if he were trying to make himself smaller, or perhaps invisible. Baz had long since succeeded at both: he was a ghost, a hermit, a curiosity only whispered about in the darkest corners of the college.

The Timespinner.

Such rare magic, even for one of the Eclipse-born.

Baz turned toward the fountain. Rich brown eyes met hers, and were it not for the thick-framed glasses they hid behind, Emory might have thought it was Romie staring back at her. They had the same pale, freckled skin, the same protruding ears. But Baz lacked his sister’s sense of mischief, that dreamy, faraway look Romie would get that always infuriated her professors. The bright curiosity that had spread like wildfire until it consumed all she was and could have been.

Baz’s eyes held none of Romie’s bold fire, only timid uncertainty as he greeted her with an awkward, “Emory.”

He looked like he might make a run for it to avoid this conversation altogether. She couldn’t blame him.

“You missed the assembly,” Emory said, if only just to say something. To fill the silence and drown out the guilt that threatened to choke her as Romie’s face flashed in her mind—not as it had appeared in life, but as Emory last remembered seeing it: pale and stark in those fateful moments before the sea took her away.

How Baz must resent her, for surviving what his sister had not.

He blinked toward the assembly hall, where laughter sounded as students spilled into the quad. “I guess I did.”

From his expression, Emory couldn’t quite work out if he’d missed it on purpose or forgotten about the assembly entirely. She noted the tightness around his mouth and wondered when the last time he’d laughed was. She remembered how quick he’d been to smile as a boy, in what now felt like another lifetime entirely. When she and Romie and him had attended boarding school together, sneaking out to run barefoot in the wildflower fields behind it, as free and unburdened as the gulls they would chase down to the beach.

Baz adjusted the weight of the books in his arms. “How are you? How’ve you been?”

Emory swallowed past the lump in her throat, forcing a smile. “Fine.”

Through the nearby cloisters, she spotted Keiran with his group of friends. Their talk of heading down to the beach for the start-of-term bonfires carried on the breeze, and though Keiran’s attention was on them, Emory got the distinct impression he’d been looking at her only a moment before.

“We missed you at the funeral.”

Her attention snapped back to Baz. There was no bitterness in his voice, no reproach. And that made it so much worse because if he knew the truth, if he knew what really happened in those caves, he wouldn’t have wanted her there to begin with.

Emory’s cheeks reddened as she tried to think of an excuse, but the truth of it was, she had none. She’d meant to go, had told him she would when he’d invited her right before they left for the summer. But the thought of facing Romie’s mother, of lying to Baz about what happened, of saying goodbye to her best friend while Emory herself got to live... She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t stand the empathic way Baz looked at her now, couldn’t bear this guilt that clawed at her insides, knowing he must have so many questions, none of which she could answer.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, averting her gaze. “I, uh... I have to get going. But I’ll see you around?”

Baz hugged his books tighter, shoulders drooping in relief or disappointment, she couldn’t tell.

Emory couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

Reaching her old dorm room felt like crossing an ocean. The underclassmen dorms stood on the far side of campus, a plain stone building overrun with ivy where students of all houses were mixed in together, paired off into rooms no matter the sigil inked on their skin. It was only in their third year at Aldryn that they joined the housing facilities specific to their respective lunar houses.

Emory fumbled miserably with the key to her room until the lock gave way at last and she hurried inside, head falling back against the door. She blew a heavy sigh, grateful for the quiet.

Her breath caught painfully as she took in the room.

On one side was her narrow metal-frame bed just as she’d left it, with its dark linens and duvet perfectly tucked in. There was the tall mahogany armoire where her clothes lay forgotten and the small desk crammed in the corner, still covered with neatly stacked books and fountain pens. Everything appeared untouched by the passing of time, as though the past four months never happened, and Emory had never left, and everything was still the same as it once was.

Except it wasn’t, because the other side of the room—Romie’s side of the room—was bare.

The bed was still there, the armoire and the desk, but everything that had made it Romie’s—the mismatched art and obscure books, the messy piles of clothes and rare, prickly plants, the forgotten cups of tea and plates riddled with crumbs... all those things were gone now, taken away like the tide took Romie herself.

There was not a trace of her left, but Emory’s mind conjured her all the same, recalling the last time they’d been here together.

That day, Romie had been hunched over her desk, swathed in a shaft of dwindling sunlight that made her shoulder-length hair shine copper. When Emory came in, she startled, knocking over a teacup.

“Tides, are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Irritation laced her words as she righted the cup. Dusk, the stray cat she’d found on the school grounds their first week at Aldryn and taken in despite the rules against keeping pets in the dorms, jumped off her lap with an indignant meow to perch on the windowsill instead.

Emory dropped her books on her own desk. “Well, it is a new moon. Could be a good way to test my healing skills on a live subject.”

Romie didn’t seem in the mood for jokes. She furiously wiped the tea from the papers stacked haphazardly on her desk, angling her body as if to shield them from Emory.

“What’s so interesting you couldn’t be bothered to meet me for supper? I was stuck listening to Penelope talk about Darkbearer magic for what felt like hours.”

Emory tried to keep her tone light, but it came out sharp-edged. Loaded. She couldn’t help it: Romie had been acting all kinds of strange lately, constantly disregarding their plans, withdrawn and secretive in a way she’d never been before. In truth, Emory had noticed a change in her from the moment they’d arrived at Aldryn. She hadn’t wanted to see it at first, blaming their heavy workload and differing schedules for the rift that had opened between them. They’d known each other since they were ten years old. They’d shared everything. But something had shifted, and Emory was too scared to ask why that was—too scared of losing her one true friend.

“Just research,” Romie said distractedly as she gathered her tea-stained papers and stuffed them in her satchel.

Emory eyed the rumpled state of Romie’s clothes, her unmade bed. “Have you been here sleeping all afternoon?”

“I was practicing. You know, Dreamer stuff.”

Dreamer stuff. It was what she’d been saying for the past few months, brushing off every moment she spent in the sleepscape—the realm of dreams—like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t hollowing her out, depleting her of the bright energy she used to glow with.

“You can’t keep doing this, Ro. Missing class, spending all that time in dreams? It can’t be healthy.”

“I’m fine.”

“The bags under your eyes beg to differ.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Romie shouldered her bag and moved toward the door. Something gripped Emory at the sight of her hand on the knob, as though she knew that if Romie walked out then, the rift between them would become an unbridgeable chasm.

“Ro. I’m serious. Is everything all right with you?”

She watched the tension in her friend’s shoulders ease, and when Romie turned to her, lips upturned in a signature smile, brown eyes molten in the golden hour light, she thought perhaps she might have imagined these past weeks, months—that everything might still be the same between them.

“Everything’s fine, Em.” She stood there for a moment, and though her smile never wavered, a shadow of doubt darkened her face. Emory thought she might come clean then, finally spill the secrets she’d been letting consume her, but Romie merely pulled the door open and said, “I’ll see you later, all right?”

Once the door shut behind her, Emory looked at Romie’s desk, too curious and concerned to let it go. Forgotten beneath a vial of salt water, half stained with tea, was a piece of parchment artfully burnt around the edges. The letters S.O. were stamped in the middle of the note. Emory flipped it over, where an inscription had been written in sprawling silver script: Dovermere Cove, 10 p.m.

She put the note back where she found it, dread making her mouth taste like ash. Students tended to avoid Dovermere Cove because of the dark stain its infamous sea caves cast on it. Tales of all the drownings that took place there over the years were the first thing freshmen were told when starting at Aldryn. There were always a few foolhardy students who went into the caves looking to prove something to their peers, though Emory didn’t think Romie would be reckless enough to do so. Yet when the clock neared ten and Romie still hadn’t come back to their room, panic seized her. She looked at the note again, wondering what S.O. might stand for and if it had anything to do with Romie’s change in behavior.

Unable to shake this sense of foreboding in her bones, Emory pocketed the note and went down to Dovermere Cove just in time to see Romie and seven other students slip into the caves where they would meet their end.

Emory shook the haunting image of that night from her mind. The room suddenly felt too stuffy. Too small. She rushed to the stained-glass window between the beds and threw it open wide, letting the breeze in to kiss her face. She took a deep breath, then another, and the panic that wanted to pull her under slowly receded.

Pressing her forehead against the window frame, she swore softly.

Maybe coming back to Aldryn had been a mistake. All summer, she had been able to pretend that dreadful night at the caves had never happened. She could look out at the Aldersea and not feel the weight of her guilt pressing down on her, because even though home and Aldryn bordered the same sea, they did not share the same shore, nor the same painful memories of darkness and drowning. But now Emory glanced at her friend’s empty side of the room, and all she could see were the things she could have done differently.

If she’d said something to keep Romie from walking out that door. If she hadn’t gone after her. If she hadn’t been inside those caves. If she’d been quick enough, powerful enough, to save everyone, healed them as she’d healed herself...

If she had stayed home, she wouldn’t have to wonder. She could shut everything out and not have to face this suffocating guilt.

But she had tried doing exactly that this summer. Sheltered up in her room, ignoring everything and everyone until the sight of that mark on her wrist and the spiraling nightmares of that night and this feeling of wrongness in her blood drove her out of her stupor at last, and she’d known that she had no choice but to go back. To seek answers as to why those students went into the caves and ensure no one else met the same fate.

It was what Romie would have done had their roles been reversed.

The hint of a voice slithered in through the still-open window, or maybe it was just the breeze. In the courtyard below, Emory glimpsed Keiran near the fountain. The ghost of his gaze on her lingered, the intensity of it raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

You’re alive. You’re all right.

She promptly shut the window, throwing the room into silence once more, and made her way to the armoire.

She had a bonfire to go to.
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Chapter 1: Emory

TODAY WAS THE FIRST DAY of a new moon, and on the banks of the Aldersea, the tide was low.

There was a time when these facts meant nothing to Emory Ainsleif, but that was before the night her very life hinged on those details. Now the moon was no longer just a moon, the tide was something to fear, and though Emory was grateful for the sun still shining in the late-summer sky, unease gathered like stones in her stomach.

Aldryn College for Lunar Magics rose up ahead, ivy-clad buildings crowning the steep hill that plunged into the restless sea below. Emory dug her nails into her palm as the taste of salt water filled her mouth, a phantom impression she had yet to shake. Blood swelled from the wound. She closed her eyes, savoring the twinge of pain before the magic in her veins could heal it. It was an ordinary sort of pain. Comforting, almost. Nothing like the aching throb of images that surged in her mind—a blood-slick column of rock, a spiral burned in silver on her wrist, four bodies splayed on the sand—as if coaxed free at the sight of Aldryn.

That particular pain she couldn’t heal away, no matter how she tried to ease it.

“You’re New Moon, then?”

Emory startled. The driver looked at her in the rearview mirror, motioning to her hand, where the sigil of her lunar house glistened darkly on her pale skin. A black circle wreathed in silver narcissus. It glared back at her as if taking offense at the trickle of blood marring its surface. Guiltily, she wiped at it, seeing only death in its delicate ink.

“What’s your tidal alignment?”

“Healing.”

The driver whistled an impressed note. His own hands gripping the wheel were bare. Everyone was born with the capacity for magic, a drop of it in their blood, but only those who proved proficient enough bore their house’s sigil and studied at places like Aldryn.

“I’ve got a second cousin who’s in House New Moon too,” the driver said. “Shadowguide. Works at a morgue in Threnody.” He repressed a visible shudder, grumbling something under his breath about how the dead should be left alone.

Emory could almost hear the pointed comment Romie might have made. People fear what they don’t understand, she would say, nose tilted up in disdain at such small-mindedness. But there’s beauty in death, you know.

Indeed, no one would ever dare frown upon a Healer, whose touch could prove more efficient than any modern medicine, but some magics, like a Shadowguide’s ability to commune with spirits, or a Reaper’s death touch, made most people uneasy—especially those with little to no magic. They don’t understand like we do that death is just as much a part of the sacred cycle as life, Romie would say.

It didn’t make losing her any easier.

“Here we are,” the driver exclaimed as the cab crested the hill. “Aldryn College.”

Everything in Emory seized as the heavy iron gates creaked their welcome, silver-wrought motto splitting down the middle as they opened: Post tenebras lux; iterum atque iterum.

After darkness, light; again and again.

Gravel crunched beneath the cab’s wheels. Emory had the sudden urge to tell the driver to stop, turn back, but the gates closed behind them with a clang of finality. Nerves rattled on the heels of nausea as she took in the familiar stone steps up to the inner courtyard, flanked by towering elms. Here the driver stopped. Emory handed him a few coins, clutched the strap of her bag. No sooner had she stepped out of the cab than she wished she’d stayed in it forever, already missing the anonymity of that liminal space, the feeling of being nowhere and nowhen and no one for as long as she remained between the life she’d left at home this very morning and the one waiting for her at Aldryn. The person she would have to become here.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she climbed those eight steps, one for each of the moon’s phases: a step for the new moon, three for the waxing, one for the full moon, and three for the waning.

She faltered at the top just as she had last year, though her nerves back then had been tinged with excitement, not dread. This is it, college at last, Romie had mused on their first day of freshman year, all starry-eyed as she took in the fabled campus. We get to reinvent ourselves here, be whoever we please. And though Emory had been eager to do just that, she never understood why someone like Romie would want to be anyone but herself, so effortlessly charming and unique in a way Emory had only ever dreamed of being.

For Emory, college was a chance to be known as more than what she’d been all her life: the girl who hailed from nowhere, who always came second-best, who’d been terrified of not getting into Aldryn because her magic was wholly unremarkable compared to her best friend’s.

It offered a clean slate, the first page in a new notebook just waiting to be filled.

She ran a finger along the scar on the inside of her wrist, a silver spiral that started at the base of her thumb and stopped on the tangle of stark blue veins at her pulse point. Her gaze went to the fountain at the center of the lawn, where the Tides of Fate guarded the names of the drowned. It was too late now to erase what had been written in silver and blood, she thought. Too late to even ponder such things, it seemed: the quad was void of its usual hum of activity, and the few stragglers hurrying through the cloisters made Emory realize just how late her train had been as the dean’s voice echoed from the assembly hall where she was giving her usual welcome speech.

Emory swore. As much as she dreaded this part—yearned to run to her dorm instead, shut herself in, and avoid everyone on campus for the rest of term—she had come back for a reason, equipped with a plan. And it all started here.

She tried to ease into the dark wood-paneled room unnoticed, but the heavy door slipped from her grasp and slammed shut behind her. Heads turned her way. Emory’s cheeks burned, and for a split second, she caught herself searching the sea of faces for the one person who might have made this easier. She could almost picture it: Romie waving her over to the seat she would have saved for her. An anchor in the storm as she’d always been, before everything had changed and the girl Emory had known since childhood started slipping away, swept up by something more sinister than the tide that took her.

But Romie was not here. And neither, apparently, was Romie’s brother. Relief and guilt churned in Emory’s stomach at his absence. Before she could dwell on it, she tightened her fingers around her satchel and took the first empty seat she could find. Chin held high, she tried to adopt the devil-may-care attitude Romie might have had in her place, but still she felt the furtive glances thrown her way, heard the murmurs rising.

That’s the girl who came back from the caves.

The student who survived the Beast.

The one the tide did not claim.

Dean Fulton called for silence. “I must insist once more that students stay clear of Dovermere Caves. After the tragic events of last spring, it begs repeating: Dovermere is unsafe, its tides unpredictable, and as such it remains strictly off-limits.”

Her dark eyes flitted toward Emory as she continued. “I urge you to remember those who have fallen. Remember Quince Travers and Serena Velan of House New Moon, and Dania and Lia Azula of House Waxing Moon. Remember Daphné Dioré and Jordyn Briar Burke of House Full Moon, and Harlow Kerr and Romie Brysden of House Waning Moon. Remember their names. Honor them by ensuring no other ever knows the same horrible fate. There is no glory to be found in those caves. Only death.”

Emory’s nails dug into her skin again as students looked her way. Tears stung her eyes, but she refused to break. She’d spent months preparing for this moment, hoped the summer holiday might allow for things to settle—for the shock of tragedy to fade and the students of Aldryn College to forget, as she had tried so desperately to.

Eight of her classmates dead, and Emory the only one left standing.

She thought the images that burned behind her eyes might be visible for all to see. Nine freshmen standing in a circle around a column of rock, their bloody wrists bearing a spiral mark that glowed silver in the dark. The sound of the tide rushing in earlier than it should have, death eager to have its fill. The sea and the stars and her name whispered in her ear.

Bodies on the sand.

Foolish of her, really, to think such a thing might be so easily forgotten.

The dean kept talking, but Emory didn’t hear a word. Only when students stopped staring did she let out a breath, slowly uncurl her fists. Blood bloomed beneath her nails; her palms were a mess, but already the wounds were smoothing over, her healing magic surging with barely a thought from her to answer the pull of the new moon that governed it. She latched onto this small comfort as the pressure in her veins lessened. All summer she’d felt this inexplicable pressure, like an itch she couldn’t scratch that grew to a painful throb unless she drew blood.

She eyed the row of windows behind the dean, wary of the breeze they let in. She swore she heard a whisper slithering in, the sea calling to her, looking to wrap around her limbs, desperate to pull her down, down, down toward the Deep—

Emory saw him out of the corner of her eye. He sat a few rows away, a barrier between her and the windows, the sea beyond. Dusty light fell on the side of his face as he peered at her over a shoulder, casting the rest of his features in shadows. His unflinching stare pulled her up to the surface, made everything go quiet. She recognized his boyish good looks, those thick-lashed eyes: they were the first living thing she’d seen after waking next to those broken and bloated bodies.

You’re alive, she remembered him saying, his words nearly drowned out by the swelling tide. You’re all right. And she’d clung to them so desperately, those words. A life raft keeping her afloat.

Keiran Dunhall Thornby was the perfect embodiment of his lunar house, the bright light of a full moon bursting with promise, and his presence alone had chased away all the darkness from that moonless night. He looked at her now with such intensity, as if he needed to see that she was indeed still alive. Everyone around them seemed to disappear, and for a second it felt like they were back on that beach, shivering against the horrors strewn around them.

But then she blinked. He turned away. And just like that, the moment dissolved between them like sea-foam across the sand.

Emory stroked the spiral mark on her wrist, half expecting it to start glowing silver like it had when it first appeared through whatever odd, ancient magic lived in Dovermere. She remembered the way Keiran had grabbed her wrist that night, the curious expression on his face as he’d frowned at the mark that was mirrored on his own wrist—twin spirals a dull silver on their skin. It had haunted her all summer, how impossible it was that he should be marked with the same symbol, because he wasn’t in the caves that night, hadn’t been there for the ritual that marked each student foolish enough to have been. Still, he’d found her on the beach in the middle of the night. As if he’d been waiting for her—for someone—to make it out of those caves alive.

He knew something about what happened in Dovermere, she was certain of it. It was the only reason she’d bothered coming back to Aldryn—the one thing that managed to pull her out of this ocean of grief she’d been drowning in. She would stop at nothing now to get answers.

“... and I wish each of you an enlightening term. Thank you.”

The dean’s parting words pulled Emory from her daze. Students were already out of their chairs, chattering excitedly as they exchanged handshakes and pats on the back and questions about each other’s summers. She felt painfully disconnected from it all.

Gaze fixed on Keiran, she steeled herself for what she needed to do. Her thoughts raced in tandem with her heart as she mentally listed all the questions she wanted to ask him. Just walk up to him, she told herself. It’s as simple as that. None of it felt simple, though. Without Romie here to do all the talking for her, it was up to Emory now to be bold, something her quiet, timid self balked at.

Keiran’s eyes found hers as she approached, and she was glad her steps didn’t falter. She balled her clammy hands into fists at her side, pushed her trepidation down—and stopped short as a group of upperclassmen caught up to Keiran, stealing his attention away from her.

Emory watched, deflated, as a pretty redheaded girl kissed him on the cheek and a few boys clasped his hand enthusiastically, and through it all Keiran smiled a dimpled smile, such ease and charm emanating from him that it was hard to reconcile the image with the half-drenched boy in her mind.

She thought she heard her name spoken in the chaos of voices. Someone waved at her from halfway across the hall. Penelope West, one of the few friends Emory had made outside of Romie last year, and a fellow New Moon student she’d shared most of her classes with. She’d always liked Penelope, but with her too-bubbly nature and chattiness that could go on forever, the thought of facing her—of facing anyone, really—was suddenly unbearable.

Getting answers from Keiran would have to wait.

Before Penelope could reach her, Emory slipped quietly from the assembly hall, yearning for the solace of her room.

The noonday sun beat down on the quad, great curtains of it falling between the columns that lined the cloisters. Emory cut across the lawn toward the underclassmen dormitories. She slowed near the fountain, where the Tides of Fate—Bruma, Anima, Aestas, and Quies—cast long shadows on the ground. The four deities who ruled over the lunar houses stood in the middle of the basin with their backs to each other, forming a circle in the proper order of the cycle they represented: young Bruma of the New Moon, beautiful Anima of the Waxing Moon, motherly Aestas of the Full Moon, and wise old Quies of the Waning Moon. Appropriately, the sunlight touched only Anima and Aestas, casting the other two in shadows.

Each Tide faced a different path to one of four academic halls: there was moody Noviluna Hall, its door painted black like the new moon sky that gave those of Emory’s house their powers of cleansing darkness and divination; vibrant Crescens Hall, which saw to those born on a waxing moon, their magic tied to growth, amplification, and manifestation; stately Pleniluna Hall, which catered to those who bore the power of the full moon, tied to light, protection, purity, and mindfulness; and Decrescens Hall, as dark and mysterious as the waning moon students who dealt in secrets and dreams, memories and death—and who had been Romie’s peers when she was alive.

There was a fifth hall, but no Tide watched over House Eclipse, and no path led to its door, a nondescript, nearly hidden thing.

Emory stopped by the fountain. Her fingers skimmed the surface of the sacred water, said to have been blessed by the Tides themselves. The water came from Dovermere, a network of caves as mythical as the Tides and in part what had attracted Aldryn’s founders to build their college so close to it. Students were expressly forbidden to take water from the fountain, much less use it in their bloodletting practices—a way for those of the four main lunar houses to access their magic whenever their ruling moon phase wasn’t in position, their power otherwise remaining dormant in their blood. Still, touching the water was meant to be grounding.

It wasn’t.

Emory noticed the delicate flowers floating on the surface, two for each lunar house: black narcissus, indigo hollyhocks, white orchids, purple-black poppies. Eight flowers, one for each of the names she knew had been added to the silver plaques at the Tides’ feet, souls consigned to their care so they might watch over them in the Deep.

A name and a flower for each student claimed by the sea.

And suddenly the flowers weren’t flowers at all, but bodies trapped in a cave with the deadly sea all around them. Emory turned from the fountain just as the door to House Eclipse opened.

The student who emerged made her stomach plummet.

Basil Brysden was tall and long-limbed, with a badly buttoned shirt and unruly brown curls that fell to his chin. He hugged a pile of books close to his chest, head bent low as if he were trying to make himself smaller, or perhaps invisible. Baz had long since succeeded at both: he was a ghost, a hermit, a curiosity only whispered about in the darkest corners of the college.

The Timespinner.

Such rare magic, even for one of the Eclipse-born.

Baz turned toward the fountain. Rich brown eyes met hers, and were it not for the thick-framed glasses they hid behind, Emory might have thought it was Romie staring back at her. They had the same pale, freckled skin, the same protruding ears. But Baz lacked his sister’s sense of mischief, that dreamy, faraway look Romie would get that always infuriated her professors. The bright curiosity that had spread like wildfire until it consumed all she was and could have been.

Baz’s eyes held none of Romie’s bold fire, only timid uncertainty as he greeted her with an awkward, “Emory.”

He looked like he might make a run for it to avoid this conversation altogether. She couldn’t blame him.

“You missed the assembly,” Emory said, if only just to say something. To fill the silence and drown out the guilt that threatened to choke her as Romie’s face flashed in her mind—not as it had appeared in life, but as Emory last remembered seeing it: pale and stark in those fateful moments before the sea took her away.

How Baz must resent her, for surviving what his sister had not.

He blinked toward the assembly hall, where laughter sounded as students spilled into the quad. “I guess I did.”

From his expression, Emory couldn’t quite work out if he’d missed it on purpose or forgotten about the assembly entirely. She noted the tightness around his mouth and wondered when the last time he’d laughed was. She remembered how quick he’d been to smile as a boy, in what now felt like another lifetime entirely. When she and Romie and him had attended boarding school together, sneaking out to run barefoot in the wildflower fields behind it, as free and unburdened as the gulls they would chase down to the beach.

Baz adjusted the weight of the books in his arms. “How are you? How’ve you been?”

Emory swallowed past the lump in her throat, forcing a smile. “Fine.”

Through the nearby cloisters, she spotted Keiran with his group of friends. Their talk of heading down to the beach for the start-of-term bonfires carried on the breeze, and though Keiran’s attention was on them, Emory got the distinct impression he’d been looking at her only a moment before.

“We missed you at the funeral.”

Her attention snapped back to Baz. There was no bitterness in his voice, no reproach. And that made it so much worse because if he knew the truth, if he knew what really happened in those caves, he wouldn’t have wanted her there to begin with.

Emory’s cheeks reddened as she tried to think of an excuse, but the truth of it was, she had none. She’d meant to go, had told him she would when he’d invited her right before they left for the summer. But the thought of facing Romie’s mother, of lying to Baz about what happened, of saying goodbye to her best friend while Emory herself got to live... She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t stand the empathic way Baz looked at her now, couldn’t bear this guilt that clawed at her insides, knowing he must have so many questions, none of which she could answer.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, averting her gaze. “I, uh... I have to get going. But I’ll see you around?”

Baz hugged his books tighter, shoulders drooping in relief or disappointment, she couldn’t tell.

Emory couldn’t get away from him fast enough.

Reaching her old dorm room felt like crossing an ocean. The underclassmen dorms stood on the far side of campus, a plain stone building overrun with ivy where students of all houses were mixed in together, paired off into rooms no matter the sigil inked on their skin. It was only in their third year at Aldryn that they joined the housing facilities specific to their respective lunar houses.

Emory fumbled miserably with the key to her room until the lock gave way at last and she hurried inside, head falling back against the door. She blew a heavy sigh, grateful for the quiet.

Her breath caught painfully as she took in the room.

On one side was her narrow metal-frame bed just as she’d left it, with its dark linens and duvet perfectly tucked in. There was the tall mahogany armoire where her clothes lay forgotten and the small desk crammed in the corner, still covered with neatly stacked books and fountain pens. Everything appeared untouched by the passing of time, as though the past four months never happened, and Emory had never left, and everything was still the same as it once was.

Except it wasn’t, because the other side of the room—Romie’s side of the room—was bare.

The bed was still there, the armoire and the desk, but everything that had made it Romie’s—the mismatched art and obscure books, the messy piles of clothes and rare, prickly plants, the forgotten cups of tea and plates riddled with crumbs... all those things were gone now, taken away like the tide took Romie herself.

There was not a trace of her left, but Emory’s mind conjured her all the same, recalling the last time they’d been here together.

That day, Romie had been hunched over her desk, swathed in a shaft of dwindling sunlight that made her shoulder-length hair shine copper. When Emory came in, she startled, knocking over a teacup.

“Tides, are you trying to give me a heart attack?” Irritation laced her words as she righted the cup. Dusk, the stray cat she’d found on the school grounds their first week at Aldryn and taken in despite the rules against keeping pets in the dorms, jumped off her lap with an indignant meow to perch on the windowsill instead.

Emory dropped her books on her own desk. “Well, it is a new moon. Could be a good way to test my healing skills on a live subject.”

Romie didn’t seem in the mood for jokes. She furiously wiped the tea from the papers stacked haphazardly on her desk, angling her body as if to shield them from Emory.

“What’s so interesting you couldn’t be bothered to meet me for supper? I was stuck listening to Penelope talk about Darkbearer magic for what felt like hours.”

Emory tried to keep her tone light, but it came out sharp-edged. Loaded. She couldn’t help it: Romie had been acting all kinds of strange lately, constantly disregarding their plans, withdrawn and secretive in a way she’d never been before. In truth, Emory had noticed a change in her from the moment they’d arrived at Aldryn. She hadn’t wanted to see it at first, blaming their heavy workload and differing schedules for the rift that had opened between them. They’d known each other since they were ten years old. They’d shared everything. But something had shifted, and Emory was too scared to ask why that was—too scared of losing her one true friend.

“Just research,” Romie said distractedly as she gathered her tea-stained papers and stuffed them in her satchel.

Emory eyed the rumpled state of Romie’s clothes, her unmade bed. “Have you been here sleeping all afternoon?”

“I was practicing. You know, Dreamer stuff.”

Dreamer stuff. It was what she’d been saying for the past few months, brushing off every moment she spent in the sleepscape—the realm of dreams—like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t hollowing her out, depleting her of the bright energy she used to glow with.

“You can’t keep doing this, Ro. Missing class, spending all that time in dreams? It can’t be healthy.”

“I’m fine.”

“The bags under your eyes beg to differ.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

Romie shouldered her bag and moved toward the door. Something gripped Emory at the sight of her hand on the knob, as though she knew that if Romie walked out then, the rift between them would become an unbridgeable chasm.

“Ro. I’m serious. Is everything all right with you?”

She watched the tension in her friend’s shoulders ease, and when Romie turned to her, lips upturned in a signature smile, brown eyes molten in the golden hour light, she thought perhaps she might have imagined these past weeks, months—that everything might still be the same between them.

“Everything’s fine, Em.” She stood there for a moment, and though her smile never wavered, a shadow of doubt darkened her face. Emory thought she might come clean then, finally spill the secrets she’d been letting consume her, but Romie merely pulled the door open and said, “I’ll see you later, all right?”

Once the door shut behind her, Emory looked at Romie’s desk, too curious and concerned to let it go. Forgotten beneath a vial of salt water, half stained with tea, was a piece of parchment artfully burnt around the edges. The letters S.O. were stamped in the middle of the note. Emory flipped it over, where an inscription had been written in sprawling silver script: Dovermere Cove, 10 p.m.

She put the note back where she found it, dread making her mouth taste like ash. Students tended to avoid Dovermere Cove because of the dark stain its infamous sea caves cast on it. Tales of all the drownings that took place there over the years were the first thing freshmen were told when starting at Aldryn. There were always a few foolhardy students who went into the caves looking to prove something to their peers, though Emory didn’t think Romie would be reckless enough to do so. Yet when the clock neared ten and Romie still hadn’t come back to their room, panic seized her. She looked at the note again, wondering what S.O. might stand for and if it had anything to do with Romie’s change in behavior.

Unable to shake this sense of foreboding in her bones, Emory pocketed the note and went down to Dovermere Cove just in time to see Romie and seven other students slip into the caves where they would meet their end.

Emory shook the haunting image of that night from her mind. The room suddenly felt too stuffy. Too small. She rushed to the stained-glass window between the beds and threw it open wide, letting the breeze in to kiss her face. She took a deep breath, then another, and the panic that wanted to pull her under slowly receded.

Pressing her forehead against the window frame, she swore softly.

Maybe coming back to Aldryn had been a mistake. All summer, she had been able to pretend that dreadful night at the caves had never happened. She could look out at the Aldersea and not feel the weight of her guilt pressing down on her, because even though home and Aldryn bordered the same sea, they did not share the same shore, nor the same painful memories of darkness and drowning. But now Emory glanced at her friend’s empty side of the room, and all she could see were the things she could have done differently.

If she’d said something to keep Romie from walking out that door. If she hadn’t gone after her. If she hadn’t been inside those caves. If she’d been quick enough, powerful enough, to save everyone, healed them as she’d healed herself...

If she had stayed home, she wouldn’t have to wonder. She could shut everything out and not have to face this suffocating guilt.

But she had tried doing exactly that this summer. Sheltered up in her room, ignoring everything and everyone until the sight of that mark on her wrist and the spiraling nightmares of that night and this feeling of wrongness in her blood drove her out of her stupor at last, and she’d known that she had no choice but to go back. To seek answers as to why those students went into the caves and ensure no one else met the same fate.

It was what Romie would have done had their roles been reversed.

The hint of a voice slithered in through the still-open window, or maybe it was just the breeze. In the courtyard below, Emory glimpsed Keiran near the fountain. The ghost of his gaze on her lingered, the intensity of it raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

You’re alive. You’re all right.

She promptly shut the window, throwing the room into silence once more, and made her way to the armoire.

She had a bonfire to go to.
\"},{\"id\":\"121482271T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"*\\\\\\\"By combining elements common to fantastical dark academia novels with innovative worldbuilding, multifaceted plotting, and an intersectionally diverse cast boasting nuanced character arcs, Lacelle crafts a lavishly imagined dual-narrative tale that will capture readers like a rip current.\\\\\\\"— Publishers Weekly, starred review 8/7/23

*\\\\\\\"Lacelle's writing is absorbing; the plot is detailed and complicated but everything fits together as neatly and tightly as a puzzle box. Emory is a sympathetic hero, full of self-doubt but brave enough to pursue the truth, and she plays off an assortment of well-rounded and distinct characters. Not a word is wasted in this hefty, suspenseful novel as the story, rich with its own mythology, draws the reader in as inexorably as the tide.\\\\\\\"— Booklist, starred review 10/1/23

\\\\\\\"A world that pulses and breathes. With intricate magic and a mystery that spirals as deep and dark as it can go, Curious Tides is a marvel in atmosphere.\\\\\\\"— Chloe Gong, #1 New York Times bestselling author of These Violent Delights

\\\\\\\"A darkly enchanting story that had me turning pages like mad. Gorgeous writing, fascinating characters, and the kind of rich magical lore that dreams are made of. Curious Tides swept me away. I'm obsessed with this world.\\\\\\\"— Claire Legrand, New York Times bestselling author of Furyborn

“Vividly imagined, beautifully written, and as dark as it is dazzling–Curious Tides will drag you under from the very first page.\\\\\\\"— Sarah Underwood, NYT bestselling author of Lies We Sing to the Sea

“Curious Tides sucks you in from page one with a fully realized universe that feels lived-in and otherworldly all at once. The story is alive with lore, and it’s impossible not to be transported.”— Joan He, New York Times bestselling author of Strike the Zither

\\\\\\\"With chewy, intricate worldbuilding; sparkling characters; and thrilling twists, Curious Tides pulled me under, and I never wanted to resurface from its richly imagined depths. An alluring, immersive debut.\\\\\\\"— Allison Saft, New York Times bestselling author of A Far Wilder Magic

“A beautifully ethereal fantasy that reads like a dream. Filled with beguiling magic and whimsical storytelling, Curious Tides is a reverie I was sad to wake from.”— Chelsea Abdullah, author of The Stardust Thief
“Rich, immersive and astonishingly layered—I want to sink into this darkly magical world and never leave.”— Laura Steven, author of The Society for Soulless Girls\"},{\"id\":\"95976805T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Dark magic abounds in this intoxicatingly atmospheric fantasy universe that is meticulously built and refreshingly real. Fans of Chloe Gong and Tracy Deonn will adore this, both for the tremendous sense of place and for the authentic cast of characters.

\"},{\"id\":\"121482272T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Pascale Lacelle is a French Canadian author from Ottawa, Ontario. A longtime devourer of books, she started writing her own at age thirteen and quickly became enthralled by the magic of words. After earning her bachelor’s degree in French literature, she realized the English language is where her literary heart lies (but don’t tell any of her French professors that). When not lost in stories, she’s most likely daydreaming about food and travel, playing with her dog Roscoe, or trying to curate the perfect playlist for every mood. You can find her on Instagram and X @PascaleLacelle.

\"},{\"id\":\"88145080T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Pascale Lacelle is a French Canadian author from Ottawa, Ontario. A longtime devourer of books, she started writing her own at age thirteen and quickly became enthralled by the magic of words. After earning her bachelor’s degree in French literature, she realized the English language is where her literary heart lies (but don’t tell any of her French professors that). When not lost in stories, she’s most likely daydreaming about food and travel, playing with her dog Roscoe, or trying to curate the perfect playlist for every mood. You can find her on Instagram and X @PascaleLacelle.\"},{\"id\":\"91385848T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Pascale Lacelle is a French Canadian author from Ottawa, Ontario. A longtime devourer of books, she started writing her own at age thirteen and quickly became enthralled by the magic of words. After earning her bachelor’s degree in French literature, she realized the English language is where her literary heart lies (but don’t tell any of her French professors that). When not lost in stories, she’s most likely daydreaming about food and travel, playing with her dog Roscoe, or trying to curate the perfect playlist for every mood. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter @PascaleLacelle.\"},{\"id\":\"88100877T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Pascale Lacelle is a French Canadian author from Ottawa, Ontario. A longtime devourer of books, she started writing her own at age thirteen and quickly became enthralled by the magic of words. After earning her bachelor’s degree in French literature, she realized the English language is where her literary heart lies (but don’t tell any of her French professors that). When not lost in stories, she’s most likely daydreaming about food and travel, playing with her dog Roscoe, or trying to curate the perfect playlist for every mood. You can find her on Instagram and X @PascaleLacelle.\"},{\"id\":\"97387593T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Pascale Lacelle is a French Canadian author from Ottawa, Ontario. A longtime devourer of books, she started writing her own at age thirteen and quickly became enthralled by the magic of words. After earning her bachelor’s degree in French literature, she realized the English language is where her literary heart lies (but don’t tell any of her French professors that). When not lost in stories, she’s most likely daydreaming about food and travel, playing with her dog Roscoe, or trying to curate the perfect playlist for every mood. You can find her on Instagram and X @PascaleLacelle.\"},{\"id\":\"108166789T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"6\",\"text\":\"Pascale Lacelle is a French Canadian author from Ottawa, Ontario. A longtime devourer of books, she started writing her own at age thirteen and quickly became enthralled by the magic of words. After earning her bachelor's degree in French literature, she realized the English language is where her literary heart lies (but don't tell any of her French professors that). When not lost in stories, she's most likely daydreaming about food and travel, playing with her dog Roscoe, or trying to curate the perfect playlist for every mood. You can find her on Instagram and X (previously known as Twitter) @PascaleLacelle.\"}]",{"_41":1416,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":1417},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51400694268145","Curious-Tides/Pascale-Lacelle",{"_41":1419,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":1420},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51400690860273","1143030002",{"_41":1422,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51400692498673",{"_41":1424,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":1393},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51400695087345",{"_41":1426,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":1369},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51400690041073",{"_41":1428,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1171,"_1111":1429},"gid://shopify/Metafield/62394357154033","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.5\"}",{"_41":1431,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1175,"_1111":1432},"gid://shopify/Metafield/62394357121265","8",{"_33":1434,"_26":1184,"_1062":1435},"XyFCOkoahBX3iaTft7kTr",{"_1064":1065,"_41":1436,"_72":1437,"_1068":1069,"_886":1438,"_893":1439,"_1072":1440,"_1074":1441,"_1081":1445,"_1089":59,"_1090":1447,"_1096":1450,"_931":-5,"_1117":1459,"_1119":1460},"gid://shopify/Product/9084658909425","Once a Castle: A Carrick Hall Novel, Book 2","9780593194492","Worlds collide and lives are changed as portals between our reality and the magical land of Ternival fray in the spellbinding sequel to the Christy Award finalist Once a Queen, called “a fresh, delightful new tale for our wonder-hungry era” by Mitali Perkins.A few years after Eva Joyce and Frankie Addison discovered the existence of portals to other worlds, Frankie’s younger siblings, together with some new friends, make discoveries that will change their lives, and at least two worlds, forever.Jack, Tilly, and Elspeth Addison just want to stay out of trouble (well, mostly, at least), but trouble keeps finding them. Meanwhile, Arash, a newcomer to the Addisons’ English village, tries to discover the secret his grandfather is hiding while keeping his own secrets from everyone. And Zahra, a Ternivali teenager, faces a crisis in her world, but before she can put things right, she’s rudely catapulted into the weirdest place she’s ever seen—where everyone seems to think she’s the weird one.Soon their stories get tangled together, and the teens must discover if they can bridge their differences and find, in themselves and one another, what it takes to put things right. Because it’s not only their lives at stake but also the fate of their home—and of more than one kingdom.","Worlds collide and lives are changed as portals between our reality and the magical land of Ternival fray in the spellbinding sequel to the Christy Award finalist Once a Queen, called “a fresh, delightful new tale for our wonder-hungry era” by Mitali Perkins.

A few years after Eva Joyce and Frankie Addison discovered the existence of portals to other worlds, Frankie’s younger siblings, together with some new friends, make discoveries that will change their lives, and at least two worlds, forever.

Jack, Tilly, and Elspeth Addison just want to stay out of trouble (well, mostly, at least), but trouble keeps finding them.

Meanwhile, Arash, a newcomer to the Addisons’ English village, tries to discover the secret his grandfather is hiding while keeping his own secrets from everyone. And Zahra, a Ternivali teenager, faces a crisis in her world, but before she can put things right, she’s rudely catapulted into the weirdest place she’s ever seen—where everyone seems to think she’s the weird one.

Soon their stories get tangled together, and the teens must discover if they can bridge their differences and find, in themselves and one another, what it takes to put things right. Because it’s not only their lives at stake but also the fate of their home—and of more than one kingdom.",{"_41":1442,"_54":1443,"_56":1444,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47753320595697","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593194492_p0.jpg?v=1765482012",1328,{"_1083":1446},{"_1085":1086,"_1087":1088},{"_1083":1448,"_1094":1449},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":1451},[1452],{"_41":1453,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":1454,"_1104":1455,"_1062":1456,"_1107":1457,"_1113":1438,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46509998309617",{"_41":1442,"_54":1443,"_1080":-5,"_56":1444,"_50":1079},{"_1085":1086,"_1087":1088},{"_72":1437,"_886":1438},[1458],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":1438},[1461,1464,-5,1467,1469,1471,1474,1476,1479,1482,1485,-5,-5,1487,-5,1489,1492],{"_41":1462,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":1463},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51259923529969","[{\"contributorId\":4301549,\"fullName\":\"Sarah Arthur\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_41":1465,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1130,"_1111":1466},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51259924021489","The Carrick Hall Novels",{"_41":1468,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51259924840689",{"_41":1470,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51259922907377",{"_41":1472,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1473},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51259926249713","Random House",{"_41":1475,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1148},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51259924971761",{"_41":1477,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":1478},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51259927429361","[{\"id\":\"121199258T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Chapter 1

The castle had appeared out of nowhere.

Jack Addison had hunted for geodes in this valley before, at least a hundred times. Normally the place contained only some scrubby underbrush and one small lake fed by a burbling stream, all encircled by stony bluffs. But today, at the far end of the lake, stood a castle.

And not just any castle. Boxy and unadorned, with sheer stone walls rising to high battlements, it had the same twelfth-century features as a fortress he’d visited on a class trip last term.

But this was no ruin. It was fully intact. In fact, it seemed to be inhabited. A wisp of smoke spiraled lazily from the highest battlement. A strange rumble echoed across the water, like someone rolling a cart across a stone courtyard. Back and forth, back and forth.

Jack began to edge around the lake toward the castle, following what looked like the familiar path. He felt slightly dizzy, like maybe he’d cracked his head harder while rock climbing yesterday than he’d realized. This couldn’t be the same valley. He’d taken a wrong turn somewhere.

But no. There was the scree of fallen rocks where he’d found that simply spectacular geode last summer. There was the boulder where he’d eaten leftover fish-and-chips on Sunday. He’d chucked the newspaper into the shrubs, he remembered now. If it was the same valley, wouldn’t it still be there?

It was. After a brief scramble, he found the newspaper balled up nearby. Another wave of dizziness swept over him. He glanced back and forth between the smoke curling from the battlement and the paper in his palm.

Same newspaper. Same valley. But castles didn’t just grow from the ground.

One lone arrow slit toward the topmost battlement seemed to stare at him like an unblinking reptilian eye. It made him feel small and vulnerable, which he didn’t often feel these days—a mighty growth spurt after his thirteenth birthday had taken care of that. But now he felt tiny as an insect, easily crushed.

The rumble grew louder for a moment, paused, then resumed, a little deeper now. Jack stayed put, watching warily, until curiosity drove him forward again.

Now he was in the castle’s very shadow, its grim exterior rising to an impossible height. As he drew nearer, a nauseating smell hit him: an organic sourness that reminded him of wet dog and sweaty PE clothes, but worse. The rumble shook the ground beneath him, with more pauses filled by a strange whooshing, like enormous bellows.

For about ten seconds he considered retreating up the path that had brought him here. He’d climb back to the ridgeline that connected the high summit of Giant’s Beacon to Table Mount and descend from there to Carrick Hall, his parents’ workplace. He’d enter the normal chaos of the estate’s kitchen, study his maps at the table, and regain his bearings over tea and scones.

But the castle wall was almost within reach now. Just a few more steps and he could confirm whether or not it was real. Plus, he was beyond range of the arrow slit, which gave him a sudden boldness. He reached out.

Real. He could feel the grit under his fingers, the clammy coolness. He could feel the rumble, too, vibrating through the rock, and smell the stench. The sound, at least, was coming from somewhere on the other side of the castle.

Jack stepped gingerly through the rubble at the base of the wall and made his way around the building, deep in shadow from the bluffs. As he turned the corner, he expected to find a portcullis or some other entrance, but instead, the route was blocked by what looked like massive lumpy earthworks, or like a section of bluff had crashed down against the castle wall. He could see no way around it either. The shadowed mound extended all the way to the bluff. He’d have to climb over it or take the long way around.

He decided to climb. But as he approached the mound, the stench grew so strong that he nearly retched. The rumble increased, like the earth itself was moving.

And then it was.

Right before his eyes, the top of the mound rose like an inflating zeppelin, with a thunderous rumble, and fell with a mighty whoosh. Then up and down again, up and down. For all the world as if the ground was snoring.

Jack froze. Heart racing, he scanned the mound from one end to the other. It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Stretched out full-length on the valley floor, next to a castle that had appeared out of nowhere, lay a sleeping giant.

Arash would’ve warned the kid if he could.

From behind a large boulder, Arash had been watching the sleeping demon for at least ten minutes before the other kid had appeared. It was Jack Addison, from school. The stocky redheaded loner who was too cool for everyone. The outdoorsman who Arash had often seen wandering the Wolverns, like himself, except without a metal detector.

Clearly, the kid had no idea what was lying there.

Arash watched, horrified, as Jack walked right up to the gigantic demon. As if he meant to climb over it. Stop. Run. But the words wouldn’t come. Not in English. Nor Farsi. Nor any other language he knew.

Plus, yelling would awaken the demon—and then what?

Jack suddenly backed away, realization dawning on his freckled face.

And that was when the demon stirred.

“Fee, fi, fo . . .” it mumbled, its voice like rocks tumbling over and over. “I smell . . .” The voice tapered off into a huge snore. Then the demon rolled over.

The entire valley shook. Boulders the size of postboxes careened down the cliffside. Dust filled the air, leaving a film on Arash’s glasses. Then a great section of scree slid past his hiding place near the crevasse and roared to the valley floor. The noise rumbled across the Wolverns like a thunderstorm, leaving a silence broken only by an extended snore. The demon slept on.

But Jack—where was he? Crushed, surely. The demon had rolled away from the kid, but the falling scree had filled the passage from the cliffside to the castle wall. If Jack had even survived, his path was now blocked.

Arash wiped his glasses and looked again. Still no sign of Jack. Trembling, Arash propped his metal detector against a nearby rock, adjusted his backpack, and made his way downward along a dry streambed toward the valley floor. It was slow going. The treacherous scree offered almost no solid footing. But before he’d gone more than a dozen steps, he heard muffled coughing. To Arash’s relief, Jack staggered out from behind a pile of rocks, covered from head to toe in fine dust. He looked like the walking dead.

Jack stopped short at the sight of Arash. As they stared at each other, Arash pointed back over his own shoulder, toward the crevasse, then turned and began retracing his steps. Jack followed. When Arash reached the opening of the crevasse and began scrambling up into the narrow cleft, he looked back.

Jack had paused. His breath was coming fast, in shallow gasps. Arash motioned him to keep going. Jack gaped at him hollowly, then shook his head.

Puzzled, Arash looked up. Was there a snake or something? All he could see was the narrow slash in the rocks with perfectly spaced boulders for climbing, as if some ancient inhabitant had carved it for just this purpose. Hundreds of feet above them, a ribbon of blue sky shimmered.

Arash beckoned again. The kid shook his head—belligerently, this time—then turned and began picking his way back down the scree. Back toward the castle and the sleeping demon.

“Stop at once!”

They were the very words Arash wanted to yell. But they hadn’t come from him. They’d come from another voice, cold and furious and female, somewhere high in the tower.

Both boys froze.

“Awake, worthless pile of filth!” bellowed the voice.

The huge demon stopped in mid-snore and rolled over again, grunting. The ground trembled, and more rocks clattered down the cliffside, whizzing past Arash’s head. Jack pitched forward to his knees, arms flailing.

“Smell that?” the enraged voice continued. “Children of Tellus, I’d wager my throne.”

Jack stared at Arash, panic in his eyes. Then he clambered to his feet and half ran, half stumbled toward the crevasse.\"},{\"id\":\"110451133T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Chapter 1

The castle had appeared out of nowhere.

Jack Addison had hunted for geodes in this valley before, at least a hundred times. Normally the place contained only some scrubby underbrush and one small lake fed by a burbling stream, all encircled by stony bluffs. But today, at the far end of the lake, stood a castle.

And not just any castle. Boxy and unadorned, with sheer stone walls rising to high battlements, it had the same twelfth-century features as a fortress he’d visited on a class trip last term.

But this was no ruin. It was fully intact. In fact, it seemed to be inhabited. A wisp of smoke spiraled lazily from the highest battlement. A strange rumble echoed across the water, like someone rolling a cart across a stone courtyard. Back and forth, back and forth.

Jack began to edge around the lake toward the castle, following what looked like the familiar path. He felt slightly dizzy, like maybe he’d cracked his head harder while rock climbing yesterday than he’d realized. This couldn’t be the same valley. He’d taken a wrong turn somewhere.

But no. There was the scree of fallen rocks where he’d found that simply spectacular geode last summer. There was the boulder where he’d eaten leftover fish-and-chips on Sunday. He’d chucked the newspaper into the shrubs, he remembered now. If it was the same valley, wouldn’t it still be there?

It was. After a brief scramble, he found the newspaper balled up nearby. Another wave of dizziness swept over him. He glanced back and forth between the smoke curling from the battlement and the paper in his palm.

Same newspaper. Same valley. But castles didn’t just grow from the ground.

One lone arrow slit toward the topmost battlement seemed to stare at him like an unblinking reptilian eye. It made him feel small and vulnerable, which he didn’t often feel these days—a mighty growth spurt after his thirteenth birthday had taken care of that. But now he felt tiny as an insect, easily crushed.

The rumble grew louder for a moment, paused, then resumed, a little deeper now. Jack stayed put, watching warily, until curiosity drove him forward again.

Now he was in the castle’s very shadow, its grim exterior rising to an impossible height. As he drew nearer, a nauseating smell hit him: an organic sourness that reminded him of wet dog and sweaty PE clothes, but worse. The rumble shook the ground beneath him, with more pauses filled by a strange whooshing, like enormous bellows.

For about ten seconds he considered retreating up the path that had brought him here. He’d climb back to the ridgeline that connected the high summit of Giant’s Beacon to Table Mount and descend from there to Carrick Hall, his parents’ workplace. He’d enter the normal chaos of the estate’s kitchen, study his maps at the table, and regain his bearings over tea and scones.

But the castle wall was almost within reach now. Just a few more steps and he could confirm whether or not it was real. Plus, he was beyond range of the arrow slit, which gave him a sudden boldness. He reached out.

Real. He could feel the grit under his fingers, the clammy coolness. He could feel the rumble, too, vibrating through the rock, and smell the stench. The sound, at least, was coming from somewhere on the other side of the castle.

Jack stepped gingerly through the rubble at the base of the wall and made his way around the building, deep in shadow from the bluffs. As he turned the corner, he expected to find a portcullis or some other entrance, but instead, the route was blocked by what looked like massive lumpy earthworks, or like a section of bluff had crashed down against the castle wall. He could see no way around it either. The shadowed mound extended all the way to the bluff. He’d have to climb over it or take the long way around.

He decided to climb. But as he approached the mound, the stench grew so strong that he nearly retched. The rumble increased, like the earth itself was moving.

And then it was.

Right before his eyes, the top of the mound rose like an inflating zeppelin, with a thunderous rumble, and fell with a mighty whoosh. Then up and down again, up and down. For all the world as if the ground was snoring.

Jack froze. Heart racing, he scanned the mound from one end to the other. It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Stretched out full-length on the valley floor, next to a castle that had appeared out of nowhere, lay a sleeping giant.

Arash would’ve warned the kid if he could.

From behind a large boulder, Arash had been watching the sleeping demon for at least ten minutes before the other kid had appeared. It was Jack Addison, from school. The stocky redheaded loner who was too cool for everyone. The outdoorsman who Arash had often seen wandering the Wolverns, like himself, except without a metal detector.

Clearly, the kid had no idea what was lying there.

Arash watched, horrified, as Jack walked right up to the gigantic demon. As if he meant to climb over it. Stop. Run. But the words wouldn’t come. Not in English. Nor Farsi. Nor any other language he knew.

Plus, yelling would awaken the demon—and then what?

Jack suddenly backed away, realization dawning on his freckled face.

And that was when the demon stirred.

“Fee, fi, fo . . .” it mumbled, its voice like rocks tumbling over and over. “I smell . . .” The voice tapered off into a huge snore. Then the demon rolled over.

The entire valley shook. Boulders the size of postboxes careened down the cliffside. Dust filled the air, leaving a film on Arash’s glasses. Then a great section of scree slid past his hiding place near the crevasse and roared to the valley floor. The noise rumbled across the Wolverns like a thunderstorm, leaving a silence broken only by an extended snore. The demon slept on.

But Jack—where was he? Crushed, surely. The demon had rolled away from the kid, but the falling scree had filled the passage from the cliffside to the castle wall. If Jack had even survived, his path was now blocked.

Arash wiped his glasses and looked again. Still no sign of Jack. Trembling, Arash propped his metal detector against a nearby rock, adjusted his backpack, and made his way downward along a dry streambed toward the valley floor. It was slow going. The treacherous scree offered almost no solid footing. But before he’d gone more than a dozen steps, he heard muffled coughing. To Arash’s relief, Jack staggered out from behind a pile of rocks, covered from head to toe in fine dust. He looked like the walking dead.

Jack stopped short at the sight of Arash. As they stared at each other, Arash pointed back over his own shoulder, toward the crevasse, then turned and began retracing his steps. Jack followed. When Arash reached the opening of the crevasse and began scrambling up into the narrow cleft, he looked back.

Jack had paused. His breath was coming fast, in shallow gasps. Arash motioned him to keep going. Jack gaped at him hollowly, then shook his head.

Puzzled, Arash looked up. Was there a snake or something? All he could see was the narrow slash in the rocks with perfectly spaced boulders for climbing, as if some ancient inhabitant had carved it for just this purpose. Hundreds of feet above them, a ribbon of blue sky shimmered.

Arash beckoned again. The kid shook his head—belligerently, this time—then turned and began picking his way back down the scree. Back toward the castle and the sleeping demon.

“Stop at once!”

They were the very words Arash wanted to yell. But they hadn’t come from him. They’d come from another voice, cold and furious and female, somewhere high in the tower.

Both boys froze.

“Awake, worthless pile of filth!” bellowed the voice.

The huge demon stopped in mid-snore and rolled over again, grunting. The ground trembled, and more rocks clattered down the cliffside, whizzing past Arash’s head. Jack pitched forward to his knees, arms flailing.

“Smell that?” the enraged voice continued. “Children of Tellus, I’d wager my throne.”

Jack stared at Arash, panic in his eyes. Then he clambered to his feet and half ran, half stumbled toward the crevasse.\"},{\"id\":\"110466333T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Chapter 1

The castle had appeared out of nowhere.

Jack Addison had hunted for geodes in this valley before, at least a hundred times. Normally the place contained only some scrubby underbrush and one small lake fed by a burbling stream, all encircled by stony bluffs. But today, at the far end of the lake, stood a castle.

And not just any castle. Boxy and unadorned, with sheer stone walls rising to high battlements, it had the same twelfth-century features as a fortress he’d visited on a class trip last term.

But this was no ruin. It was fully intact. In fact, it seemed to be inhabited. A wisp of smoke spiraled lazily from the highest battlement. A strange rumble echoed across the water, like someone rolling a cart across a stone courtyard. Back and forth, back and forth.

Jack began to edge around the lake toward the castle, following what looked like the familiar path. He felt slightly dizzy, like maybe he’d cracked his head harder while rock climbing yesterday than he’d realized. This couldn’t be the same valley. He’d taken a wrong turn somewhere.

But no. There was the scree of fallen rocks where he’d found that simply spectacular geode last summer. There was the boulder where he’d eaten leftover fish-and-chips on Sunday. He’d chucked the newspaper into the shrubs, he remembered now. If it was the same valley, wouldn’t it still be there?

It was. After a brief scramble, he found the newspaper balled up nearby. Another wave of dizziness swept over him. He glanced back and forth between the smoke curling from the battlement and the paper in his palm.

Same newspaper. Same valley. But castles didn’t just grow from the ground.

One lone arrow slit toward the topmost battlement seemed to stare at him like an unblinking reptilian eye. It made him feel small and vulnerable, which he didn’t often feel these days—a mighty growth spurt after his thirteenth birthday had taken care of that. But now he felt tiny as an insect, easily crushed.

The rumble grew louder for a moment, paused, then resumed, a little deeper now. Jack stayed put, watching warily, until curiosity drove him forward again.

Now he was in the castle’s very shadow, its grim exterior rising to an impossible height. As he drew nearer, a nauseating smell hit him: an organic sourness that reminded him of wet dog and sweaty PE clothes, but worse. The rumble shook the ground beneath him, with more pauses filled by a strange whooshing, like enormous bellows.

For about ten seconds he considered retreating up the path that had brought him here. He’d climb back to the ridgeline that connected the high summit of Giant’s Beacon to Table Mount and descend from there to Carrick Hall, his parents’ workplace. He’d enter the normal chaos of the estate’s kitchen, study his maps at the table, and regain his bearings over tea and scones.

But the castle wall was almost within reach now. Just a few more steps and he could confirm whether or not it was real. Plus, he was beyond range of the arrow slit, which gave him a sudden boldness. He reached out.

Real. He could feel the grit under his fingers, the clammy coolness. He could feel the rumble, too, vibrating through the rock, and smell the stench. The sound, at least, was coming from somewhere on the other side of the castle.

Jack stepped gingerly through the rubble at the base of the wall and made his way around the building, deep in shadow from the bluffs. As he turned the corner, he expected to find a portcullis or some other entrance, but instead, the route was blocked by what looked like massive lumpy earthworks, or like a section of bluff had crashed down against the castle wall. He could see no way around it either. The shadowed mound extended all the way to the bluff. He’d have to climb over it or take the long way around.

He decided to climb. But as he approached the mound, the stench grew so strong that he nearly retched. The rumble increased, like the earth itself was moving.

And then it was.

Right before his eyes, the top of the mound rose like an inflating zeppelin, with a thunderous rumble, and fell with a mighty whoosh. Then up and down again, up and down. For all the world as if the ground was snoring.

Jack froze. Heart racing, he scanned the mound from one end to the other. It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Stretched out full-length on the valley floor, next to a castle that had appeared out of nowhere, lay a sleeping giant.

Arash would’ve warned the kid if he could.

From behind a large boulder, Arash had been watching the sleeping demon for at least ten minutes before the other kid had appeared. It was Jack Addison, from school. The stocky redheaded loner who was too cool for everyone. The outdoorsman who Arash had often seen wandering the Wolverns, like himself, except without a metal detector.

Clearly, the kid had no idea what was lying there.

Arash watched, horrified, as Jack walked right up to the gigantic demon. As if he meant to climb over it. Stop. Run. But the words wouldn’t come. Not in English. Nor Farsi. Nor any other language he knew.

Plus, yelling would awaken the demon—and then what?

Jack suddenly backed away, realization dawning on his freckled face.

And that was when the demon stirred.

“Fee, fi, fo . . .” it mumbled, its voice like rocks tumbling over and over. “I smell . . .” The voice tapered off into a huge snore. Then the demon rolled over.

The entire valley shook. Boulders the size of postboxes careened down the cliffside. Dust filled the air, leaving a film on Arash’s glasses. Then a great section of scree slid past his hiding place near the crevasse and roared to the valley floor. The noise rumbled across the Wolverns like a thunderstorm, leaving a silence broken only by an extended snore. The demon slept on.

But Jack—where was he? Crushed, surely. The demon had rolled away from the kid, but the falling scree had filled the passage from the cliffside to the castle wall. If Jack had even survived, his path was now blocked.

Arash wiped his glasses and looked again. Still no sign of Jack. Trembling, Arash propped his metal detector against a nearby rock, adjusted his backpack, and made his way downward along a dry streambed toward the valley floor. It was slow going. The treacherous scree offered almost no solid footing. But before he’d gone more than a dozen steps, he heard muffled coughing. To Arash’s relief, Jack staggered out from behind a pile of rocks, covered from head to toe in fine dust. He looked like the walking dead.

Jack stopped short at the sight of Arash. As they stared at each other, Arash pointed back over his own shoulder, toward the crevasse, then turned and began retracing his steps. Jack followed. When Arash reached the opening of the crevasse and began scrambling up into the narrow cleft, he looked back.

Jack had paused. His breath was coming fast, in shallow gasps. Arash motioned him to keep going. Jack gaped at him hollowly, then shook his head.

Puzzled, Arash looked up. Was there a snake or something? All he could see was the narrow slash in the rocks with perfectly spaced boulders for climbing, as if some ancient inhabitant had carved it for just this purpose. Hundreds of feet above them, a ribbon of blue sky shimmered.

Arash beckoned again. The kid shook his head—belligerently, this time—then turned and began picking his way back down the scree. Back toward the castle and the sleeping demon.

“Stop at once!”

They were the very words Arash wanted to yell. But they hadn’t come from him. They’d come from another voice, cold and furious and female, somewhere high in the tower.

Both boys froze.

“Awake, worthless pile of filth!” bellowed the voice.

The huge demon stopped in mid-snore and rolled over again, grunting. The ground trembled, and more rocks clattered down the cliffside, whizzing past Arash’s head. Jack pitched forward to his knees, arms flailing.

“Smell that?” the enraged voice continued. “Children of Tellus, I’d wager my throne.”

Jack stared at Arash, panic in his eyes. Then he clambered to his feet and half ran, half stumbled toward the crevasse.\"},{\"id\":\"121199259T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Sarah Arthur is a fun-loving speaker and the author of more than a dozen books for teens and adults, including the bestselling Once a Queen. Among other nerdy adventures, she has served as preliminary fiction judge for Christianity Today’s Book Awards, was a founding board member of the annual Northern Michigan C. S. Lewis Festival, and co-directs the Madeleine L’Engle Writing Retreats.

\"},{\"id\":\"102905711T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Sarah Arthur is a fun-loving speaker and the author of more than a dozen books for teens and adults, including the bestselling Once a Queen. Among other nerdy adventures, she has served as preliminary fiction judge for Christianity Today’s Book Awards, was a founding board member of the annual Northern Michigan C. S. Lewis Festival, and co-directs the Madeleine L’Engle Writing Retreats.\"},{\"id\":\"102967411T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Sarah Arthur is a fun-loving speaker and the author of more than a dozen books for teens and adults, including the bestselling Once a Queen. Among other nerdy adventures, she has served as preliminary fiction judge for Christianity Today’s Book Awards, was a founding board member of the annual Northern Michigan C. S. Lewis Festival, and co-directs the Madeleine L’Engle Writing Retreats.\"},{\"id\":\"107113229T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Sarah Arthur is a fun-loving speaker and the author of more than a dozen books for teens and adults, including the bestselling Once a Queen. Among other nerdy adventures, she has served as preliminary fiction judge for Christianity Today's Book Awards, was a founding board member of the annual Northern Michigan C. S. Lewis Festival, and co-directs the Madeleine L'Engle Writing Retreats.\"}]",{"_41":1480,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":1481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51259926774001","Once-a-Castle/Sarah-Arthur",{"_41":1483,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":1484},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51259922120945","1145616556",{"_41":1486,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51259924676849",{"_41":1488,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":1438},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51259919433969",{"_41":1490,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1171,"_1111":1491},"gid://shopify/Metafield/78537570713841","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.4\"}",{"_41":1493,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1175,"_1111":864},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64359453524209",{"_33":1495,"_26":1184,"_1062":1496},"0Nt4fpEWRvhnwX4CFmY2c",{"_1064":1065,"_41":1497,"_72":1498,"_1068":1069,"_886":1499,"_893":1500,"_1072":1501,"_1074":1502,"_1081":1506,"_1089":59,"_1090":1508,"_1096":1511,"_931":1520,"_1117":1522,"_1119":1523},"gid://shopify/Product/8851376701681","A Forgery of Fate","9780593650639","#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • A breathtaking romantic fantasy inspired by Beauty and the Beast about a girl who paints the future and a cursed dragon lord, bound by love and deception in a plot to bring down the gods. From the New York Times bestselling author of Six Crimson Cranes! “Everything I love in a story—danger, complex characters, romance, betrayal and gorgeous writing.” —Mary E. Pearson, New York Times bestselling author of Dance of ThievesTruyan Saigas didn't choose to become a con artist, but after her father is lost at sea, it’s up to her to support her mother and two younger sisters. A gifted art forger, Tru has the unique ability to paint the future, but even such magic is not enough to put her family back together again, or stave off the gangsters demanding payment in blood for her mother’s gambling debts.Left with few options, Tru agrees to a marriage contract with a mysterious dragon lord. He offers a fresh start for her mother and sisters and elusive answers about her father's disappearance, but in exchange, she must join him in his desolate undersea palace. And she must assist him in a plot to infiltrate the tyrannical Dragon King's inner circle, painting a future so treasonous, it could upend both the mortal and immortal realms. . . .","#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • A breathtaking romantic fantasy inspired by Beauty and the Beast about a girl who paints the future and a cursed dragon lord, bound by love and deception in a plot to bring down the gods.

From the New York Times bestselling author of Six Crimson Cranes!

“Everything I love in a story—danger, complex characters, romance, betrayal and gorgeous writing.” —Mary E. Pearson, New York Times bestselling author of Dance of Thieves

Truyan Saigas didn't choose to become a con artist, but after her father is lost at sea, it’s up to her to support her mother and two younger sisters. A gifted art forger, Tru has the unique ability to paint the future, but even such magic is not enough to put her family back together again, or stave off the gangsters demanding payment in blood for her mother’s gambling debts.

Left with few options, Tru agrees to a marriage contract with a mysterious dragon lord. He offers a fresh start for her mother and sisters and elusive answers about her father's disappearance, but in exchange, she must join him in his desolate undersea palace. And she must assist him in a plot to infiltrate the tyrannical Dragon King's inner circle, painting a future so treasonous, it could upend both the mortal and immortal realms. . . .",{"_41":1503,"_54":1504,"_56":1505,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47756454134001","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593650639_p0.jpg?v=1765490145",1336,{"_1083":1507},{"_1085":1197,"_1087":1088},{"_1083":1509,"_1094":1510},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":1512},[1513],{"_41":1514,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":1515,"_1104":1516,"_1062":1517,"_1107":1518,"_1113":1499,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46249670738161",{"_41":1503,"_54":1504,"_1080":-5,"_56":1505,"_50":1079},{"_1085":1197,"_1087":1088},{"_72":1498,"_886":1499},[1519],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":1521},"[\"NOOK Recommends (p21)\",\"The Best Books of 2025 (p9354)\"]",{"_1111":1499},[1524,-5,-5,1527,1529,1531,1533,1535,1538,1541,1544,-5,1546,1548,-5,1550,1553],{"_41":1525,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":1526},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39890451661041","[{\"contributorId\":19418010,\"fullName\":\"Elizabeth Lim\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_41":1528,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39890452381937",{"_41":1530,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39890451136753",{"_41":1532,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1473},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39890453528817",{"_41":1534,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1148},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39890452513009",{"_41":1536,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":1537},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39890454774001","[{\"id\":\"117330605T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Chapter One

Mama used to fancy herself the best fortune teller in Gangsun—that is, until Baba disappeared at sea.

Her talent was in reading faces. She could divine someone’s lifespan from the texture of their hair, whether they’d be faithful lovers from the way their mouth slanted. Too often she’d go up to strangers and pinch their earlobes, for that was her way of gauging how prosperous they’d become. Mama loved nothing more than money.

With such a gift, you’d think that Mama would’ve married the richest merchant she could find. Certainly not Baba— a middling trader with blue hair, grand dreams, and nine coppers to his name. But no matter how my sisters and I begged, neither would ever tell the story. All Mama would say, with a sniff, was “Foreign faces are harder to read. Had I known your father would chase adventure over riches—”

“She’d still have picked me,” Baba finished for her one lazy Sunday morning. His eyes twinkled. “Your mother knew from the start what I was.”

“A pirate,” Mama muttered. “A thief.”

“An adventurer,” I said at the same time as Baba. With a grin, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And once, in another life, your mama was one too.”

I stared at him, convinced that he was telling tales. I couldn’t imagine my prim mama with her hair down, let alone chasing after bandits or swilling rice wine with sailors.

She saw my skepticism and waved it away. “Those were desperate times. Before I had my three girls.”

I longed to know more, but Baba and Mama exchanged a look that drew the shutters over their past.

Mama picked me up and set me on her lap, her voice softening. “Thankfully, your fate will be different, Tru.” She touched the mole by the right corner of my mouth. “This means you’ll never go hungry, and you’ll have a gift for making coin.”

“Will she have a gift for saving it too?” Baba teased. He eyed the silk shawl draped around Mama’s shoulders and the new bangles at her wrists. “Because her mother certainly doesn’t.”

Mama glared, but her mouth betrayed the smallest of smiles. “Being married to a Balardan makes it harder to earn people’s trust,” she retorted. Her gaze raked over Baba’s hair, which shimmered dark blue under the summer sun. “I need to look presentable in case you scare away all my customers.”

“Your daughter isn’t a customer. She didn’t ask for her fortune to be read.”

“I don’t mind,” I said quickly. “I like it when Mama reads me.”

Back then, it was the truth. I was young and gullible, and no one believed in Mama’s abilities more than I did.

Baba clicked his tongue. When Mama was out of earshot, he leaned down until we were eye to eye and said, “No one can see the future, Tru. Not even your mother.”

“But she says—”

“Mama likes to . . . pretend,” said Baba in his lowest voice.

I frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You remember that old story about the fish and the dragon?” he asked, instead of explaining. “Fortune finds those who leap, my Tru. Whatever yours is—riches or love or adventure—you make it yourself. Nothing is predetermined. Not by the gods, not by the lines on your palm or the creases on your brow.” He counted my worry lines with his fingers. “Or else these lines mean you’ll have seventeen children.”

That made me giggle.

“See? It’s nonsense.” Baba tousled my hair. Then—as if by magic—he drew out a wooden ship from behind my collar.

“Oh,” I breathed as Baba dropped the ship onto my palm. It was as small as a teacup and still in a rough state, but the smoothly sanded sails and the outline of a magnificent phoenix along the bow gave me glimpses of its potential. “It’s going to be your finest yet.”

“I think so too,” Baba agreed.

Art and the sea, those were what my father loved most, after his family. When he was away, he carved us trinkets of marvels he’d encountered on his travels: monkeys and tigers, shadow puppeteers, bridges cast like crescent moons—my younger sisters and I had an entire collection under our bed. This was the first time he’d shown me something that he was still working on.

“When it’s finished, I want you to paint it for me.”

My eyes went wide. “Me?”

“Yes. Falina says you steal into my cupboard when I’m not here. The one with all my paints and brushes.”

Demon turds, of course she’d given me away. I grumbled to myself, wishing my younger sister had never been born.

I wanted to deny the stealing, but we had a rule in our household, and that was never to lie to family. “I only did it once,” I admitted. “Maybe twice.”

“Why?”

“I was curious. I saw a painting of the Twin River Mountains inside Aunt Lili’s bakery, and they looked like two pears next to each other. She said she bought it for thirty jens.” I waved my arms. “Thirty jens! I wanted to tell her I could draw them better, for twenty.”

“Could you?”

The corners of my mouth twitched into a smile. My pride would be the end of me. “Yes.”

A hearty laugh rumbled out of Baba’s throat. “That’s just what I wanted to hear. Balardans have art in their souls, Tru. I was hoping one of my girls might paint.” He unrolled the leather case he kept on his belt, and his fingers danced across a set of carving knives before they landed on a slender paintbrush. “Here, to get you started.”

I held the brush between two fingers, surprised by its lightness. It was white and pointed, like the tip of a horse’s tail, and the handle was made out of bamboo. I’d seen a dozen like it in the marketplace, but that Baba had bought it for me made it the most special in the world.

“The hair’s made out of weasel,” Baba said, looking a little sheepish. “Not very elegant, still it makes for the sharpest lines. You’ll need that in a magic paintbrush.”

“A magic paintbrush?”

“A game I played when I was a boy. I’d paint anything I could dream up: flying sailboats, birds that could tell stories, and lanterns that never went out.” He leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, “Then I’d say, ‘Magic paintbrush,’ and they’d all come to life.”

“Truly?” I breathed.

“Well, not truly,” Baba confessed. “It’s a game of imagination. A game where the only rules and limits come from here.” He tapped my forehead.

I exhaled with wonder. “Then how do you know who wins?”

“The best games have no winners or losers.”

I pictured playing with my sisters. All Fal would wish for were dresses and jewels, and Nomi—my thoughts turned tender—she’d want a mountain of books. My youngest sister was a genius; at four years old, she could already read better than Fal and me.

“Use the brush to paint what’s real, or paint what isn’t,” said Baba. “So long as painting it makes you happy, that is the best practice.”

My heart swelled. “Thank you, Baba.”

“My paints are yours now.” He brought the wooden ship forward. “Think about which colors you’ll use on it. One day, if fortune permits, it’ll be a real ship that we’ll sail together.”

“If fortune permits?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “We make our own fortune, remember?”

He laughed. “Indeed, Tru. So we will.”

In the weeks that followed, “magic paintbrush” quickly became my favorite game. Every afternoon, my sisters and I played while Mama read foreheads and destinies in the kitchen.

Nomi adored our games. Fal did too, though she’d never admit it. She’d hover over my shoulder as I brought to life the talking fish and singing trees from Nomi’s stories, casting a critical eye on every stroke. Then at night, we’d squabble over the ship I’d paint for Baba. Fal wanted it to be pink, Nomi purple. In my dreams, it was always blue—like the endless sky over the sea—with phoenix wings that were powered by starlight. As soon as I grew up, I’d sail it with Baba and take on the world.

Little did I know, fortune had other ideas for me.

It started with my hair. Soon after my tenth birthday, it changed color overnight. “Bandit blue,” my mother hissed when she saw. A damning sight anywhere in the city—I might as well have been born with three heads and an extra pair of arms.

Mama was devastated. She sought potions to turn my hair black again, but magic was expensive and hard to come by, so instead she’d make all manner of concoctions for me to drink.

Nothing worked. No tonic, no dye, not even a hat could fully hide the electrifying blue of my hair, and cutting it only made it grow back faster. Secretly, I loved it. Unlike Falina, who’d inherited both Mama’s and Baba’s best features, I wasn’t worth looking at twice except for my hair. The whispers it got aggrieved Fal, who wished she didn’t have anything to do with me. Naturally, that only made me love it more.

By the time I was thirteen, its color was so bold Baba joked that if he could make it into a dye, we’d be rich enough to buy a house on Oyang Street, where only the wealthiest merchants owned manors.

“How can you jest about a thing like this?” lamented Mama. “Her marriage prospects are ruined.”

“Wonderful,” said Baba. “She can come sailing with me.”

Mama stared at him, aghast. “Maybe in Balar, you barbarians would make an adventurer out of a girl, but here—”

“Here in Gangsun, a woman can’t run a business without her husband’s permission,” Baba cut in. “She can’t even own her home. Things will be different for my girls.”

“Yes, they will marry rich,” said Mama, who always had to have the last word.

They didn’t talk about my hair again because, a few days later, Baba announced that he was going away. He had accepted an urgent voyage that would take him halfway across the world. More than that, he couldn’t tell us. But we were used to his secret assignments.

“Will you sail across the Taijin Sea?” Nomi queried while Baba folded his warmest coats into his traveling chest. She had half a fried cruller—leftover from breakfast—in one hand and chomped on it while she spoke. “I hear there’s dragons there. If you see one, will you make friends with it? Promise, Baba. I’d love nothing more than to know a dragon in my lifetime.”

Baba chuckled. “I’ve sailed the Taijin thirteen times, Nomi, and never once have I come across a dragon. But if I do, I’ll certainly send it your tidings.”

“Send it this too.” Nomi reached into Mama’s pan for the last cruller. She inhaled the smell of it with her eyes closed, then presented it to Baba as if it were her greatest prize. “The best friendships are made over food.”\"},{\"id\":\"109469901T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Chapter One

Mama used to fancy herself the best fortune teller in Gangsun—that is, until Baba disappeared at sea.

Her talent was in reading faces. She could divine someone’s lifespan from the texture of their hair, whether they’d be faithful lovers from the way their mouth slanted. Too often she’d go up to strangers and pinch their earlobes, for that was her way of gauging how prosperous they’d become. Mama loved nothing more than money.

With such a gift, you’d think that Mama would’ve married the richest merchant she could find. Certainly not Baba— a middling trader with blue hair, grand dreams, and nine coppers to his name. But no matter how my sisters and I begged, neither would ever tell the story. All Mama would say, with a sniff, was “Foreign faces are harder to read. Had I known your father would chase adventure over riches—”

“She’d still have picked me,” Baba finished for her one lazy Sunday morning. His eyes twinkled. “Your mother knew from the start what I was.”

“A pirate,” Mama muttered. “A thief.”

“An adventurer,” I said at the same time as Baba. With a grin, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And once, in another life, your mama was one too.”

I stared at him, convinced that he was telling tales. I couldn’t imagine my prim mama with her hair down, let alone chasing after bandits or swilling rice wine with sailors.

She saw my skepticism and waved it away. “Those were desperate times. Before I had my three girls.”

I longed to know more, but Baba and Mama exchanged a look that drew the shutters over their past.

Mama picked me up and set me on her lap, her voice softening. “Thankfully, your fate will be different, Tru.” She touched the mole by the right corner of my mouth. “This means you’ll never go hungry, and you’ll have a gift for making coin.”

“Will she have a gift for saving it too?” Baba teased. He eyed the silk shawl draped around Mama’s shoulders and the new bangles at her wrists. “Because her mother certainly doesn’t.”

Mama glared, but her mouth betrayed the smallest of smiles. “Being married to a Balardan makes it harder to earn people’s trust,” she retorted. Her gaze raked over Baba’s hair, which shimmered dark blue under the summer sun. “I need to look presentable in case you scare away all my customers.”

“Your daughter isn’t a customer. She didn’t ask for her fortune to be read.”

“I don’t mind,” I said quickly. “I like it when Mama reads me.”

Back then, it was the truth. I was young and gullible, and no one believed in Mama’s abilities more than I did.

Baba clicked his tongue. When Mama was out of earshot, he leaned down until we were eye to eye and said, “No one can see the future, Tru. Not even your mother.”

“But she says—”

“Mama likes to . . . pretend,” said Baba in his lowest voice.

I frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You remember that old story about the fish and the dragon?” he asked, instead of explaining. “Fortune finds those who leap, my Tru. Whatever yours is—riches or love or adventure—you make it yourself. Nothing is predetermined. Not by the gods, not by the lines on your palm or the creases on your brow.” He counted my worry lines with his fingers. “Or else these lines mean you’ll have seventeen children.”

That made me giggle.

“See? It’s nonsense.” Baba tousled my hair. Then—as if by magic—he drew out a wooden ship from behind my collar.

“Oh,” I breathed as Baba dropped the ship onto my palm. It was as small as a teacup and still in a rough state, but the smoothly sanded sails and the outline of a magnificent phoenix along the bow gave me glimpses of its potential. “It’s going to be your finest yet.”

“I think so too,” Baba agreed.

Art and the sea, those were what my father loved most, after his family. When he was away, he carved us trinkets of marvels he’d encountered on his travels: monkeys and tigers, shadow puppeteers, bridges cast like crescent moons—my younger sisters and I had an entire collection under our bed. This was the first time he’d shown me something that he was still working on.

“When it’s finished, I want you to paint it for me.”

My eyes went wide. “Me?”

“Yes. Falina says you steal into my cupboard when I’m not here. The one with all my paints and brushes.”

Demon turds, of course she’d given me away. I grumbled to myself, wishing my younger sister had never been born.

I wanted to deny the stealing, but we had a rule in our household, and that was never to lie to family. “I only did it once,” I admitted. “Maybe twice.”

“Why?”

“I was curious. I saw a painting of the Twin River Mountains inside Aunt Lili’s bakery, and they looked like two pears next to each other. She said she bought it for thirty jens.” I waved my arms. “Thirty jens! I wanted to tell her I could draw them better, for twenty.”

“Could you?”

The corners of my mouth twitched into a smile. My pride would be the end of me. “Yes.”

A hearty laugh rumbled out of Baba’s throat. “That’s just what I wanted to hear. Balardans have art in their souls, Tru. I was hoping one of my girls might paint.” He unrolled the leather case he kept on his belt, and his fingers danced across a set of carving knives before they landed on a slender paintbrush. “Here, to get you started.”

I held the brush between two fingers, surprised by its lightness. It was white and pointed, like the tip of a horse’s tail, and the handle was made out of bamboo. I’d seen a dozen like it in the marketplace, but that Baba had bought it for me made it the most special in the world.

“The hair’s made out of weasel,” Baba said, looking a little sheepish. “Not very elegant, still it makes for the sharpest lines. You’ll need that in a magic paintbrush.”

“A magic paintbrush?”

“A game I played when I was a boy. I’d paint anything I could dream up: flying sailboats, birds that could tell stories, and lanterns that never went out.” He leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, “Then I’d say, ‘Magic paintbrush,’ and they’d all come to life.”

“Truly?” I breathed.

“Well, not truly,” Baba confessed. “It’s a game of imagination. A game where the only rules and limits come from here.” He tapped my forehead.

I exhaled with wonder. “Then how do you know who wins?”

“The best games have no winners or losers.”

I pictured playing with my sisters. All Fal would wish for were dresses and jewels, and Nomi—my thoughts turned tender—she’d want a mountain of books. My youngest sister was a genius; at four years old, she could already read better than Fal and me.

“Use the brush to paint what’s real, or paint what isn’t,” said Baba. “So long as painting it makes you happy, that is the best practice.”

My heart swelled. “Thank you, Baba.”

“My paints are yours now.” He brought the wooden ship forward. “Think about which colors you’ll use on it. One day, if fortune permits, it’ll be a real ship that we’ll sail together.”

“If fortune permits?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “We make our own fortune, remember?”

He laughed. “Indeed, Tru. So we will.”

In the weeks that followed, “magic paintbrush” quickly became my favorite game. Every afternoon, my sisters and I played while Mama read foreheads and destinies in the kitchen.

Nomi adored our games. Fal did too, though she’d never admit it. She’d hover over my shoulder as I brought to life the talking fish and singing trees from Nomi’s stories, casting a critical eye on every stroke. Then at night, we’d squabble over the ship I’d paint for Baba. Fal wanted it to be pink, Nomi purple. In my dreams, it was always blue—like the endless sky over the sea—with phoenix wings that were powered by starlight. As soon as I grew up, I’d sail it with Baba and take on the world.

Little did I know, fortune had other ideas for me.

It started with my hair. Soon after my tenth birthday, it changed color overnight. “Bandit blue,” my mother hissed when she saw. A damning sight anywhere in the city—I might as well have been born with three heads and an extra pair of arms.

Mama was devastated. She sought potions to turn my hair black again, but magic was expensive and hard to come by, so instead she’d make all manner of concoctions for me to drink.

Nothing worked. No tonic, no dye, not even a hat could fully hide the electrifying blue of my hair, and cutting it only made it grow back faster. Secretly, I loved it. Unlike Falina, who’d inherited both Mama’s and Baba’s best features, I wasn’t worth looking at twice except for my hair. The whispers it got aggrieved Fal, who wished she didn’t have anything to do with me. Naturally, that only made me love it more.

By the time I was thirteen, its color was so bold Baba joked that if he could make it into a dye, we’d be rich enough to buy a house on Oyang Street, where only the wealthiest merchants owned manors.

“How can you jest about a thing like this?” lamented Mama. “Her marriage prospects are ruined.”

“Wonderful,” said Baba. “She can come sailing with me.”

Mama stared at him, aghast. “Maybe in Balar, you barbarians would make an adventurer out of a girl, but here—”

“Here in Gangsun, a woman can’t run a business without her husband’s permission,” Baba cut in. “She can’t even own her home. Things will be different for my girls.”

“Yes, they will marry rich,” said Mama, who always had to have the last word.

They didn’t talk about my hair again because, a few days later, Baba announced that he was going away. He had accepted an urgent voyage that would take him halfway across the world. More than that, he couldn’t tell us. But we were used to his secret assignments.

“Will you sail across the Taijin Sea?” Nomi queried while Baba folded his warmest coats into his traveling chest. She had half a fried cruller—leftover from breakfast—in one hand and chomped on it while she spoke. “I hear there’s dragons there. If you see one, will you make friends with it? Promise, Baba. I’d love nothing more than to know a dragon in my lifetime.”

Baba chuckled. “I’ve sailed the Taijin thirteen times, Nomi, and never once have I come across a dragon. But if I do, I’ll certainly send it your tidings.”

“Send it this too.” Nomi reached into Mama’s pan for the last cruller. She inhaled the smell of it with her eyes closed, then presented it to Baba as if it were her greatest prize. “The best friendships are made over food.”\"},{\"id\":\"115426905T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Chapter One

Mama used to fancy herself the best fortune teller in Gangsun—that is, until Baba disappeared at sea.

Her talent was in reading faces. She could divine someone’s lifespan from the texture of their hair, whether they’d be faithful lovers from the way their mouth slanted. Too often she’d go up to strangers and pinch their earlobes, for that was her way of gauging how prosperous they’d become. Mama loved nothing more than money.

With such a gift, you’d think that Mama would’ve married the richest merchant she could find. Certainly not Baba— a middling trader with blue hair, grand dreams, and nine coppers to his name. But no matter how my sisters and I begged, neither would ever tell the story. All Mama would say, with a sniff, was “Foreign faces are harder to read. Had I known your father would chase adventure over riches—”

“She’d still have picked me,” Baba finished for her one lazy Sunday morning. His eyes twinkled. “Your mother knew from the start what I was.”

“A pirate,” Mama muttered. “A thief.”

“An adventurer,” I said at the same time as Baba. With a grin, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And once, in another life, your mama was one too.”

I stared at him, convinced that he was telling tales. I couldn’t imagine my prim mama with her hair down, let alone chasing after bandits or swilling rice wine with sailors.

She saw my skepticism and waved it away. “Those were desperate times. Before I had my three girls.”

I longed to know more, but Baba and Mama exchanged a look that drew the shutters over their past.

Mama picked me up and set me on her lap, her voice softening. “Thankfully, your fate will be different, Tru.” She touched the mole by the right corner of my mouth. “This means you’ll never go hungry, and you’ll have a gift for making coin.”

“Will she have a gift for saving it too?” Baba teased. He eyed the silk shawl draped around Mama’s shoulders and the new bangles at her wrists. “Because her mother certainly doesn’t.”

Mama glared, but her mouth betrayed the smallest of smiles. “Being married to a Balardan makes it harder to earn people’s trust,” she retorted. Her gaze raked over Baba’s hair, which shimmered dark blue under the summer sun. “I need to look presentable in case you scare away all my customers.”

“Your daughter isn’t a customer. She didn’t ask for her fortune to be read.”

“I don’t mind,” I said quickly. “I like it when Mama reads me.”

Back then, it was the truth. I was young and gullible, and no one believed in Mama’s abilities more than I did.

Baba clicked his tongue. When Mama was out of earshot, he leaned down until we were eye to eye and said, “No one can see the future, Tru. Not even your mother.”

“But she says—”

“Mama likes to . . . pretend,” said Baba in his lowest voice.

I frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You remember that old story about the fish and the dragon?” he asked, instead of explaining. “Fortune finds those who leap, my Tru. Whatever yours is—riches or love or adventure—you make it yourself. Nothing is predetermined. Not by the gods, not by the lines on your palm or the creases on your brow.” He counted my worry lines with his fingers. “Or else these lines mean you’ll have seventeen children.”

That made me giggle.

“See? It’s nonsense.” Baba tousled my hair. Then—as if by magic—he drew out a wooden ship from behind my collar.

“Oh,” I breathed as Baba dropped the ship onto my palm. It was as small as a teacup and still in a rough state, but the smoothly sanded sails and the outline of a magnificent phoenix along the bow gave me glimpses of its potential. “It’s going to be your finest yet.”

“I think so too,” Baba agreed.

Art and the sea, those were what my father loved most, after his family. When he was away, he carved us trinkets of marvels he’d encountered on his travels: monkeys and tigers, shadow puppeteers, bridges cast like crescent moons—my younger sisters and I had an entire collection under our bed. This was the first time he’d shown me something that he was still working on.

“When it’s finished, I want you to paint it for me.”

My eyes went wide. “Me?”

“Yes. Falina says you steal into my cupboard when I’m not here. The one with all my paints and brushes.”

Demon turds, of course she’d given me away. I grumbled to myself, wishing my younger sister had never been born.

I wanted to deny the stealing, but we had a rule in our household, and that was never to lie to family. “I only did it once,” I admitted. “Maybe twice.”

“Why?”

“I was curious. I saw a painting of the Twin River Mountains inside Aunt Lili’s bakery, and they looked like two pears next to each other. She said she bought it for thirty jens.” I waved my arms. “Thirty jens! I wanted to tell her I could draw them better, for twenty.”

“Could you?”

The corners of my mouth twitched into a smile. My pride would be the end of me. “Yes.”

A hearty laugh rumbled out of Baba’s throat. “That’s just what I wanted to hear. Balardans have art in their souls, Tru. I was hoping one of my girls might paint.” He unrolled the leather case he kept on his belt, and his fingers danced across a set of carving knives before they landed on a slender paintbrush. “Here, to get you started.”

I held the brush between two fingers, surprised by its lightness. It was white and pointed, like the tip of a horse’s tail, and the handle was made out of bamboo. I’d seen a dozen like it in the marketplace, but that Baba had bought it for me made it the most special in the world.

“The hair’s made out of weasel,” Baba said, looking a little sheepish. “Not very elegant, still it makes for the sharpest lines. You’ll need that in a magic paintbrush.”

“A magic paintbrush?”

“A game I played when I was a boy. I’d paint anything I could dream up: flying sailboats, birds that could tell stories, and lanterns that never went out.” He leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, “Then I’d say, ‘Magic paintbrush,’ and they’d all come to life.”

“Truly?” I breathed.

“Well, not truly,” Baba confessed. “It’s a game of imagination. A game where the only rules and limits come from here.” He tapped my forehead.

I exhaled with wonder. “Then how do you know who wins?”

“The best games have no winners or losers.”

I pictured playing with my sisters. All Fal would wish for were dresses and jewels, and Nomi—my thoughts turned tender—she’d want a mountain of books. My youngest sister was a genius; at four years old, she could already read better than Fal and me.

“Use the brush to paint what’s real, or paint what isn’t,” said Baba. “So long as painting it makes you happy, that is the best practice.”

My heart swelled. “Thank you, Baba.”

“My paints are yours now.” He brought the wooden ship forward. “Think about which colors you’ll use on it. One day, if fortune permits, it’ll be a real ship that we’ll sail together.”

“If fortune permits?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “We make our own fortune, remember?”

He laughed. “Indeed, Tru. So we will.”

In the weeks that followed, “magic paintbrush” quickly became my favorite game. Every afternoon, my sisters and I played while Mama read foreheads and destinies in the kitchen.

Nomi adored our games. Fal did too, though she’d never admit it. She’d hover over my shoulder as I brought to life the talking fish and singing trees from Nomi’s stories, casting a critical eye on every stroke. Then at night, we’d squabble over the ship I’d paint for Baba. Fal wanted it to be pink, Nomi purple. In my dreams, it was always blue—like the endless sky over the sea—with phoenix wings that were powered by starlight. As soon as I grew up, I’d sail it with Baba and take on the world.

Little did I know, fortune had other ideas for me.

It started with my hair. Soon after my tenth birthday, it changed color overnight. “Bandit blue,” my mother hissed when she saw. A damning sight anywhere in the city—I might as well have been born with three heads and an extra pair of arms.

Mama was devastated. She sought potions to turn my hair black again, but magic was expensive and hard to come by, so instead she’d make all manner of concoctions for me to drink.

Nothing worked. No tonic, no dye, not even a hat could fully hide the electrifying blue of my hair, and cutting it only made it grow back faster. Secretly, I loved it. Unlike Falina, who’d inherited both Mama’s and Baba’s best features, I wasn’t worth looking at twice except for my hair. The whispers it got aggrieved Fal, who wished she didn’t have anything to do with me. Naturally, that only made me love it more.

By the time I was thirteen, its color was so bold Baba joked that if he could make it into a dye, we’d be rich enough to buy a house on Oyang Street, where only the wealthiest merchants owned manors.

“How can you jest about a thing like this?” lamented Mama. “Her marriage prospects are ruined.”

“Wonderful,” said Baba. “She can come sailing with me.”

Mama stared at him, aghast. “Maybe in Balar, you barbarians would make an adventurer out of a girl, but here—”

“Here in Gangsun, a woman can’t run a business without her husband’s permission,” Baba cut in. “She can’t even own her home. Things will be different for my girls.”

“Yes, they will marry rich,” said Mama, who always had to have the last word.

They didn’t talk about my hair again because, a few days later, Baba announced that he was going away. He had accepted an urgent voyage that would take him halfway across the world. More than that, he couldn’t tell us. But we were used to his secret assignments.

“Will you sail across the Taijin Sea?” Nomi queried while Baba folded his warmest coats into his traveling chest. She had half a fried cruller—leftover from breakfast—in one hand and chomped on it while she spoke. “I hear there’s dragons there. If you see one, will you make friends with it? Promise, Baba. I’d love nothing more than to know a dragon in my lifetime.”

Baba chuckled. “I’ve sailed the Taijin thirteen times, Nomi, and never once have I come across a dragon. But if I do, I’ll certainly send it your tidings.”

“Send it this too.” Nomi reached into Mama’s pan for the last cruller. She inhaled the smell of it with her eyes closed, then presented it to Baba as if it were her greatest prize. “The best friendships are made over food.”\"},{\"id\":\"109449862T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Chapter One

Mama used to fancy herself the best fortune teller in Gangsun—that is, until Baba disappeared at sea.

Her talent was in reading faces. She could divine someone’s lifespan from the texture of their hair, whether they’d be faithful lovers from the way their mouth slanted. Too often she’d go up to strangers and pinch their earlobes, for that was her way of gauging how prosperous they’d become. Mama loved nothing more than money.

With such a gift, you’d think that Mama would’ve married the richest merchant she could find. Certainly not Baba— a middling trader with blue hair, grand dreams, and nine coppers to his name. But no matter how my sisters and I begged, neither would ever tell the story. All Mama would say, with a sniff, was “Foreign faces are harder to read. Had I known your father would chase adventure over riches—”

“She’d still have picked me,” Baba finished for her one lazy Sunday morning. His eyes twinkled. “Your mother knew from the start what I was.”

“A pirate,” Mama muttered. “A thief.”

“An adventurer,” I said at the same time as Baba. With a grin, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “And once, in another life, your mama was one too.”

I stared at him, convinced that he was telling tales. I couldn’t imagine my prim mama with her hair down, let alone chasing after bandits or swilling rice wine with sailors.

She saw my skepticism and waved it away. “Those were desperate times. Before I had my three girls.”

I longed to know more, but Baba and Mama exchanged a look that drew the shutters over their past.

Mama picked me up and set me on her lap, her voice softening. “Thankfully, your fate will be different, Tru.” She touched the mole by the right corner of my mouth. “This means you’ll never go hungry, and you’ll have a gift for making coin.”

“Will she have a gift for saving it too?” Baba teased. He eyed the silk shawl draped around Mama’s shoulders and the new bangles at her wrists. “Because her mother certainly doesn’t.”

Mama glared, but her mouth betrayed the smallest of smiles. “Being married to a Balardan makes it harder to earn people’s trust,” she retorted. Her gaze raked over Baba’s hair, which shimmered dark blue under the summer sun. “I need to look presentable in case you scare away all my customers.”

“Your daughter isn’t a customer. She didn’t ask for her fortune to be read.”

“I don’t mind,” I said quickly. “I like it when Mama reads me.”

Back then, it was the truth. I was young and gullible, and no one believed in Mama’s abilities more than I did.

Baba clicked his tongue. When Mama was out of earshot, he leaned down until we were eye to eye and said, “No one can see the future, Tru. Not even your mother.”

“But she says—”

“Mama likes to . . . pretend,” said Baba in his lowest voice.

I frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You remember that old story about the fish and the dragon?” he asked, instead of explaining. “Fortune finds those who leap, my Tru. Whatever yours is—riches or love or adventure—you make it yourself. Nothing is predetermined. Not by the gods, not by the lines on your palm or the creases on your brow.” He counted my worry lines with his fingers. “Or else these lines mean you’ll have seventeen children.”

That made me giggle.

“See? It’s nonsense.” Baba tousled my hair. Then—as if by magic—he drew out a wooden ship from behind my collar.

“Oh,” I breathed as Baba dropped the ship onto my palm. It was as small as a teacup and still in a rough state, but the smoothly sanded sails and the outline of a magnificent phoenix along the bow gave me glimpses of its potential. “It’s going to be your finest yet.”

“I think so too,” Baba agreed.

Art and the sea, those were what my father loved most, after his family. When he was away, he carved us trinkets of marvels he’d encountered on his travels: monkeys and tigers, shadow puppeteers, bridges cast like crescent moons—my younger sisters and I had an entire collection under our bed. This was the first time he’d shown me something that he was still working on.

“When it’s finished, I want you to paint it for me.”

My eyes went wide. “Me?”

“Yes. Falina says you steal into my cupboard when I’m not here. The one with all my paints and brushes.”

Demon turds, of course she’d given me away. I grumbled to myself, wishing my younger sister had never been born.

I wanted to deny the stealing, but we had a rule in our household, and that was never to lie to family. “I only did it once,” I admitted. “Maybe twice.”

“Why?”

“I was curious. I saw a painting of the Twin River Mountains inside Aunt Lili’s bakery, and they looked like two pears next to each other. She said she bought it for thirty jens.” I waved my arms. “Thirty jens! I wanted to tell her I could draw them better, for twenty.”

“Could you?”

The corners of my mouth twitched into a smile. My pride would be the end of me. “Yes.”

A hearty laugh rumbled out of Baba’s throat. “That’s just what I wanted to hear. Balardans have art in their souls, Tru. I was hoping one of my girls might paint.” He unrolled the leather case he kept on his belt, and his fingers danced across a set of carving knives before they landed on a slender paintbrush. “Here, to get you started.”

I held the brush between two fingers, surprised by its lightness. It was white and pointed, like the tip of a horse’s tail, and the handle was made out of bamboo. I’d seen a dozen like it in the marketplace, but that Baba had bought it for me made it the most special in the world.

“The hair’s made out of weasel,” Baba said, looking a little sheepish. “Not very elegant, still it makes for the sharpest lines. You’ll need that in a magic paintbrush.”

“A magic paintbrush?”

“A game I played when I was a boy. I’d paint anything I could dream up: flying sailboats, birds that could tell stories, and lanterns that never went out.” He leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, “Then I’d say, ‘Magic paintbrush,’ and they’d all come to life.”

“Truly?” I breathed.

“Well, not truly,” Baba confessed. “It’s a game of imagination. A game where the only rules and limits come from here.” He tapped my forehead.

I exhaled with wonder. “Then how do you know who wins?”

“The best games have no winners or losers.”

I pictured playing with my sisters. All Fal would wish for were dresses and jewels, and Nomi—my thoughts turned tender—she’d want a mountain of books. My youngest sister was a genius; at four years old, she could already read better than Fal and me.

“Use the brush to paint what’s real, or paint what isn’t,” said Baba. “So long as painting it makes you happy, that is the best practice.”

My heart swelled. “Thank you, Baba.”

“My paints are yours now.” He brought the wooden ship forward. “Think about which colors you’ll use on it. One day, if fortune permits, it’ll be a real ship that we’ll sail together.”

“If fortune permits?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “We make our own fortune, remember?”

He laughed. “Indeed, Tru. So we will.”

In the weeks that followed, “magic paintbrush” quickly became my favorite game. Every afternoon, my sisters and I played while Mama read foreheads and destinies in the kitchen.

Nomi adored our games. Fal did too, though she’d never admit it. She’d hover over my shoulder as I brought to life the talking fish and singing trees from Nomi’s stories, casting a critical eye on every stroke. Then at night, we’d squabble over the ship I’d paint for Baba. Fal wanted it to be pink, Nomi purple. In my dreams, it was always blue—like the endless sky over the sea—with phoenix wings that were powered by starlight. As soon as I grew up, I’d sail it with Baba and take on the world.

Little did I know, fortune had other ideas for me.

It started with my hair. Soon after my tenth birthday, it changed color overnight. “Bandit blue,” my mother hissed when she saw. A damning sight anywhere in the city—I might as well have been born with three heads and an extra pair of arms.

Mama was devastated. She sought potions to turn my hair black again, but magic was expensive and hard to come by, so instead she’d make all manner of concoctions for me to drink.

Nothing worked. No tonic, no dye, not even a hat could fully hide the electrifying blue of my hair, and cutting it only made it grow back faster. Secretly, I loved it. Unlike Falina, who’d inherited both Mama’s and Baba’s best features, I wasn’t worth looking at twice except for my hair. The whispers it got aggrieved Fal, who wished she didn’t have anything to do with me. Naturally, that only made me love it more.

By the time I was thirteen, its color was so bold Baba joked that if he could make it into a dye, we’d be rich enough to buy a house on Oyang Street, where only the wealthiest merchants owned manors.

“How can you jest about a thing like this?” lamented Mama. “Her marriage prospects are ruined.”

“Wonderful,” said Baba. “She can come sailing with me.”

Mama stared at him, aghast. “Maybe in Balar, you barbarians would make an adventurer out of a girl, but here—”

“Here in Gangsun, a woman can’t run a business without her husband’s permission,” Baba cut in. “She can’t even own her home. Things will be different for my girls.”

“Yes, they will marry rich,” said Mama, who always had to have the last word.

They didn’t talk about my hair again because, a few days later, Baba announced that he was going away. He had accepted an urgent voyage that would take him halfway across the world. More than that, he couldn’t tell us. But we were used to his secret assignments.

“Will you sail across the Taijin Sea?” Nomi queried while Baba folded his warmest coats into his traveling chest. She had half a fried cruller—leftover from breakfast—in one hand and chomped on it while she spoke. “I hear there’s dragons there. If you see one, will you make friends with it? Promise, Baba. I’d love nothing more than to know a dragon in my lifetime.”

Baba chuckled. “I’ve sailed the Taijin thirteen times, Nomi, and never once have I come across a dragon. But if I do, I’ll certainly send it your tidings.”

“Send it this too.” Nomi reached into Mama’s pan for the last cruller. She inhaled the smell of it with her eyes closed, then presented it to Baba as if it were her greatest prize. “The best friendships are made over food.”\"},{\"id\":\"117330606T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"A CCBC Choices List Selection!

★ \\\\\\\"In beguiling prose, Lim skillfully blends elements of classic fairy tales....and inject heart-pounding action into this lush romantasy epic.\\\\\\\" —Publishers Weekly, starred review

★ \\\\\\\"This emotional, thoughtful story about love and found family is perfect for romantasy fans.\\\\\\\" —Booklist, starred review

\\\\\\\"An adventurous and romantic addition to the genre.\\\\\\\" —Kirkus Reviews

\\\\\\\"Hand to readers who like the ache of slow-burn romance and the whimsy of fairy tales.\\\\\\\" —School Library Journal

“An alluring and captivating story, filled with mythical creatures, lyrical prose and vibrant characters.”—Isabel Ibañez, #1 New York Times bestselling author of What the River Knows

“Devastatingly romantic, with heart-stopping action and twists that kept me turning the pages.”—Axie Oh, New York Times bestselling author of The Girl Who Fell Beneath the Sea

“Everything I love in a story—danger, complex characters, romance, betrayal and gorgeous writing.” —Mary E. Pearson, New York Times bestselling author of Dance of Thieves

“A tale that grabs your heart and won’t let you go. Full of dangerous magic, endearing characters, and imaginative storytelling reminiscent of Beauty and the Beast.” — Brigid Kemmerer, NYT bestselling author of Defy the Night

“Exquisitely written and masterfully plotted, A Forgery of Fate is stunning in every way. I loved every page of the riveting tension-filled romance, magical adventure, and incredible characters, all woven together by Elizabeth Lim's remarkable storytelling.” —Sue Lynn Tan, USA Today bestselling author of Daughter of the Moon Goddess

“Elizabeth Lim’s worlds are so vivid and immersive that I’m convinced she must use her very own magic paintbrush.” —Lynette Noni, international bestselling author of The Prison Healer

“A captivating retelling of Beauty and the Beast, brimming with heart-pounding adventure and enchanting romance that will leave you breathless.” —June Hur, New York Times bestselling author of A Crane Among Wolves

“Once again Lim works her inimitable magic in taking a beloved fairy tale and making it not only her own, but genuinely original.” —Liz Braswell, New York Times bestselling author of As Old As Time\"},{\"id\":\"112354260T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Fairytales, mythology, magic, romance and a main character who's as compelling as she is empathetic. This rip-roaring adventure is a charmer.

\"},{\"id\":\"117330607T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

ELIZABETH LIM grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she was raised on a hearty diet of fairy tales, myths, and songs. Before becoming an author, Elizabeth was a professional film and video game composer, and she still tends to come up with her best book ideas when writing near a piano. An alumna of Harvard College and the Juilliard School, she now lives in New York with her husband and her daughters.

Elizabeth's bestselling novels include Six Crimson Cranes, The Dragon's Promise, Her Radiant Curse, Spin the Dawn, and Unravel the Dusk. She is also a contributor to Disney's A Twisted Tale series.

\"},{\"id\":\"107881202T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"ELIZABETH LIM grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she was raised on a hearty diet of fairy tales, myths, and songs. Before becoming an author, Elizabeth was a professional film and video game composer, and she still tends to come up with her best book ideas when writing near a piano. An alumna of Harvard College and the Juilliard School, she now lives in New York with her husband and her daughters.

Elizabeth's bestselling novels include Six Crimson Cranes, The Dragon's Promise, Her Radiant Curse, Spin the Dawn, and Unravel the Dusk. She is also a contributor to Disney's A Twisted Tale series.\"},{\"id\":\"115428756T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"ELIZABETH LIM grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she was raised on a hearty diet of fairy tales, myths, and songs. Before becoming an author, Elizabeth was a professional film and video game composer, and she still tends to come up with her best book ideas when writing near a piano. An alumna of Harvard College and the Juilliard School, she now lives in New York with her husband and her daughters.

Elizabeth's bestselling novels include Six Crimson Cranes, The Dragon's Promise, Her Radiant Curse, Spin the Dawn, and Unravel the Dusk. She is also a contributor to Disney's A Twisted Tale series.\"},{\"id\":\"107914420T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"ELIZABETH LIM grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area, where she was raised on a hearty diet of fairy tales, myths, and songs. Before becoming an author, Elizabeth was a professional film and video game composer, and she still tends to come up with her best book ideas when writing near a piano. An alumna of Harvard College and the Juilliard School, she now lives in New York with her husband and her daughters.

Elizabeth's bestselling novels include Six Crimson Cranes, The Dragon's Promise, Her Radiant Curse, Spin the Dawn, and Unravel the Dusk. She is also a contributor to Disney's A Twisted Tale series.\"}]",{"_41":1539,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":1540},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39890454085873","A-Forgery-of-Fate/Elizabeth-Lim",{"_41":1542,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":1543},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39890450579697","1146310879",{"_41":1545,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39890452250865",{"_41":1547,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":1521},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39890454937841",{"_41":1549,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":1499},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39890448449777",{"_41":1551,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1171,"_1111":1552},"gid://shopify/Metafield/69795190538481","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"5.0\"}",{"_41":1554,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1175,"_1111":864},"gid://shopify/Metafield/69795190505713",{"_33":1556,"_26":1184,"_1062":1557},"Vi4EqS8RnfzeqSmCizvYc",{"_1064":1065,"_41":1558,"_72":1559,"_1068":1069,"_886":1560,"_893":1561,"_1072":1562,"_1074":1563,"_1081":1567,"_1089":59,"_1090":1569,"_1096":1572,"_931":1581,"_1117":1583,"_1119":1584},"gid://shopify/Product/9086202740977","Within These Wicked Walls: A Novel","9781250787118","\"An intricate magic system, a grimly humorous Black heroine, AND a heart-thumping romance? This book leaves nothing wanting.\" - Jordan Ifueko, New York Times bestselling author of RaybearerAndromeda is a debtera—an exorcist hired to cleanse households of the Evil Eye. She would be hired, that is, if her mentor hadn’t thrown her out before she could earn her license. Now her only hope of steady work is to find a Patron—a rich, well-connected individual who will vouch for her abilities.When a handsome young heir named Magnus Rorschach reaches out to hire her, she takes the job without question. Never mind that he’s rude and demanding and eccentric, that the contract comes with a number of outlandish rules… and that almost a dozen debtera had quit before her. If Andromeda wants to earn a living, she has no choice. But she quickly realizes this is a job like no other, with horrifying manifestations at every turn, and that Magnus is hiding far more than she has been trained for. Death is the most likely outcome if she stays, the reason every debtera before her quit. But leaving Magnus to live out his curse alone isn’t an option because—heaven help her—she’s fallen for him.Stunningly romantic, Lauren Blackwood's heartstopping debut, Within These Wicked Walls, ushers in an exciting new fantasy voice.\"Fierce, eerie and heartfelt... a romantic and spine-chilling reimagining of a classic. I loved every creepy, swoon-worthy moment of it.\" - Laura E. Weymouth, author of The Light Between Worlds","

\"An intricate magic system, a grimly humorous Black heroine, AND a heart-thumping romance? This book leaves nothing wanting.\" - Jordan Ifueko, New York Times bestselling author of Raybearer

Andromeda is a debtera—an exorcist hired to cleanse households of the Evil Eye. She would be hired, that is, if her mentor hadn’t thrown her out before she could earn her license. Now her only hope of steady work is to find a Patron—a rich, well-connected individual who will vouch for her abilities.

When a handsome young heir named Magnus Rorschach reaches out to hire her, she takes the job without question. Never mind that he’s rude and demanding and eccentric, that the contract comes with a number of outlandish rules… and that almost a dozen debtera had quit before her. If Andromeda wants to earn a living, she has no choice.

But she quickly realizes this is a job like no other, with horrifying manifestations at every turn, and that Magnus is hiding far more than she has been trained for. Death is the most likely outcome if she stays, the reason every debtera before her quit. But leaving Magnus to live out his curse alone isn’t an option because—heaven help her—she’s fallen for him.

Stunningly romantic, Lauren Blackwood's heartstopping debut, Within These Wicked Walls, ushers in an exciting new fantasy voice.

\"Fierce, eerie and heartfelt... a romantic and spine-chilling reimagining of a classic. I loved every creepy, swoon-worthy moment of it.\" - Laura E. Weymouth, author of The Light Between Worlds

",{"_41":1564,"_54":1565,"_56":1566,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47767069819121","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781250787118_p0.jpg?v=1765508771",1294,{"_1083":1568},{"_1085":1254,"_1087":1088},{"_1083":1570,"_1094":1571},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":1573},[1574],{"_41":1575,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":1576,"_1104":1577,"_1062":1578,"_1107":1579,"_1113":1560,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46511632810225",{"_41":1564,"_54":1565,"_1080":-5,"_56":1566,"_50":1079},{"_1085":1254,"_1087":1088},{"_72":1559,"_886":1560},[1580],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":1582},"[\"Reimaginings & Retellings (p9713)\",\"Loved WEDNESDAY? Read These Next... (p9950)\"]",{"_1111":1560},[1585,-5,-5,1588,1590,1592,1594,1596,1599,1602,1605,-5,1607,1609,-5,1611,1613],{"_41":1586,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":1587},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51336095564017","[{\"contributorId\":22922245,\"fullName\":\"Lauren Blackwood\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_41":1589,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51336095957233",{"_41":1591,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51336095301873",{"_41":1593,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1284},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51336096448753",{"_41":1595,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1148},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51336096022769",{"_41":1597,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":1598},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51336096743665","[{\"id\":\"74486266T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER

REESE'S BOOK CLUB FALL 2021 YA PICK

INSTANT INDIE BESTSELLER

A NOVEMBER/DECEMBER 2021 KIDS' INDIE NEXT PICK

\\\"Lauren Blackwood’s can’t-miss debut is a magical, Ethiopian-inspired remix of Jane Eyre.\\\" - HARPER'S BAZAAR

\\\"[A] creepy, immersive, romantic and thrilling retelling.\\\" - MS. MAGAZINE

ESSENCE, \\\"19 Black Children's Books To Share With The Little Ones In Your Life\\\"

BUZZFEED, \\\"26 New Science Fiction And Fantasy Books To Read This Fall\\\" and \\\"18 Epic Fantasy Books Starring Magical Black Leads\\\"

THE HOLLYWOOD REPORTER, \\\"Hot New Books with Hollywood Appeal\\\"

POP SUGAR, \\\"Best Books of 2021\\\"

CULTURESS, \\\"21 exciting YA book releases we can’t wait to read in Fall 2021\\\"

BOOKISH, \\\"20 YA Books by Black Authors for Your 2021 TBR\\\"

BOOK RIOT, \\\"20 Must-Read 2021 Young Adult Fantasy Releases\\\", \\\"New YA Retellings to Fall Into\\\", and \\\"Something’s Amiss: 12 of the Best Gothic YA Books\\\"

SHE READS, \\\"Most Anticipated YA Books of Fall 2021\\\"

GOODREADS, \\\"The Most Anticipated YA Books of October\\\" and \\\"The 36 Most Anticipated Upcoming YA Novels\\\"

POP SUGAR, \\\"The 55 Best New Books of October\\\" and \\\"11 New YA Books You Won't Want to Miss This October\\\"

DEN OF GEEK, \\\"Top New Fantasy Books in October 2021\\\"

BUSTLE, \\\"The Most Anticipated Books Of October 2021\\\" and \\\"9 Must-Read New Books Out This Week\\\"

EPIC READS, \\\"24 Books to Read After You Watch ‘Fear Street’\\\"

GREATIST, \\\"20 of the Best Fantasy and Sci-Fi Novels in 2021\\\"

\\\"A fast-paced and heart-wrenching tale...Perfect for lovers of light horror, romance, and suspense, Within These Wicked Walls will be a surefire pick for the coming autumn nights.\\\" - BOOKLIST (starred review)

\\\"Stunning... An inventive, original, and legitimately scary debut, this is a must for fans of witchcraft, horror, and romance.\\\" - NERDIST, \\\"Contemporary Witchy Reads for a Magical Spooky Season\\\"

\\\"Blackwood’s eerie, evocative debut fully embraces its gothic lineage and brings a welcome contemporary feel. The book is sure to lure readers in with the promise of hair-raising chills and passionate romance.\\\" - THE BULLETIN OF THE CENTER FOR CHILDREN'S BOOKS

\\\"Mesmerizing.\\\" - BUZZFEED, \\\"18 Horror Novels About Ghosts You Won’t Put Down\\\"

“This action-packed novel draws inspiration from Jane Eyre as our fearless heroine must conquer the supernatural...and survive.” - GIRLS' LIFE MAGAZINE

\\\"...a deliciously dark and creepy Ethiopian-inspired romantic retelling of Jane Eyre with a pop of grim humor.\\\" - BUZZFEED, \\\"Celebrate Black Love During Black History Month With These 20 YA Books\\\"

“A dazzling retelling of ‘Jane Eyre,’... promises readers a fantastical, edge-of-the seat, swooning-over-Magnus kind of experience.” - THE SEATTLE TIMES

“Within These Wicked Walls is the best sort of historical fantasy… leaves Jane Eyre in the dust.” - LOCUS MAGAZINE

\\\"Blackwood’s storytelling skills and the worldbuilding and fantasy components of the novel will intrigue readers... A promising debut.\\\" - KIRKUS REVIEWS

\\\"Within These Wicked Walls is an indulgently Gothic fairy tale, comparable in mastery with Mexican Gothic and Jane Eyre. An intricate magic system, a grimly humorous Black heroine, AND a heart-thumping romance? This book leaves nothing wanting.\\\" - Jordan Ifueko, New York Times bestselling author of Raybearer

\\\"Within These Wicked Walls adds a haunting new landscape and a chilling curse to Jane Eyre’s magnetic romance and searing chemistry. A Gothic retelling, and a true original.\\\" - Anna Bright, author of The Beholder

\\\"Fierce, eerie and heartfelt by turns, Within These Wicked Walls is a romantic and spine-chilling reimagining of a classic. I loved every creepy, swoon-worthy moment of it.\\\" - Laura E. Weymouth, author of The Light Between Worlds

\\\"Lauren Blackwood's Within These Wicked Walls is the Jane Eyre retelling I didn't know I needed, and everything I needed it to be. Atmospheric and moody, with sharp subtle humor and romance, Andromeda's story is engrossing and unputdownable. This Jane Eyre isn't your average classroom read; it is so much more than that.\\\" - Rachel Simon, Newton Free Library

\"},{\"id\":\"114875630T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Lauren Blackwood is a Jamaican American New Yorker living in Virginia who writes Romance-heavy Fantasy for most ages. When not writing, she's a PTA and violinist who really doesn't know how to settle on one career field. Within These Wicked Walls is her debut novel.

\"},{\"id\":\"73795260T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Lauren Blackwood is a Jamaican American New Yorker living in Virginia who writes Romance-heavy Fantasy for most ages. When not writing, she's a PTA and violinist who really doesn't know how to settle on one career field. Within These Wicked Walls is her debut novel.
LAUREN BLACKWOOD is a Jamaican American living in Virginia who writes romance-heavy fantasy for most ages. When not writing, she's a musician and a tiramisu connoisseur. She's the New York Times bestselling author of Within These Wicked Walls, Wildblood, The Dangerous Ones, and Snow White: Fair&Sinister Heart.\"},{\"id\":\"78203414T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Lauren Blackwood is a Jamaican American New Yorker living in Virginia who writes Romance-heavy Fantasy for most ages. When not writing, she's a PTA and violinist who really doesn't know how to settle on one career field. Within These Wicked Walls is her debut novel.\"},{\"id\":\"73707752T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"LAUREN BLACKWOOD is a Jamaican American living in Virginia who writes Romance-heavy Fantasy for most ages. When not writing, she's a musician and a tiramisu connoisseur. She's the New York Times bestselling author of Within These Wicked Walls and Wildblood.\"},{\"id\":\"83224883T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"LAUREN BLACKWOOD is a Jamaican American living in Virginia who writes Romance-heavy Fantasy for most ages. When not writing, she's a musician and a tiramisu connoisseur. She's the New York Times bestselling author of Within These Wicked Walls and Wildblood.\"}]",{"_41":1600,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":1601},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51336096579825","Within-These-Wicked-Walls/Lauren-Blackwood",{"_41":1603,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":1604},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51336095039729","1138462038",{"_41":1606,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51336095891697",{"_41":1608,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":1582},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51336096776433",{"_41":1610,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":1560},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51336094154993",{"_41":1612,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1171,"_1111":1429},"gid://shopify/Metafield/78648176673009",{"_41":1614,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1175,"_1111":1615},"gid://shopify/Metafield/66161545478385","2",{"_33":1617,"_26":1184,"_1062":1618},"VfqUt9mRitH_o0IPVRBhl",{"_1064":1065,"_41":1619,"_72":1620,"_1068":1069,"_886":1621,"_893":1622,"_1072":1623,"_1074":1624,"_1081":1627,"_1089":59,"_1090":1630,"_1096":1633,"_931":1642,"_1117":1644,"_1119":1645},"gid://shopify/Product/9090709487857","Witches Steeped in Gold","9780062946003","A Jamaican-inspired fantasy debut about two enemy witches who must enter into a deadly alliance to take down a common enemy. Divided by their order. United by their vengeance. Iraya has spent her life in a cell, but every day brings her closer to freedom—and vengeance. Jazmyne is the Queen's daughter, but unlike her sister before her, she has no intention of dying to strengthen her mother's power. Sworn enemies, these two witches enter a precarious alliance to take down a mutual threat. But power is intoxicating, revenge is a bloody pursuit, and nothing is certain—except the lengths they will go to win this game. \"A bloody and deadly delight, Witches Steeped in Gold puts power into the hands of Black girls—the true, beating heart of magic.\" —New York Times–bestselling author Dhonielle Clayton \"A thundering waterfall of magic, vengeance and intrigue.\" —New York Times–bestselling author Samantha Shannon Ciannon Smart's Witches Steeped in Gold seriesWitches Steeped in Gold (#1)Empress Crowned in Red (#2)","

A Jamaican-inspired fantasy debut about two enemy witches who must enter into a deadly alliance to take down a common enemy.

Divided by their order. United by their vengeance.

Iraya has spent her life in a cell, but every day brings her closer to freedom—and vengeance.

Jazmyne is the Queen's daughter, but unlike her sister before her, she has no intention of dying to strengthen her mother's power.

Sworn enemies, these two witches enter a precarious alliance to take down a mutual threat. But power is intoxicating, revenge is a bloody pursuit, and nothing is certain—except the lengths they will go to win this game.

\"A bloody and deadly delight, Witches Steeped in Gold puts power into the hands of Black girls—the true, beating heart of magic.\" —New York Times–bestselling author Dhonielle Clayton

\"A thundering waterfall of magic, vengeance and intrigue.\" —New York Times–bestselling author Samantha Shannon

Ciannon Smart's Witches Steeped in Gold seriesWitches Steeped in Gold (#1)Empress Crowned in Red (#2)

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Debut author Ciannon Smart’s Jamaican folklore-inspired fantasy is about two witches from opposing castes who reluctantly band together to take down a mutual threat. With plenty of magical intrigue, lush world-building and rich lore, Witches Steeped in Gold will keep readers on the edge of their seats as they try to understand the dichotomy between good and evil.

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Ciannon Smart can typically be found painting abstract canvases, playing netball, or teaching herself new scores on the piano. Witches Steeped in Gold is her first novel. You can learn more about Ciannon at www.ciannonsmart.com.

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\"},{\"id\":\"78075363T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Ciannon Smart lives neither here nor there and writes stories about similar places. Convinced the Bad Guys have received an unfair edit, she’s dedicated her middle grade career to straightening this up. In the Night Things universe, her characters can be found defeating the Really Bad Guys. Usually with awesome weapons. Always with brilliant humor. Humility too. Now, these villains aren’t to be confused with the Really, Really Bad Guys she writes about in her young adult stories, Witches Steeped in Gold and Empress Crowned in Red. When not fighting all caliber of villain, Ciannon Smart sleeps, because defeating evil is an exhausting superpower. You can learn more about her at ciannonsmart.com.

\"},{\"id\":\"71310047T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Ciannon Smart lives neither here nor there and writes stories about similar places. Convinced the Bad Guys have received an unfair edit, she’s dedicated her middle grade career to straightening this up. In the Night Things universe, her characters can be found defeating the Really Bad Guys. Usually with awesome weapons. Always with brilliant humor. Humility too. Now, these villains aren’t to be confused with the Really, Really Bad Guys she writes about in her young adult stories, Witches Steeped in Gold and Empress Crowned in Red. When not fighting all caliber of villain, Ciannon Smart sleeps, because defeating evil is an exhausting superpower. You can learn more about her at ciannonsmart.com.

\"},{\"id\":\"108682201T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"

Ciannon Smart lives neither here nor there and writes stories about similar places. Convinced the Bad Guys have received an unfair edit, she's dedicated her middle grade career to straightening this up. In the Night Things universe, her characters can be found defeating the Really Bad Guys. Usually with awesome weapons. Always with brilliant humor. Humility too. Now, these villains aren't to be confused with the Really, Really Bad Guys she writes about in her young adult stories, Witches Steeped in Gold and Empress Crowned in Red. When not fighting all caliber of villain, Ciannon Smart sleeps, because defeating evil is an exhausting superpower. You can learn more about her at ciannonsmart.com.

\"}]",{"_41":1661,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":1662},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51554840641777","Witches-Steeped-in-Gold/Ciannon-Smart",{"_41":1664,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":1665},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51554837496049","1136807926",{"_41":1667,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51554839462129",{"_41":1669,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":1643},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51554841297137",{"_41":1671,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":1621},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51554834317553",{"_41":1673,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1171,"_1111":1674},"gid://shopify/Metafield/63903295373553","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.2\"}",{"_41":1676,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1175,"_1111":1677},"gid://shopify/Metafield/63903295340785","9",{"_33":1679,"_26":1184,"_1062":1680},"1GN_1RDSt3SoKYlTJgV5n",{"_1064":1065,"_41":1681,"_72":1682,"_1068":1069,"_886":1683,"_893":1684,"_1072":1685,"_1074":1686,"_1081":1690,"_1089":59,"_1090":1693,"_1096":1696,"_931":1705,"_1117":1707,"_1119":1708},"gid://shopify/Product/8851718930673","Lady's Knight","9780062893413","An undeniably fierce, unforgettably funny, unapologetically queer feminist romp through the England of medieval legend. Bestselling and acclaimed authors Amie Kaufman and Meagan Spooner bring readers along on an epic quest for valor, freedom, and, above all, love. A Knight’s Tale meets the Lady Jane series, with a dash of The Great!Gwen is sick of hiding—hiding the fact that she’s taken over her father’s blacksmithing duties, hiding her attraction to girls, hiding her yearning for glory as a knight.Meanwhile, Lady Isobelle of Avington, queen bee of the castle, has never once considered hiding who she is—until now. She’s been chosen as the grand prize in the Tournament of Dragonslayers, to be given to whichever knight can claim her hand. And for the first time in her life, she can’t talk her way out of trouble.When Isobelle discovers Gwen’s knightly ambitions, they hatch a scheme together—Gwen will joust in the tournament, disguised as Sir Gawain. Winning means freedom for Isobelle, and glory for Gwen. Losing means… well, let’s not go there.One thing’s for sure: Falling in love was never the plan.But the best laid plans…are often trampled all over by dragons.\"A sapphic delight, full of jousts, jaunts, and courtly love. Lady's Knight sparkles with wit and charm and has lady knights to swoon over. Kaufman and Spooner will leave you breathless.\" —C. S. Pacat, New York Times bestselling author of Dark Rise“Kaufman and Spooner are auto-buy authors for me, always guaranteed to get my heart pumping with their page-turning romance and high-stakes adventure.” —New York Times bestselling author Susan Dennard\"There are a lot of damsels in Lady's Knight, but none of them need a man to fix their problems. (Men seem to be the source of the problems, in fact.) Wholesome, heartfelt, and more fun than cheesecake on a stick, Kaufman and Spooner's latest book is all about women's work. You know, jousting, dragonslaying, and saving the kingdom—all while looking fabulous.\" —Jodi Meadows, coauthor of the New York Times bestselling novels My Lady Jane and My Plain Jane“Clever, funny, thrilling, and romantic—Lady’s Knight will inspire readers to take up their swords to fight dragons and the patriarchy. Perfect for fans of A Knight’s Tale and anyone who loves a romantasy with wit, charm, and the occasional comedic fourth wall break.” —F. T. Lukens, New York Times bestselling author of So This Is Ever After\"You'll laugh, you'll cry, and you'll be ready to fight any dragon after reading this delightful tale full of swoony romance, heart-racing action, and the very best banter in the realm!\" —Beth Revis, New York Times bestselling coauthor of Night of the Witch\"Writing that is above all else marvelously warm and at the same time witty, adventure and romance that will sweep you off your feet—a double sweep, and a triumph!\" —Sarah Rees Brennan, #1 Sunday Times bestselling author of Long Live Evil\"Sparkles with wit and romance! So many quotable lines. Not to mention the sexiest gown-lacing scene in modern literature. Like its characters, Lady's Knight is endlessly clever and resourceful.\" —Ellen Kushner, award-winning author of Swordspoint","

An undeniably fierce, unforgettably funny, unapologetically queer feminist romp through the England of medieval legend. Bestselling and acclaimed authors Amie Kaufman and Meagan Spooner bring readers along on an epic quest for valor, freedom, and, above all, love. A Knight’s Tale meets the Lady Jane series, with a dash of The Great!

Gwen is sick of hiding—hiding the fact that she’s taken over her father’s blacksmithing duties, hiding her attraction to girls, hiding her yearning for glory as a knight.

Meanwhile, Lady Isobelle of Avington, queen bee of the castle, has never once considered hiding who she is—until now. She’s been chosen as the grand prize in the Tournament of Dragonslayers, to be given to whichever knight can claim her hand. And for the first time in her life, she can’t talk her way out of trouble.

When Isobelle discovers Gwen’s knightly ambitions, they hatch a scheme together—Gwen will joust in the tournament, disguised as Sir Gawain. Winning means freedom for Isobelle, and glory for Gwen. Losing means… well, let’s not go there.

One thing’s for sure: Falling in love was never the plan.

But the best laid plans…are often trampled all over by dragons.

\"A sapphic delight, full of jousts, jaunts, and courtly love. Lady's Knight sparkles with wit and charm and has lady knights to swoon over. Kaufman and Spooner will leave you breathless.\" —C. S. Pacat, New York Times bestselling author of Dark Rise

“Kaufman and Spooner are auto-buy authors for me, always guaranteed to get my heart pumping with their page-turning romance and high-stakes adventure.” —New York Times bestselling author Susan Dennard

\"There are a lot of damsels in Lady's Knight, but none of them need a man to fix their problems. (Men seem to be the source of the problems, in fact.) Wholesome, heartfelt, and more fun than cheesecake on a stick, Kaufman and Spooner's latest book is all about women's work. You know, jousting, dragonslaying, and saving the kingdom—all while looking fabulous.\" —Jodi Meadows, coauthor of the New York Times bestselling novels My Lady Jane and My Plain Jane

“Clever, funny, thrilling, and romantic—Lady’s Knight will inspire readers to take up their swords to fight dragons and the patriarchy. Perfect for fans of A Knight’s Tale and anyone who loves a romantasy with wit, charm, and the occasional comedic fourth wall break.” —F. T. Lukens, New York Times bestselling author of So This Is Ever After

\"You'll laugh, you'll cry, and you'll be ready to fight any dragon after reading this delightful tale full of swoony romance, heart-racing action, and the very best banter in the realm!\" —Beth Revis, New York Times bestselling coauthor of Night of the Witch

\"Writing that is above all else marvelously warm and at the same time witty, adventure and romance that will sweep you off your feet—a double sweep, and a triumph!\" —Sarah Rees Brennan, #1 Sunday Times bestselling author of Long Live Evil

\"Sparkles with wit and romance! So many quotable lines. Not to mention the sexiest gown-lacing scene in modern literature. Like its characters, Lady's Knight is endlessly clever and resourceful.\" —Ellen Kushner, award-winning author of Swordspoint

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\\\"A sapphic delight, full of jousts, jaunts and courtly love. Lady's Knight sparkles with wit and charm, and has lady knights to swoon over. Kaufman and Spooner will leave you breathless.\\\" - C.S. Pacat, New York Times bestselling author of Dark Rise

“Kaufman and Spooner are auto-buy authors for me, always guaranteed to get my heart pumping with their page-turning romance and high-stakes adventure.”

- New York Times bestselling author Susan Dennard

\\\"There are a lot of damsels in Lady's Knight, but none of them need a man to fix their problems. (Men seem to be the source of the problems, in fact.) Wholesome, heartfelt, and more fun than cheesecake on a stick, Kaufman and Spooner's latest book is all about women's work. You know, jousting, dragonslaying, and saving the kingdom -- all while looking fabulous.\\\" - Jodi Meadows, coauthor of New York Times bestselling novels My Lady Jane and My Plain Jane

- F.T. Lukens, New York Times bestselling author of So This Is Ever After

\\\"You'll laugh, you'll cry, and you'll be ready to fight any dragon after reading this delightful tale full of swoony romance, heart-racing action, and the very best banter in the realm!\\\" - Beth Revis, New York Times bestselling co-author of Night of the Witch

\\\"Writing that is above all else marvelously warm, and at the same time witty, adventure and romance that will sweep you off your feet—a double sweep, and a triumph!\\\" - Sarah Rees Brennan, #1 Sunday Times bestselling author of Long Live Evil

\\\"Sparkles with wit and romance! So many quotable lines. Not to mention the sexiest gown-lacing scene in modern literature. Like its characters, Lady's Knight is endlessly clever and resourceful.\\\" - Ellen Kushner, award-winning author of Swordspoint

\\\"Move over, Lancelot: my new favorite knight is here! Lady's Knight is both a whimsical fantasy romp and an ode to the relationships women share with other women—in community, in friendship, and in romance. This roaring good time is perfect for fans of films like Princess Bride and A Knight's Tale. Three cheers for Lady's Knight!\\\"

- Nicole Brinkley, Oblong Books

\\\"Characters’ modern sensibilities contrast smoothly with the medieval setting, and the romance between the main characters is sparkling and witty. Fourth-wall breaks are done to hilarious effect, and this cozy knight’s tale is as charming as it is funny and warm; a truly enjoyable rom-com.\\\" - Booklist (starred review)

\\\"The heart of the novel lies in its characters: Gwen and Lady Isobelle are well-developed, likable, and empowering, and their relationship, marked by trust, loyalty, and affection. The book’s explorations of gender roles and different forms of strength give the story depth and relevance for contemporary readers. A thoughtful, character-driven fantasy with strong female leads and themes of courage and identity. Recommended for readers who enjoy historical settings with a modern sensibility.\\\" - School Library Journal (starred review)

\\\"Compelling subplots center their fight against misogyny and classism, and several interludes by an unnamed narrator directly address readers, adding additional depth and intrigue to the worldbuilding. The authors insert abundant intentional anachronisms that successfully inject the story with levity, and Gwen and Isobelle’s chemistry is swoonworthy. A thoroughly enjoyable Sapphic romp.\\\"

- Kirkus Reviews

\\\"This hilariously anachronistic adventure—a contemporary homage to A Knight’s Tale—balances slow-burning romance alongside serious examinations of privilege and gender. Fourth-wall-breaking asides and sardonic commentary from the novel’s omniscient narrator add charm to this freewheeling collaboration by Spooner and Kaufman.\\\" - Publishers Weekly

\"},{\"id\":\"118345784T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Amie Kaufman is a New York Times and international bestselling author of young adult and middle grade fiction and the host of the podcast Amie Kaufman on Writing. Her multi-award-winning work is slated for publication in over thirty countries and has been described as “a game-changer” (Shelf Awareness), “stylistically mesmerizing” (Publishers Weekly), and “out-of-this-world awesome” (Kirkus Reviews). Her series include the Illuminae Files, the Aurora Cycle, the Other Side of the Sky duology, the Starbound trilogy, the Unearthed duology, the Elementals trilogy, and The World Between Blinks. Her work is in development for film and TV and has taken home multiple Aurealis Awards, an ABIA, and a Gold Inky, made multiple best-of lists, and been shortlisted for the Prime Minister’s Literary Awards. Raised in Australia and occasionally Ireland, Amie has degrees in history, literature, law, and conflict resolution and is currently undertaking a PhD in creative writing. She lives in Melbourne with her husband, daughter, rescue dog, and an extremely large personal library. Learn more about her and subscribe to her newsletter at amiekaufman.com.

New York Times bestselling author Meagan Spooner grew up reading and writing every spare moment of the day while dreaming about life as an archaeologist, a marine biologist, or an astronaut. She graduated from Hamilton College in New York State with a degree in playwriting. She’s traveled all over the world, to places such as Egypt, Australia, South Africa, the Arctic, Greece, Antarctica, and the Galápagos Islands, and there’s a bit of every trip in every story she writes. She currently lives and writes in Asheville, North Carolina, but the siren call of travel is hard to resist, and there’s no telling how long she’ll stay there. She’s the author of Hunted and Sherwood and the coauthor of the award-winning Starbound Trilogy (These Broken Stars, This Shattered World, Their Fractured Light) and the Skylark Trilogy (Skylark, Shadowlark, Lark Ascending). In her spare time she plays guitar, plays video games, plays with her cat, and reads. meaganspooner.com

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\"},{\"id\":\"107417648T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Amie Kaufman is a New York Times and international bestselling author of young adult and middle grade fiction and the host of the podcast Amie Kaufman on Writing. Her multi—award—winning work is slated for publication in over thirty countries and has been described as “a game—changer” (Shelf Awareness), “stylistically mesmerizing” (Publishers Weekly), and “out—of—this—world awesome” (Kirkus Reviews). Her series include the Illuminae Files, the Aurora Cycle, the Other Side of the Sky duology, the Starbound trilogy, the Unearthed duology, the Elementals trilogy, and The World Between Blinks. Her work is in development for film and TV and has taken home multiple Aurealis Awards, an ABIA, and a Gold Inky, made multiple best—of lists, and been shortlisted for the Prime Minister’s Literary Awards. Raised in Australia and occasionally Ireland, Amie has degrees in history, literature, law, and conflict resolution and is currently undertaking a PhD in creative writing. She lives in Melbourne with her husband, daughter, rescue dog, and an extremely large personal library. Learn more about her and subscribe to her newsletter at amiekaufman.com.

New York Times bestselling author Meagan Spooner grew up reading and writing every spare moment of the day while dreaming about life as an archaeologist, a marine biologist, or an astronaut. She graduated from Hamilton College in New York State with a degree in playwriting. She’s traveled all over the world, to places such as Egypt, Australia, South Africa, the Arctic, Greece, Antarctica, and the Galápagos Islands, and there’s a bit of every trip in every story she writes. She currently lives and writes in Asheville, North Carolina, but the siren call of travel is hard to resist, and there’s no telling how long she’ll stay there. She’s the author of Hunted and Sherwood and the coauthor of the award—winning Starbound Trilogy (These Broken Stars, This Shattered World, Their Fractured Light) and the Skylark Trilogy (Skylark, Shadowlark, Lark Ascending). In her spare time she plays guitar, plays video games, plays with her cat, and reads. meaganspooner.com

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Amie Kaufman is a New York Times and international bestselling author of young adult and middle grade fiction and the host of the podcast Amie Kaufman on Writing. Her multi-award-winning work is slated for publication in over thirty countries and has been described as \\\"a game-changer\\\" (Shelf Awareness), \\\"stylistically mesmerizing\\\" (Publishers Weekly), and \\\"out-of-this-world awesome\\\" (Kirkus Reviews). Her series include the Illuminae Files, the Aurora Cycle, the Other Side of the Sky duology, the Starbound trilogy, the Unearthed duology, the Elementals trilogy, and The World Between Blinks. Her work is in development for film and TV and has taken home multiple Aurealis Awards, an ABIA, and a Gold Inky, made multiple best-of lists, and been shortlisted for the Prime Minister's Literary Awards. Raised in Australia and occasionally Ireland, Amie has degrees in history, literature, law, and conflict resolution and is currently undertaking a PhD in creative writing. She lives in Melbourne with her husband, daughter, rescue dog, and an extremely large personal library. Learn more about her and subscribe to her newsletter at amiekaufman.com.

New York Times bestselling author Meagan Spooner grew up reading and writing every spare moment of the day while dreaming about life as an archaeologist, a marine biologist, or an astronaut. She graduated from Hamilton College in New York State with a degree in playwriting. She's traveled all over the world, to places such as Egypt, Australia, South Africa, the Arctic, Greece, Antarctica, and the Galápagos Islands, and there's a bit of every trip in every story she writes. She currently lives and writes in Asheville, North Carolina, but the siren call of travel is hard to resist, and there's no telling how long she'll stay there. She's the author of Hunted and Sherwood and the coauthor of the award-winning Starbound Trilogy (These Broken Stars, This Shattered World, Their Fractured Light) and the Skylark Trilogy (Skylark, Shadowlark, Lark Ascending). In her spare time she plays guitar, plays video games, plays with her cat, and reads. meaganspooner.com

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Boy meets boy. Boys become friends. Boys fall in love. A sweet and charming coming-of-age story that explores friendship, love, and coming out. This edition features beautiful two-color artwork.

Now streaming on Netflix!

Shy and softhearted Charlie Spring sits next to rugby player Nick Nelson in class one morning. A warm and intimate friendship follows, and that soon develops into something more for Charlie, who doesn't think he has a chance.

But Nick is struggling with feelings of his own, and as the two grow closer and take on the ups and downs of high school, they come to understand the surprising and delightful ways in which love works.

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Praise for the Heartstopper series:

New York Times Bestseller

USA Today Bestseller

National Indie Bestseller

American Booksellers Association Indie Next Pick

YALSA Great Graphic Novels Selection

YALSA Quick Pick for Young Adult Readers

\\\\\\\"Absolutely delightful. Sweet, romantic, kind. Beautifully paced. I loved this book.\\\\\\\" -- Rainbow Rowell, author of Carry On

\\\\\\\"You'll smile watching Charlie and Nick open up to one another, and sigh as they tiptoe into romance… falling in love doesn’t get more charming than this.\\\\\\\"-- Ngozi Ukazu, New York Times bestselling author of Check, Please!

★ \\\\\\\"Incredibly lovable from start to finish.\\\\\\\" -- Kirkus Reviews, starred review

\\\\\\\"Realistic yet uplifting, this tale of self-discovery will make readers' hearts skip a beat.\\\\\\\" -- School Library Journal

\\\\\\\"With all the blushing and awkward glances, it's difficult not to be charmed… The romance and realistic fiction will draw readers in to this sweet story.\\\\\\\" -- Booklist

\\\\\\\"Will win readers with its sweet romance, its queer-friendly storyline, and its light-touch relationship drama… This graphic novel lives up to its heart-stopper title.\\\\\\\" -- The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books

\\\\\\\"I was blown away. It's very tender, real, and wholesome.I read each book in one sitting.\\\\\\\" -- The Nerd Daily

\"},{\"id\":\"85929419T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

This heartwarming graphic novel navigates the tricky world of budding romance. The teenage awkwardness of Charlie and Nick as they slowly fall in love will warm even the coldest of hearts. Alice Oseman stops our hearts with this adorable romance!

\"},{\"id\":\"115688786T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Alice Oseman is a critically acclaimed, #1 New York Times bestselling author-illustrator and Emmy Award-winning screenwriter. Alice wrote and illustrated the Heartstopper graphic novels; two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter; and is the author of four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless. She also wrote and executive produced the screen adaptations of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.

\"},{\"id\":\"71276474T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"89627258T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. She is the creator of the popular Heartstopper series, which is now streaming on Netflix as a live-action TV show. Alice is also the author of four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"79676856T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a full-time writer and illustrator. She is the creator of the popular Heartstopper series, which will soon be streaming on Netflix as a live-action TV show. Alice is also the author of four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"62362656T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England. She graduated from Durham University and is the author of YA contemporaries Solitaire, Radio Silence, and I Was Born for This. Learn more about Alice at aliceoseman.com.
Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England. She graduated from Durham University and is the author of YA contemporaries Solitaire, Radio Silence, and I Was Born for This. Learn more about Alice at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"67225293T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"6\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England. She graduated from Durham University and is the author of YA contemporaries Solitaire, Radio Silence, and I Was Born for This. Learn more about Alice at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"82047047T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"7\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"71276473T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"8\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"113143004T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"9\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award-winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"}]",{"_41":1849,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":1850},"gid://shopify/Metafield/47737307922673","Heartstopper-Volume-1/Alice-Oseman",{"_41":1852,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":1853},"gid://shopify/Metafield/47737301172465","1133594836",{"_41":1855,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/47737305104625",{"_41":1857,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":1824},"gid://shopify/Metafield/47737309135089",{"_41":1859,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":1803},"gid://shopify/Metafield/47737298747633",{"_41":1861,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1171,"_1111":1862},"gid://shopify/Metafield/70081638957297","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.9\"}",{"_41":1864,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1175,"_1111":1865},"gid://shopify/Metafield/70081638924529","27",{"_33":1867,"_942":1868,"_963":-5,"_964":-5,"_965":-5,"_966":-5,"_967":-5,"_968":-5,"_969":-5},"LOgjhyur_JmE32PzLWY66",{"_1064":1065,"_41":1869,"_72":1870,"_1068":1069,"_886":1871,"_893":1872,"_1072":1873,"_1074":1874,"_1081":1877,"_1089":59,"_1090":1879,"_1096":1882,"_931":1891,"_1117":1893,"_1119":1894},"gid://shopify/Product/9052754182385","Heartstopper, Volume 2","9781338617511","The second book in the delightfully sweet Heartstopper series, featuring beautiful two-color artwork!Now streaming on Netflix!Nick and Charlie are best friends, but one kiss has changed everything. In the aftermath, Charlie is sure that Nick isn't interested, but Nick is more confused than ever.Love works in surprising ways, and Nick comes to see the world from a new perspective. He discovers all sorts of things about his friends, his family... and himself.","

The second book in the delightfully sweet Heartstopper series, featuring beautiful two-color artwork!

Now streaming on Netflix!

Nick and Charlie are best friends, but one kiss has changed everything. In the aftermath, Charlie is sure that Nick isn't interested, but Nick is more confused than ever.

Love works in surprising ways, and Nick comes to see the world from a new perspective. He discovers all sorts of things about his friends, his family... and himself.

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Praise for the Heartstopper series:

New York Times Bestseller

USA Today Bestseller

National Indie Bestseller

American Booksellers Association Indie Next Pick

YALSA Great Graphic Novels Selection

YALSA Quick Pick for Young Adult Readers

\\\\\\\"Absolutely delightful. Sweet, romantic, kind. Beautifully paced. I loved this book.\\\\\\\" -- Rainbow Rowell, author of Carry On

\\\\\\\"You'll smile watching Charlie and Nick open up to one another, and sigh as they tiptoe into romance… falling in love doesn’t get more charming than this.\\\\\\\" -- Ngozi Ukazu, New York Times bestselling author of Check, Please!

★ \\\\\\\"Incredibly lovable from start to finish.\\\\\\\" -- Kirkus Reviews, starred review

\\\\\\\"Realistic yet uplifting, this tale of self-discovery will make readers' hearts skip a beat.\\\\\\\" -- School Library Journal

\\\\\\\"With all the blushing and awkward glances, it's difficult not to be charmed… The romance and realistic fiction will draw readers in to this sweet story.\\\\\\\" -- Booklist

\\\\\\\"Will win readers with its sweet romance, its queer-friendly storyline, and its light-touch relationship drama… This graphic novel lives up to its heart-stopper title.\\\\\\\" -- The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books

\\\\\\\"I was blown away. It's very tender, real, and wholesome. I read each book in one sitting.\\\\\\\" -- The Nerd Daily

\"},{\"id\":\"85929420T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

One kiss is all it takes to forever change the dynamic between Charlie and Nick. Treading through the tricky waters of more-than-friends, Nick and Charlie will once more capture hearts in this sweet follow-up to Heartstopper Vol. 1.

\"},{\"id\":\"115688789T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"71276481T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. 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She graduated from Durham University and is the author of YA contemporaries Solitaire, Radio Silence, and I Was Born for This. Learn more about Alice at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"71276480T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"82047050T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"6\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"113158892T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"7\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award-winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"}]",{"_41":1913,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":1914},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49659157283057","Heartstopper-Volume-2/Alice-Oseman",{"_41":1916,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":1917},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49659153744113","1135037018",{"_41":1919,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49659155579121",{"_41":1921,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49659158167793",{"_41":1923,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":1871},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49659152040177",{"_41":1925,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1171,"_1111":1862},"gid://shopify/Metafield/70078491689201",{"_41":1927,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1175,"_1111":870},"gid://shopify/Metafield/70078491656433",{"_33":1929,"_942":1930,"_963":-5,"_964":-5,"_965":-5,"_966":-5,"_967":-5,"_968":-5,"_969":-5},"vR_CSKqF1d-p3Kya3hvQc",{"_1064":1065,"_41":1931,"_72":1932,"_1068":1069,"_886":1933,"_893":1934,"_1072":1935,"_1074":1936,"_1081":1939,"_1089":59,"_1090":1941,"_1096":1944,"_931":1953,"_1117":1954,"_1119":1955},"gid://shopify/Product/9084636922097","Heartstopper, Volume 3","9781338617542","The third volume in the poignant and sweet Heartstopper series, featuring beautiful two-color artwork!Now streaming on Netflix!Charlie didn't think Nick could ever like him back, but now they're officially boyfriends. Nick has even found the courage to come out to his mom.But coming out isn't something that happens just once, and Nick and Charlie try to figure out when to tell their friends that they're dating. Not being out to their classmates gets even harder during a school trip to Paris. As Nick and Charlie's feelings get more serious, they'll need each other more than ever.","

The third volume in the poignant and sweet Heartstopper series, featuring beautiful two-color artwork!

Now streaming on Netflix!

Charlie didn't think Nick could ever like him back, but now they're officially boyfriends. Nick has even found the courage to come out to his mom.But coming out isn't something that happens just once, and Nick and Charlie try to figure out when to tell their friends that they're dating. Not being out to their classmates gets even harder during a school trip to Paris. As Nick and Charlie's feelings get more serious, they'll need each other more than ever.",{"_41":1937,"_54":1938,"_56":1194,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47784995848433","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781338617542_p0.jpg?v=1765538623",{"_1083":1940},{"_1085":1254,"_1087":1088},{"_1083":1942,"_1094":1943},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":1945},[1946],{"_41":1947,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":1948,"_1104":1949,"_1062":1950,"_1107":1951,"_1113":1933,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46509972553969",{"_41":1937,"_54":1938,"_1080":-5,"_56":1194,"_50":1079},{"_1085":1254,"_1087":1088},{"_72":1932,"_886":1933},[1952],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":1892},{"_1111":1933},[1956,1958,1960,1963,1965,1967,1969,1971,1974,1977,1980,-5,1982,1984,-5,1986,1988],{"_41":1957,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":1829},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51258842022129",{"_41":1959,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1130,"_1111":1832},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51258842349809",{"_41":1961,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1134,"_1111":1962},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51258842448113","3",{"_41":1964,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51258842874097",{"_41":1966,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51258841759985",{"_41":1968,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1841},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51258843726065",{"_41":1970,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1844},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51258843005169",{"_41":1972,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":1973},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51258844971249","[{\"id\":\"115688791T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Praise for the Heartstopper series:

New York Times Bestseller

USA Today Bestseller

National Indie Bestseller

American Booksellers Association Indie Next Pick

YALSA Great Graphic Novels Selection

YALSA Quick Pick for Young Adult Readers

\\\\\\\"Absolutely delightful. Sweet, romantic, kind. Beautifully paced. I loved this book.\\\\\\\" -- Rainbow Rowell, author of Carry On

\\\\\\\"You'll smile watching Charlie and Nick open up to one another, and sigh as they tiptoe into romance… falling in love doesn’t get more charming than this.\\\\\\\" -- Ngozi Ukazu, New York Times bestselling author of Check, Please!

★ \\\\\\\"Incredibly lovable from start to finish.\\\\\\\" -- Kirkus Reviews, starred review

\\\\\\\"Realistic yet uplifting, this tale of self-discovery will make readers' hearts skip a beat.\\\\\\\" -- School Library Journal

\\\\\\\"With all the blushing and awkward glances, it's difficult not to be charmed… The romance and realistic fiction will draw readers in to this sweet story.\\\\\\\" -- Booklist

\\\\\\\"I was blown away. It's very tender, real, and wholesome. I read each book in one sitting.\\\\\\\" -- The Nerd Daily

\"},{\"id\":\"115688792T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"71276463T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"79676769T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a full-time writer and illustrator. She is the creator of the popular Heartstopper series, which will soon be streaming on Netflix as a live-action TV show. Alice is also the author of four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"68813883T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England. She graduated from Durham University and is the author of YA contemporaries Solitaire, Radio Silence, and I Was Born for This. Learn more about Alice at aliceoseman.com.
Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England. She graduated from Durham University and is the author of YA contemporaries Solitaire, Radio Silence, and I Was Born for This. Learn more about Alice at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"71276462T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman is a critically acclaimed, #1 New York Times bestselling author-illustrator and Emmy Award-winning screenwriter. Alice wrote and illustrated the Heartstopper graphic novels; two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter; and is the author of four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless. She also wrote and executive produced the screen adaptations of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"71276464T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"6\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"113145866T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"7\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award-winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"}]",{"_41":1975,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":1976},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51258844184817","Heartstopper-Volume-3/Alice-Oseman",{"_41":1978,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":1979},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51258841497841","1136672455",{"_41":1981,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51258842743025",{"_41":1983,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51258845135089",{"_41":1985,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":1933},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51258839990513",{"_41":1987,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1171,"_1111":1429},"gid://shopify/Metafield/78699049746673",{"_41":1989,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1175,"_1111":868},"gid://shopify/Metafield/78699049713905",{"_33":1991,"_942":1992,"_963":-5,"_964":-5,"_965":-5,"_966":-5,"_967":-5,"_968":-5,"_969":-5},"mr2VUKsqvTx4e3q4TAgUo",{"_1064":1065,"_41":1993,"_72":1994,"_1068":1069,"_886":1995,"_893":1996,"_1072":1997,"_1074":1998,"_1081":2001,"_1089":59,"_1090":2003,"_1096":2006,"_931":2015,"_1117":2016,"_1119":2017},"gid://shopify/Product/9086910791921","Heartstopper, Volume 4","9781338617580","The fourth volume in the wonderfully sweet Heartstopper series, featuring gorgeous two-color artwork.Now streaming on Netflix!Charlie and Nick's relationship has been going really well, and Charlie thinks he's ready to say those three little words: I love you.Nick feels the same way, but he's got a lot on his mind -- especially the thought of coming out to his dad and the fact that Charlie might have an eating disorder.As a new school year begins, Charlie and Nick will have to learn what love really means.","

The fourth volume in the wonderfully sweet Heartstopper series, featuring gorgeous two-color artwork.

Now streaming on Netflix!

Charlie and Nick's relationship has been going really well, and Charlie thinks he's ready to say those three little words: I love you.

Nick feels the same way, but he's got a lot on his mind -- especially the thought of coming out to his dad and the fact that Charlie might have an eating disorder.

As a new school year begins, Charlie and Nick will have to learn what love really means.

",{"_41":1999,"_54":2000,"_56":1194,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47784726986993","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781338617580_p0.jpg?v=1768984625",{"_1083":2002},{"_1085":1254,"_1087":1088},{"_1083":2004,"_1094":2005},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":2007},[2008],{"_41":2009,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":2010,"_1104":2011,"_1062":2012,"_1107":2013,"_1113":1995,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46512420028657",{"_41":1999,"_54":2000,"_1080":-5,"_56":1194,"_50":1079},{"_1085":1254,"_1087":1088},{"_72":1994,"_886":1995},[2014],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":1892},{"_1111":1995},[2018,2020,2022,2025,2027,2029,2031,2033,2036,2039,2042,-5,2044,2046,-5,2048,2050],{"_41":2019,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":1829},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51371205394673",{"_41":2021,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1130,"_1111":1832},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51371205951729",{"_41":2023,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1134,"_1111":2024},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51371206082801","4",{"_41":2026,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51371206836465",{"_41":2028,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51371204706545",{"_41":2030,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1841},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51371208016113",{"_41":2032,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1844},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51371206967537",{"_41":2034,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":2035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51371209392369","[{\"id\":\"115688794T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Praise for the Heartstopper series:

New York Times Bestseller

USA Today Bestseller

National Indie Bestseller

American Booksellers Association Indie Next Pick

YALSA Great Graphic Novels Selection

YALSA Quick Pick for Young Adult Readers

\\\\\\\"Absolutely delightful. Sweet, romantic, kind. Beautifully paced. I loved this book.\\\\\\\" -- Rainbow Rowell, author of Carry On

\\\\\\\"You'll smile watching Charlie and Nick open up to one another, and sigh as they tiptoe into romance… falling in love doesn’t get more charming than this.\\\\\\\" -- Ngozi Ukazu, New York Times bestselling author of Check, Please!

★ \\\\\\\"Incredibly lovable from start to finish.\\\\\\\" -- Kirkus Reviews, starred review

\\\\\\\"Realistic yet uplifting, this tale of self-discovery will make readers' hearts skip a beat.\\\\\\\" -- School Library Journal

\\\\\\\"With all the blushing and awkward glances, it's difficult not to be charmed… The romance and realistic fiction will draw readers in to this sweet story.\\\\\\\"-- Booklist

\\\\\\\"I was blown away. It's very tender, real, and wholesome. I read each book in one sitting.\\\\\\\" -- The Nerd Daily

\"},{\"id\":\"84109757T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Sometimes I buy eBooks and completely forget that I own them (OOPS!). Last summer while on vacation I found volume 1 in my NOOK library and devoured it in an afternoon. This was the first time when I immediately purchased and pre-ordered everything that was available, reading what I could and then patiently waiting for volume 4, which (FINALLY!) arrived at the beginning of this year. Now, like many others, I’m patiently waiting for more of the Netflix series (…and another Heartstopper book too please).

\"},{\"id\":\"91023954T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

The delightful series pushes into "I love you" territory as Charlie and Nick each grapple with their blossoming feelings and those three words. It’s all the feels you love from the series, and there’s always more to come!

\"},{\"id\":\"115688795T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"81038733T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. 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Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"81038734T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"81038732T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"113114895T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"6\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award-winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"}]",{"_41":2037,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":2038},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51371208737009","Heartstopper-Volume-4/Alice-Oseman",{"_41":2040,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":2041},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51371204051185","1138344704",{"_41":2043,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51371206672625",{"_41":2045,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51371209490673",{"_41":2047,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":1995},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51371201954033",{"_41":2049,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1171,"_1111":1429},"gid://shopify/Metafield/70084718690545",{"_41":2051,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1175,"_1111":871},"gid://shopify/Metafield/70084718657777",{"_33":2053,"_942":2054,"_963":-5,"_964":-5,"_965":-5,"_966":-5,"_967":-5,"_968":-5,"_969":-5},"rqhapSWxhkCFMVXa_P9lJ",{"_1064":1065,"_41":2055,"_72":2056,"_1068":1069,"_886":2057,"_893":2058,"_1072":2059,"_1074":2060,"_1081":2063,"_1089":59,"_1090":2065,"_1096":2068,"_931":-5,"_1117":2077,"_1119":2078},"gid://shopify/Product/9079926096113","Heartstopper, Volume 5","9781338807516","*Now an acclaimed live-action Netflix series!*Boy meets boy. Boys become friends. Boys fall in love. The bestselling LGBTQ+ graphic novel about life, love, and everything that happens in between: this is the fifth volume of the much-loved Heartstopper series, featuring gorgeous two-color artwork.Nick and Charlie are in love. They’ve finally said those three little words, and Charlie has almost persuaded his mum to let him sleep over at Nick’s house. He wants to take their relationship to the next level... but can he find the confidence he needs? And with Nick going off to university next year, is everything about to change?By Alice Oseman, winner of the YA Book Prize, Heartstopper encompasses all the small moments of Nick and Charlie’s lives that together make up something larger, which speaks to all of us.Contains discussions around mental health and eating disorders, and sexual references.","

*Now an acclaimed live-action Netflix series!*

Boy meets boy. Boys become friends. Boys fall in love. The bestselling LGBTQ+ graphic novel about life, love, and everything that happens in between: this is the fifth volume of the much-loved Heartstopper series, featuring gorgeous two-color artwork.

Nick and Charlie are in love. They’ve finally said those three little words, and Charlie has almost persuaded his mum to let him sleep over at Nick’s house. He wants to take their relationship to the next level... but can he find the confidence he needs? And with Nick going off to university next year, is everything about to change?

By Alice Oseman, winner of the YA Book Prize, Heartstopper encompasses all the small moments of Nick and Charlie’s lives that together make up something larger, which speaks to all of us.

Contains discussions around mental health and eating disorders, and sexual references.

",{"_41":2061,"_54":2062,"_56":1194,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47785062695153","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781338807516_p0.jpg?v=1765538670",{"_1083":2064},{"_1085":1254,"_1087":1088},{"_1083":2066,"_1094":2067},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":2069},[2070],{"_41":2071,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":2072,"_1104":2073,"_1062":2074,"_1107":2075,"_1113":2057,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46504296055025",{"_41":2061,"_54":2062,"_1080":-5,"_56":1194,"_50":1079},{"_1085":1254,"_1087":1088},{"_72":2056,"_886":2057},[2076],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":2057},[2079,2081,2083,2085,2087,2089,2091,2093,2096,2099,2102,-5,-5,2104,-5,2106,2109],{"_41":2080,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":1829},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51021685031153",{"_41":2082,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1130,"_1111":1832},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51021685326065",{"_41":2084,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1134,"_1111":864},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51021685424369",{"_41":2086,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51021685784817",{"_41":2088,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51021684572401",{"_41":2090,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1841},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51021686735089",{"_41":2092,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1844},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51021685883121",{"_41":2094,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":2095},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51021687881969","[{\"id\":\"115690691T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Praise for the Heartstopper series:

New York Times Bestseller

USA Today Bestseller

National Indie Bestseller

American Booksellers Association Indie Next Pick

YALSA Great Graphic Novels Selection

YALSA Quick Pick for Young Adult Readers

★ \\\\\\\"Incredibly lovable from start to finish.\\\\\\\" -- Kirkus Reviews, starred review

\\\\\\\"Oseman allows the characters' relationship to develop in a natural, relatable way, delivering a warm, comfortable story of fledgling love starring two shippable leads.\\\\\\\" -- Publishers Weekly

\\\\\\\"Realistic yet uplifting, this tale of self-discovery will make readers' hearts skip a beat.\\\\\\\" -- School Library Journal

\\\\\\\"With all the blushing and awkward glances, it's difficult not to be charmed... The romance and realistic fiction will draw readers into this sweet story.\\\\\\\" -- Booklist

\\\\\\\"Will win readers with its sweet romance, its queer-friendly storyline, and its light-touch relationship drama... This graphic novel lives up to its heart-stopper title.\\\\\\\" -- The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books

“The queer graphic novel we wished we had at high school.\\\\\\\" -- Gay Times

\\\\\\\"I was blown away. It's very tender, real, and wholesome. I read each book in one sitting.\\\\\\\" -- The Nerd Daily

\\\\\\\"Absolutely delightful. Sweet, romantic, kind. Beautifully paced. I loved this book.\\\\\\\" -- Rainbow Rowell, author of Carry On

\\\\\\\"You'll smile watching Charlie and Nick open up to one another, and sigh as they tiptoe into romance... falling in love doesn't get more charming than this.\\\\\\\" -- Ngozi Ukazu, New York Times bestselling author of Check, Please!

\"},{\"id\":\"91528541T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

The warm and cozy feels are back with Nick and Charlie as Heartstopper continues to thrive on all the underappreciated moments of life and love that make it all worth it.

\"},{\"id\":\"115690692T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"91464965T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"89143337T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. She is the creator of the popular Heartstopper series, which is now streaming on Netflix as a live-action TV show. Alice is also the author of four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"91464964T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"91464966T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"113166215T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"6\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award-winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"}]",{"_41":2097,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":2098},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51021687259377","Heartstopper-Volume-5/Alice-Oseman",{"_41":2100,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":2101},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51021684080881","1144168541",{"_41":2103,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51021685686513",{"_41":2105,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":2057},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51021682704625",{"_41":2107,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1171,"_1111":2108},"gid://shopify/Metafield/69804798509297","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.3\"}",{"_41":2110,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1175,"_1111":2111},"gid://shopify/Metafield/69804798476529","7",{"_33":2113,"_942":2114,"_963":-5,"_964":-5,"_965":-5,"_966":-5,"_967":-5,"_968":-5,"_969":-5},"GvSYCnZ3YPmlWnR9LW_WU",{"_1064":1065,"_41":2115,"_72":2116,"_1068":1069,"_886":2117,"_893":2118,"_1072":2119,"_1074":2120,"_1081":2124,"_1089":59,"_1090":2127,"_1096":2130,"_931":2139,"_1117":2141,"_1119":2142},"gid://shopify/Product/9310018928881","Heartstopper, Volume 6","9781546102465","*New York Times and Sunday Times Bestselling Author**Heartstopper Forever movie coming soon from Netflix*Boy meets boy. Boys become friends. Boys fall in love. The final installment in the bestselling LGBTQ+ graphic novel series about life, love, and everything that happens in between.Everyone in school knows Nick and Charlie. Everyone knows they’re going to be together forever. But Charlie’s busy with his bid to become Head Boy. And while Nick is preparing to leave for college, he’s starting to wonder who he’ll be… without Charlie.Contains discussions around mental health and eating disorders, and sexual references.","

*New York Times and Sunday Times Bestselling Author*

*Heartstopper Forever movie coming soon from Netflix*

Boy meets boy. Boys become friends. Boys fall in love. The final installment in the bestselling LGBTQ+ graphic novel series about life, love, and everything that happens in between.

Everyone in school knows Nick and Charlie. Everyone knows they’re going to be together forever. But Charlie’s busy with his bid to become Head Boy. And while Nick is preparing to leave for college, he’s starting to wonder who he’ll be… without Charlie.

Contains discussions around mental health and eating disorders, and sexual references.

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Praise for the Heartstopper series:

New York Times Bestseller

USA Today Bestseller

National Indie Bestseller

American Booksellers Association Indie Next Pick

YALSA Great Graphic Novels Selection

YALSA Quick Pick for Young Adult Readers

\\\\\\\"Realistic yet uplifting, this tale of self-discovery will make readers' hearts skip a beat.\\\\\\\" -- School Library Journal

\\\\\\\"With all the blushing and awkward glances, it's difficult not to be charmed… The romance and realistic fiction will draw readers in to this sweet story.\\\\\\\" -- Booklist

“Another gorgeous graphic novel that you absolutely won’t want to miss... For the millions of fans of this tender and heartfelt series, the next installment will be a highlight of the year.” -- Glamour

\\\\\\\"The queer graphic novel we wished we had at high school.\\\\\\\" -- Gay Times

\\\\\\\"I was blown away. It's very tender, real, and wholesome. I read each book in one sitting.\\\\\\\" -- The Nerd Daily

\"},{\"id\":\"115459882T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Nick and Charlie have faced so much together, but with Nick leaving for school and Charlie aiming to become head boy, the two are forced to confront the future in this charming conclusion to the beloved series.

\"},{\"id\":\"115460241T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"115454553T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award-winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.

\"},{\"id\":\"114459026T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"

Scholastic Inc. is a global publishing and education company whose mission is to encourage the intellectual and personal growth of all children, beginning with literacy.

\"},{\"id\":\"114209101T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"115454552T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"115454554T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"6\",\"text\":\"

\"}]",{"_41":2162,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":2163},"gid://shopify/Metafield/61120413171953","Heartstopper-Volume-6/Alice-Oseman",{"_41":2165,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":2166},"gid://shopify/Metafield/61120411959537","1148360297",{"_41":2168,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/61120412811505",{"_41":2170,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":2140},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76688089481457",{"_41":2172,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":2117},"gid://shopify/Metafield/61120410845425",{"_33":2174,"_942":2175,"_963":-5,"_964":-5,"_965":-5,"_966":-5,"_967":-5,"_968":-5,"_969":-5},"nGJKDdhqqqda5I_NjpLPa",{"_1064":1065,"_41":2176,"_72":2177,"_1068":1069,"_886":2178,"_893":2179,"_1072":2180,"_1074":2181,"_1081":2185,"_1089":59,"_1090":2187,"_1096":2190,"_931":2199,"_1117":2201,"_1119":2202},"gid://shopify/Product/9083682488561","This Winter","9781338885149","A very special Heartstopper story set over a challenging holiday season...Reuniting Tori Spring, her little brother Charlie, and Charlie's boyfriend Nick, this novella sees the Spring siblings brave a particularly difficult festive season.","

A very special Heartstopper story set over a challenging holiday season...

Reuniting Tori Spring, her little brother Charlie, and Charlie's boyfriend Nick, this novella sees the Spring siblings brave a particularly difficult festive season.

",{"_41":2182,"_54":2183,"_56":2184,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47785142649073","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781338885149_p0.jpg?v=1765538717",1352,{"_1083":2186},{"_1085":1379,"_1087":1088},{"_1083":2188,"_1094":2189},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":2191},[2192],{"_41":2193,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":2194,"_1104":2195,"_1062":2196,"_1107":2197,"_1113":2178,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46508941345009",{"_41":2182,"_54":2183,"_1080":-5,"_56":2184,"_50":1079},{"_1085":1379,"_1087":1088},{"_72":2177,"_886":2178},[2198],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":2200},"[\"BookTok (p9299)\"]",{"_1111":2178},[2203,2206,-5,2208,2210,2212,2214,2216,2219,2222,2225,-5,2227,2229,-5,-5,-5],{"_41":2204,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":2205},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51211176149233","[{\"contributorId\":16480009,\"fullName\":\"Alice Oseman\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_41":2207,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1130,"_1111":1832},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51211176411377",{"_41":2209,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51211176771825",{"_41":2211,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51211175788785",{"_41":2213,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1841},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51211177656561",{"_41":2215,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1148},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51211176837361",{"_41":2217,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":2218},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51211178737905","[{\"id\":\"115691753T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Praise for the Heartstopper series:

New York Times Bestseller

USA Today Bestseller

National Indie Bestseller

American Booksellers Association Indie Next Pick

YALSA Great Graphic Novels Selection

YALSA Quick Pick for Young Adult Readers

\\\\\\\"Absolutely delightful. Sweet, romantic, kind. Beautifully paced. I loved this book.\\\\\\\" -- Rainbow Rowell, author of Carry On

\\\\\\\"You'll smile watching Charlie and Nick open up to one another, and sigh as they tiptoe into romance… falling in love doesn’t get more charming than this.\\\\\\\" -- Ngozi Ukazu, New York Times bestselling author of Check, Please!

* \\\\\\\"Incredibly lovable from start to finish.\\\\\\\" -- Kirkus Reviews, starred review

\\\\\\\"Realistic yet uplifting, this tale of self-discovery will make readers' hearts skip a beat.\\\\\\\" -- School Library Journal

\\\\\\\"With all the blushing and awkward glances, it's difficult not to be charmed… The romance and realistic fiction will draw readers in to this sweet story.\\\\\\\" -- Booklist

\\\\\\\"Will win readers with its sweet romance, its queer-friendly storyline, and its light-touch relationship drama… This graphic novel lives up to its heart-stopper title.\\\\\\\" -- The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books

\\\\\\\"I was blown away. It's very tender, real, and wholesome. I read each book in one sitting.\\\\\\\" -- The Nerd Daily

\"},{\"id\":\"91008731T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Heartstopper fans won’t want to miss This Winter, a novella following the Spring family as they navigate a challenging holiday season. This quick, yet utterly heartfelt read is sure to resonate with many.

\"},{\"id\":\"115691754T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Alice Oseman is a critically acclaimed, #1 New York Times bestselling author-illustrator and Emmy Award-winning screenwriter. Alice wrote and illustrated the Heartstopper graphic novels; two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter; and is the author of four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless. They also wrote and executive produced the Netflix adaptations of Heartstopper. Visit them online at aliceoseman.com.

\"},{\"id\":\"87413432T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"87363654T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"111592469T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England. She completed a degree in English at Durham University in 2016 and is currently a full-time writer and illustrator. Alice can usually be found staring aimlessly at computer screens, questioning the meaninglessness of existence, or doing anything and everything to avoid getting an office job. Alice's first book, SOLITAIRE, was published when she was nineteen.

\"},{\"id\":\"113165157T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award-winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"}]",{"_41":2220,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":2221},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51211178115313","This-Winter/Alice-Oseman",{"_41":2223,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":2224},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51211175198961","1122344258",{"_41":2226,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51211176673521",{"_41":2228,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":2200},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51211178836209",{"_41":2230,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":2178},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51211173527793",{"_33":2232,"_942":2233,"_963":-5,"_964":-5,"_965":-5,"_966":-5,"_967":-5,"_968":-5,"_969":-5},"sZs87Ponp26BPglbiMLLP",{"_1064":1065,"_41":2234,"_72":2235,"_1068":1069,"_886":2236,"_893":2237,"_1072":2238,"_1074":2239,"_1081":2244,"_1089":59,"_1090":2246,"_1096":2249,"_931":2258,"_1117":2259,"_1119":2260},"gid://shopify/Product/9052744515825","Nick and Charlie","9781338885118","From the mega-bestselling creator of Heartstopper, a must-have novella in which Heartstopper's lead characters, Nick and Charlie, face one of their biggest challenges yet.Absence makes the heart grow fonder... right? Everyone knows that Nick and Charlie love their nearly inseparable life together. But soon Nick will be leaving for university, and Charlie, a year younger, will be left behind. Everyone's asking if they're staying together, which is a stupid question... or at least that's what Nick and Charlie assume at first. As the time to say goodbye gets inevitably closer, both Nick and Charlie start to question whether their love is strong enough to survive being apart. Charlie is sure he's holding Nick back... and Nick can't tell what Charlie's thinking. Things spiral from there. Everyone knows that first loves rarely last forever. What will it take for Nick and Charlie to defy the odds?","

From the mega-bestselling creator of Heartstopper, a must-have novella in which Heartstopper's lead characters, Nick and Charlie, face one of their biggest challenges yet.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder... right?

Everyone knows that Nick and Charlie love their nearly inseparable life together. But soon Nick will be leaving for university, and Charlie, a year younger, will be left behind. Everyone's asking if they're staying together, which is a stupid question... or at least that's what Nick and Charlie assume at first.

As the time to say goodbye gets inevitably closer, both Nick and Charlie start to question whether their love is strong enough to survive being apart. Charlie is sure he's holding Nick back... and Nick can't tell what Charlie's thinking.

Things spiral from there.

Everyone knows that first loves rarely last forever. What will it take for Nick and Charlie to defy the odds?

",{"_41":2240,"_54":2241,"_56":2242,"_50":2243,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47786289725681","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781338885118_p0.jpg?v=1765540259",1096,1646,{"_1083":2245},{"_1085":1379,"_1087":1088},{"_1083":2247,"_1094":2248},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":2250},[2251],{"_41":2252,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":2253,"_1104":2254,"_1062":2255,"_1107":2256,"_1113":2236,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46474408132849",{"_41":2240,"_54":2241,"_1080":-5,"_56":2242,"_50":2243},{"_1085":1379,"_1087":1088},{"_72":2235,"_886":2236},[2257],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":1892},{"_1111":2236},[2261,2263,-5,2265,2267,2269,2271,2273,2276,2279,2282,-5,2284,2286,-5,2288,2290],{"_41":2262,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":2205},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49658636468465",{"_41":2264,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1130,"_1111":1832},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49658637517041",{"_41":2266,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49658638926065",{"_41":2268,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49658635223281",{"_41":2270,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1841},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49658642006257",{"_41":2272,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1148},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49658639220977",{"_41":2274,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":2275},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49658644988145","[{\"id\":\"115691750T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Praise for the Heartstopper series:

New York Times Bestseller

USA Today Bestseller

National Indie Bestseller

American Booksellers Association Indie Next Pick

YALSA Great Graphic Novels Selection

YALSA Quick Pick for Young Adult Readers

\\\\\\\"Absolutely delightful. Sweet, romantic, kind. Beautifully paced. I loved this book.\\\\\\\" -- Rainbow Rowell, author of Carry On

★ \\\\\\\"Incredibly lovable from start to finish.\\\\\\\" -- Kirkus Reviews, starred review

\\\\\\\"Realistic yet uplifting, this tale of self-discovery will make readers' hearts skip a beat.\\\\\\\" -- School Library Journal

\\\\\\\"With all the blushing and awkward glances, it's difficult not to be charmed… The romance and realistic fiction will draw readers in to this sweet story.\\\\\\\" -- Booklist

\\\\\\\"I was blown away. It's very tender, real, and wholesome. I read each book in one sitting.\\\\\\\" -- The Nerd Daily

\"},{\"id\":\"87251183T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Heartstopper fans won’t want to miss Nick and Charlie, a must-read novella that follows our favorite couple through a major milestone – university. Do Nick and Charlie have what it takes to stay together despite the distance?

\"},{\"id\":\"115691751T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Alice Oseman is a critically acclaimed, #1 New York Times bestselling author-illustrator and Emmy Award-winning screenwriter. Alice wrote and illustrated the Heartstopper graphic novels; two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter; and is the author of four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless. They also wrote and executive produced the Netflix adaptations of Heartstopper. Visit them online at aliceoseman.com.

\"},{\"id\":\"84431147T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"84440408T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"113141388T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award-winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"}]",{"_41":2277,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":2278},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49658643448049","Nick-and-Charlie/Alice-Oseman",{"_41":2280,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":2281},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49658634076401","1122088152",{"_41":2283,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49658638565617",{"_41":2285,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49658645348593",{"_41":2287,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":2236},"gid://shopify/Metafield/49658630897905",{"_41":2289,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1171,"_1111":2108},"gid://shopify/Metafield/79250966413553",{"_41":2291,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1175,"_1111":1962},"gid://shopify/Metafield/73043845021937",{"_33":2293,"_942":2294,"_963":-5,"_964":-5,"_965":-5,"_966":-5,"_967":-5,"_968":-5,"_969":-5},"Q9FFL80sPfD5Z6mC0FKg2",{"_1064":1065,"_41":2295,"_72":2296,"_1068":1069,"_886":2297,"_893":2298,"_1072":2299,"_1074":2300,"_1081":2303,"_1089":59,"_1090":2306,"_1096":2309,"_931":2318,"_1117":2320,"_1119":2321},"gid://shopify/Product/9081711657201","The Heartstopper Yearbook","9781338877502","A full-color companion book for fans of Alice Oseman's bestselling Heartstopper series.Now streaming on Netflix!The Heartstopper Yearbook is packed full of exclusive content from the Heartstopper universe: never-before-seen illustrations, an exclusive minicomic, character profiles, trivia, and insight into Alice Oseman's creative process, narrated by a cartoon version of Alice herself. In full-color for the first time, this companion book is perfect for fans of Heartstopper!","

A full-color companion book for fans of Alice Oseman's bestselling Heartstopper series.

Now streaming on Netflix!

The Heartstopper Yearbook is packed full of exclusive content from the Heartstopper universe: never-before-seen illustrations, an exclusive minicomic, character profiles, trivia, and insight into Alice Oseman's creative process, narrated by a cartoon version of Alice herself. In full-color for the first time, this companion book is perfect for fans of Heartstopper!

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Praise for the Heartstopper series:

New York Times Bestseller

USA Today Bestseller

National Indie Bestseller

American Booksellers Association Indie Next Pick

YALSA Great Graphic Novels Selection

YALSA Quick Pick for Young Adult Readers

\\\\\\\"Absolutely delightful. Sweet, romantic, kind. Beautifully paced. I loved this book.\\\\\\\" -- Rainbow Rowell, author of Carry On

\\\\\\\"You'll smile watching Charlie and Nick open up to one another, and sigh as they tiptoe into romance… falling in love doesn’t get more charming than this.\\\\\\\" -- Ngozi Ukazu, New York Times bestselling author of Check, Please!

★ \\\\\\\"Incredibly lovable from start to finish.\\\\\\\" -- Kirkus Reviews, starred review

\\\\\\\"Realistic yet uplifting, this tale of self-discovery will make readers' hearts skip a beat.\\\\\\\" -- School Library Journal

\\\\\\\"With all the blushing and awkward glances, it's difficult not to be charmed… The romance and realistic fiction will draw readers in to this sweet story.\\\\\\\" -- Booklist

\\\\\\\"Will win readers with its sweet romance, its queer-friendly storyline, and its light-touch relationship drama… This graphic novel lives up to its heart-stopper title.\\\\\\\" -- The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books

\\\\\\\"I was blown away. It's very tender, real, and wholesome. I read each book in one sitting.\\\\\\\" -- The Nerd Daily

\"},{\"id\":\"86247676T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

The Heartstopper series has taken the world by storm, and with season 2 in the works, it’s the best time to catch up on the characters, creator, and series. A companion book to the series, The Heartstopper Yearbook has exclusive content that will make fans’ hearts sing, and it’s in full color for the first time!

\"},{\"id\":\"115691632T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"80259276T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"81248590T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award–winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"113124409T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Alice Oseman was born in 1994 in Kent, England, and is a #1 New York Times bestselling writer and illustrator. As well as writing and illustrating Heartstopper, Alice is the author of two Heartstopper novellas, Nick and Charlie and This Winter, and four YA novels: Solitaire, Radio Silence, I Was Born for This, and Loveless, winner of the YA Book Prize. She also writes and executive produces the Emmy Award-winning television adaptation of Heartstopper. Visit her online at aliceoseman.com.\"}]",{"_41":2340,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":2341},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51112867365105","The-Heartstopper-Yearbook/Alice-Oseman",{"_41":2343,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":2344},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51112866283761","1140566875",{"_41":2346,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51112866906353",{"_41":2348,"_1123":1124,"_1125":2349,"_1111":2350},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51112867135729","displayFormat","NOOK Kids",{"_41":2352,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":2319},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51112867561713",{"_41":2354,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":2297},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51112865267953",{"_41":2356,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1171,"_1111":1429},"gid://shopify/Metafield/78958385758449",{"_41":2358,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1175,"_1111":1615},"gid://shopify/Metafield/78958385725681",{"_26":946,"_75":2360},{"_26":75,"_76":77},"Heartstopper",{"_26":959,"_961":77,"_962":59,"_963":59,"_964":59,"_965":59,"_966":59,"_967":59,"_968":59,"_969":59},"eBook - YA - Heartstopper",{"_30":2365,"_25":2366,"_33":2367,"_35":2368,"_37":2369,"_26":942,"_45":2372,"_944":-5,"_945":-5,"_902":-5,"_946":2373,"_951":-5,"_952":953,"_954":2376,"_956":231,"_893":-5,"_58":59,"_957":2377,"_958":-5,"_959":2378,"_72":2379},"2025-12-05T16:35:44Z","572d202b-c7f9-4116-a1db-6ff8eb41af22","ac1d3ffe72eb","wbUf74AzsTIPJWAPCTaCMD",{"_39":2370},{"_41":2366,"_42":2371},"7WZciq5UK6HSJWlcfnoSIp","2025-12-09T20:37:45Z",{"_26":946,"_75":2374,"_413":950},{"_26":75,"_76":77,"_54":2375},"/collections/ebooks-nook/teen-fiction-2/classics-teen-fiction","attributes.webCategoryId: ANY(\"2796685\") AND attributes.webCategoryId: ANY(\"2224482\")\n","Essential YA Classics",{"_26":959,"_961":77,"_962":59,"_963":59,"_964":59,"_965":59,"_966":59,"_967":59,"_968":59,"_969":59},"eBook - YA - Essential YA Classics",{"_30":2381,"_25":2382,"_33":2383,"_35":2384,"_37":2385,"_26":2388,"_45":2389,"_944":-5,"_945":2390,"_902":-5,"_2410":2411,"_951":-5,"_2412":2413,"_893":-5,"_58":59,"_405":2414,"_958":-5,"_2415":77,"_72":2416},"2025-12-05T16:36:54Z","aebb901f-4242-4acb-8256-2db0d442d1a3","6eea113d5152","fC1g35NtBkVDKiYIhQfw9c",{"_39":2386},{"_41":2382,"_42":2387},"fC1g35NtBkVDKiYIhOkBEh","readingLists","2025-12-10T15:04:27Z",[2391,2398,2404],{"_33":2392,"_26":2393,"_952":953,"_954":2394,"_956":987,"_709":-5,"_75":2395,"_992":-5,"_72":2397},"180bd748d29e","readingListBlock","attributes.webCategoryId: ANY(\"2796685\") AND attributes.webCategoryId: ANY(\"2864720\")\n",{"_26":75,"_76":77,"_54":2396},"/collections/ebooks-nook/teen-fiction-2/lgbt-fiction-teen-fiction","YA LGBTQIA+ Stories",{"_33":2399,"_26":2393,"_952":953,"_954":2400,"_956":987,"_709":-5,"_75":2401,"_992":-5,"_72":2403},"eaffcee25e28","attributes.webCategoryId: ANY(\"2796685\") AND attributes.webCategoryId: ANY(\"3780200\")\n",{"_26":75,"_76":77,"_54":2402},"/collections/ebooks-nook/teen-fiction-2/comics-graphic-novels-teen-fiction","YA Graphic Novels",{"_33":2405,"_26":2393,"_952":953,"_954":2406,"_956":987,"_709":-5,"_75":2407,"_992":-5,"_72":2409},"48f0dab24985","attributes.webCategoryId: ANY(\"2796685\") AND attributes.webCategoryId: ANY(\"831932\")\n",{"_26":75,"_76":77,"_54":2408},"/collections/ebooks-nook/teen-fiction-2/science-fiction-teen-fiction","YA Sci-Fi","colorPattern","default-bg-pattern","ctaLink",{"_26":75,"_76":77},"YA Favorites","includeBlogCopy","eBook - YA - YA Favorites",{"_30":2418,"_25":2419,"_33":2420,"_35":2421,"_37":2422,"_26":942,"_45":2425,"_944":-5,"_945":2426,"_902":-5,"_946":2848,"_951":-5,"_956":231,"_893":-5,"_58":59,"_957":2851,"_958":-5,"_959":2852,"_72":2853},"2025-12-02T19:04:22Z","ac0c2cca-a5ba-4148-b9ff-d69c95dd64fb","6e40d25d75f7","wbUf74AzsTIPJWAPCTaHmn",{"_39":2423},{"_41":2419,"_42":2424},"2W9ga0LIwSUBsCRRkpj7jn","2025-12-09T20:38:23Z",[2427,2483,2548,2606,2667,2723,2788],{"_33":2428,"_942":2429,"_963":-5,"_964":-5,"_965":-5,"_966":-5,"_967":-5,"_968":-5,"_969":-5},"Eer6Kwl5b_k-AAyX69S_K",{"_1064":1065,"_41":2430,"_72":2431,"_1068":1069,"_886":2432,"_893":2433,"_1072":2434,"_1074":2435,"_1081":2439,"_1089":59,"_1090":2441,"_1096":2444,"_931":2453,"_1117":2455,"_1119":2456},"gid://shopify/Product/8851668369649","A First Time for Everything","9781728266145","From the New York Times bestselling author of The Summer of Broken Rules comes a fun new coming-of-age romance full of dating disasters, powerful firsts, and the importance of family.Madeline has always been extremely close to her family, so she is shocked when her older brother gets engaged without including them (or even giving them a heads up!). Mads has never been the biggest fan of his fiancée, Katie, so in order to remain one happy family, she is determined to bond with Katie before the big day, which includes reluctantly agreeing to be a bridesmaid. During a late-night bridesmaids-only game of \"Truth or Dare\" Mads is cornered into revealing she has never been kissed or even been on a date, which spurs the other girls to unite on a quest to find Mads the perfect plus-one for the wedding. Next thing she knows she's navigating a series of disastrous dates that include some major misunderstandings and mishaps.All of a sudden Mads finds her heart tugged in different directions: to Connor, the boy next door who knows her best. To Marco, the former classmate who knows how to push all her buttons. And to some of the new suitors who surprisingly aren't all bad.As the wedding draws nearer, Mads has to figure out who she wants most as a dance partner, while also making sure her brother isn't making the biggest mistake of his life.","

From the New York Times bestselling author of The Summer of Broken Rules comes a fun new coming-of-age romance full of dating disasters, powerful firsts, and the importance of family.

Madeline has always been extremely close to her family, so she is shocked when her older brother gets engaged without including them (or even giving them a heads up!). Mads has never been the biggest fan of his fiancée, Katie, so in order to remain one happy family, she is determined to bond with Katie before the big day, which includes reluctantly agreeing to be a bridesmaid.

During a late-night bridesmaids-only game of \"Truth or Dare\" Mads is cornered into revealing she has never been kissed or even been on a date, which spurs the other girls to unite on a quest to find Mads the perfect plus-one for the wedding. Next thing she knows she's navigating a series of disastrous dates that include some major misunderstandings and mishaps.

All of a sudden Mads finds her heart tugged in different directions: to Connor, the boy next door who knows her best. To Marco, the former classmate who knows how to push all her buttons. And to some of the new suitors who surprisingly aren't all bad.

As the wedding draws nearer, Mads has to figure out who she wants most as a dance partner, while also making sure her brother isn't making the biggest mistake of his life.

",{"_41":2436,"_54":2437,"_56":2438,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47768426479857","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781728266145_p0.jpg?v=1765510588",1332,{"_1083":2440},{"_1085":1254,"_1087":1088},{"_1083":2442,"_1094":2443},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":2445},[2446],{"_41":2447,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":2448,"_1104":2449,"_1062":2450,"_1107":2451,"_1113":2432,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46249981870321",{"_41":2436,"_54":2437,"_1080":-5,"_56":2438,"_50":1079},{"_1085":1254,"_1087":1088},{"_72":2431,"_886":2432},[2452],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":2454},"[\"NOOK Recommends (p21)\"]",{"_1111":2432},[2457,-5,-5,2460,2462,2464,2466,2468,2471,2474,2477,-5,2479,2481,-5,-5,-5],{"_41":2458,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":2459},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39904785563889","[{\"contributorId\":21792771,\"fullName\":\"K. L. Walther\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_41":2461,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39904786645233",{"_41":2463,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39904784777457",{"_41":2465,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":163},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39904789233905",{"_41":2467,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1148},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39904786907377",{"_41":2469,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":2470},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39904791593201","[{\"id\":\"111248343T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"\\\\\\\"Walther’s strong young women characters truly shine in this quietly entertaining, character-driven tale... A lighthearted romance in which love comes to those who speak their minds and stick to their truths.\\\\\\\" — Kirkus

\\\\\\\"Walther’s sweet, heartfelt, and warm novel blends a compelling family story with an undercurrent of romance; throughout the whole novel... A cozy embrace of a novel that perfectly captures the feeling of facing life-changing experiences head-on.\\\\\\\" — Booklist\"},{\"id\":\"112399846T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

A charmingly cozy romance steeped in the power of family and positive messaging. With a cast of characters that's easy to fall in love with, this is a feel good love story with rereadability.

\"},{\"id\":\"106822265T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

K.L. Walther is the #1 New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of The Summer of Broken Rules, While We’re Young, and A First Time for Everything among others. Born and raised in the rolling hills of Bucks County, Pennsylvania, she is happiest when reading a romance on the beach or bantering with her better half while waiting in line for ice cream. She currently lives in Philadelphia with her husband and her golden retriever.

\"},{\"id\":\"114027637T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

K.L. Walther was born and raised in the rolling hills of Bucks County, Pennsylvania surrounded by family, dogs, and books. Her childhood was spent traveling the northeastern seaboard to play ice hockey. She attended a boarding school in New Jersey and went on to earn a B.A. in English from the University of Virginia. She is happiest on the beach with a book, cheering for the New York Rangers, or enjoying a rom-com while digging into a big bowl of popcorn and M&Ms. She is the bestselling author of Maybe Meant to Be, The Summer of Broken Rules, What Happens After Midnight. Visit her online at klwalther.com

\"},{\"id\":\"106928174T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"K.L. Walther was born and raised in the rolling hills of Bucks County, Pennsylvania surrounded by family, dogs, and books. Her childhood was spent traveling the northeastern seaboard to play ice hockey. She attended a boarding school in New Jersey and went on to earn a B.A. in English from the University of Virginia. She is happiest on the beach with a book, cheering for the New York Rangers, or enjoying a rom-com while digging into a big bowl of popcorn and M&Ms. She is the bestselling author of Maybe Meant to Be, The Summer of Broken Rules, What Happens After Midnight. Visit her online at klwalther.com

\"},{\"id\":\"109431628T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"

K.L. Walther was born and raised in the rolling hills of Bucks County, Pennsylvania surrounded by family, dogs, and books. Her childhood was spent traveling the northeastern seaboard to play ice hockey. She attended a boarding school in New Jersey and went on to earn a B.A. in English from the University of Virginia. She is happiest on the beach with a book, cheering for the New York Rangers, or enjoying a rom-com while digging into a big bowl of popcorn and M&Ms. She is the author of Maybe Meant to Be, The Summer of Broken Rules, What Happens After Midnight. Visit her online at klwalther.com

\"}]",{"_41":2472,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":2473},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39904790249713","A-First-Time-for-Everything/K-L-Walther",{"_41":2475,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":2476},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39904784056561","1146021625",{"_41":2478,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39904786415857",{"_41":2480,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":2454},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39904791822577",{"_41":2482,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":2432},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39904780976369",{"_33":2484,"_942":2485,"_963":-5,"_964":-5,"_965":-5,"_966":-5,"_967":-5,"_968":-5,"_969":-5},"URTDN1DjslSmwgBKv--do",{"_1064":1065,"_41":2486,"_72":2487,"_1068":1069,"_886":2488,"_893":2489,"_1072":2490,"_1074":2491,"_1081":2495,"_1089":59,"_1090":2497,"_1096":2500,"_931":2509,"_1117":2510,"_1119":2511},"gid://shopify/Product/9087745425649","Good Girl, Bad Blood (A Good Girl's Guide to Murder #2)","9781984896421","THE MUST-READ MULTIMILLION BESTSELLING MYSTERY SERIES—A GOOD GIRL'S GUIDE TO MURDER NOW ON NETFLIX! • More dark secrets are exposed in this addictive, true-crime fueled sequel when Pip finds herself in another deadly case. Pip is not a detective anymore.With the help of Ravi Singh, she released a true-crime podcast about the murder case they solved together last year. The podcast has gone viral, yet Pip insists her investigating days are behind her.But she will have to break that promise when someone she knows goes missing. Jamie Reynolds has disappeared, on the very same night the town hosted a memorial for the sixth-year anniversary of the deaths of Andie Bell and Sal Singh.The police won't do anything about it. And if they won't look for Jamie then Pip will, uncovering more of her town's dark secrets along the way... and this time everyone is listening. But will she find him before it's too late?Look for the whole series:A GOOD GIRL’S GUIDE TO MURDER • GOOD GIRL, BAD BLOOD • AS GOOD AS DEAD","THE MUST-READ MULTIMILLION BESTSELLING MYSTERY SERIES—A GOOD GIRL'S GUIDE TO MURDER NOW ON NETFLIX! • More dark secrets are exposed in this addictive, true-crime fueled sequel when Pip finds herself in another deadly case.

Pip is not a detective anymore.

With the help of Ravi Singh, she released a true-crime podcast about the murder case they solved together last year. The podcast has gone viral, yet Pip insists her investigating days are behind her.

But she will have to break that promise when someone she knows goes missing. Jamie Reynolds has disappeared, on the very same night the town hosted a memorial for the sixth-year anniversary of the deaths of Andie Bell and Sal Singh.

The police won't do anything about it. And if they won't look for Jamie then Pip will, uncovering more of her town's dark secrets along the way... and this time everyone is listening. But will she find him before it's too late?

Look for the whole series:
A GOOD GIRL’S GUIDE TO MURDER • GOOD GIRL, BAD BLOOD • AS GOOD AS DEAD",{"_41":2492,"_54":2493,"_56":2494,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47719546650865","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781984896421_p0.jpg?v=1778136585",1330,{"_1083":2496},{"_1085":1086,"_1087":1088},{"_1083":2498,"_1094":2499},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":2501},[2502],{"_41":2503,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":2504,"_1104":2505,"_1062":2506,"_1107":2507,"_1113":2488,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46513299063025",{"_41":2492,"_54":2493,"_1080":-5,"_56":2494,"_50":1079},{"_1085":1086,"_1087":1088},{"_72":2487,"_886":2488},[2508],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":2454},{"_1111":2488},[2512,2515,2518,2520,2522,2524,2526,2528,2531,2534,2537,-5,2539,2541,-5,2543,2546],{"_41":2513,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":2514},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51412590526705","[{\"contributorId\":13147288,\"fullName\":\"Holly Jackson\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_41":2516,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1130,"_1111":2517},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51412591050993","Good Girl's Guide to Murder Series",{"_41":2519,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1134,"_1111":1615},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51412591214833",{"_41":2521,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51412591837425",{"_41":2523,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51412589773041",{"_41":2525,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1473},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51412592820465",{"_41":2527,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1148},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51412591968497",{"_41":2529,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":2530},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51412593410289","[{\"id\":\"116878280T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

One

It was still there, every time she opened the front door. It wasn’t real, she knew that, just her mind filling in the absence, bridging the gap. She heard it: dog claws skittering, rushing to welcome her home. But it wasn’t, it couldn’t be. It was just a memory, the ghost of a sound that had always been there.

“Pip, is that you?” her mom called from the kitchen.

“Hey,” Pip replied, dropping her bronze-colored backpack in the hall, textbooks thumping together inside.

Josh was in the living room, sitting on the floor two feet from the TV, fast-forwarding through the ads on the Disney Channel. “You’ll get square eyes,” Pip remarked as she walked by.

“You’ll get a square butt,” Josh snapped back with a snort. A terrible retort, objectively speaking, but he was quick for a ten-year-old.

“Hi, darling, how was school?” her mom asked, sipping from a flowery mug as Pip walked into the kitchen and settled on one of the stools at the counter.

“Fine. It was fine.” School was always fine now. Not good, not bad. Just fine. She pulled off her shoes, the leather unsticking from her feet and smacking against the tiles.

“Ugh,” her mom said. “Do you always have to leave your shoes in the kitchen?”

“Do you always have to catch me doing it?”

“Yes. I’m your mother,” she said, whacking Pip’s arm lightly with her new cookbook. “Oh, and, Pippa, I need to talk to you about something.”

The full name. So much meaning in that extra syllable.

“Am I in trouble?”

Her mom didn’t answer the question. “Flora Green called me today. You know she’s the new teaching assistant at Josh’s school?”

“Yes. . . .” Pip nodded for her mother to continue.

“Joshua got in trouble today, sent to the principal.” Her mom’s brow knitted. “Apparently Camilla Brown’s pencil sharpener went missing, and Josh decided to interrogate his classmates about it, finding evidence and drawing up a persons of interest list. He made four kids cry.”

“Oh,” Pip said, that pit opening up in her stomach again. Yes, she was in trouble. “OK, OK. Should I talk to him?”

“Yes, I think you should. Now,” her mom said, raising her mug and taking a noisy sip.

Pip slid off the stool with a gritted smile and padded back toward the living room.

“Josh,” she said lightly, sitting on the floor beside him. She muted the television.

“Hey!”

Pip ignored him. “So, I heard what happened at school today.”

“Oh yeah. There’s two main suspects.” He turned to her, his brown eyes lighting up. “Maybe you can help--”

“Josh, listen to me,” Pip said, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. “Being a detective is not all it’s cracked up to be. In fact . . . it’s a pretty bad thing to be.”

“But I--”

“Just listen, OK? Being a detective makes the people around you unhappy. Makes you unhappy . . . ,” she said, her voice withering away until she cleared her throat and pulled it back. “Remember Dad told you what happened to Barney, why he got hurt?”

Josh nodded, his eyes growing wide and sad.

“That’s what happens when you’re a detective. The people around you get hurt. And you hurt people, without meaning to. You have to keep secrets you’re not sure you should. That’s why I don’t do it anymore, and you shouldn’t either.” The words dropped right into that waiting pit in her gut, where they belonged. “Do you understand?”

“Yes . . .” He nodded, holding on to the s as it grew into the next word. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be silly.” She smiled, folding him into a quick hug. “You have nothing to be sorry for. So no more playing detective?”

“Nope, promise.”

Well, that had been easy.

“Done,” Pip said, back in the kitchen. “I guess the missing pencil sharpener will forever remain a mystery.”

“Ah, maybe not,” her mom said with a barely concealed smile. “I bet it was that Alex Davis, the little shit.”

Pip snorted.

Her mom kicked Pip’s shoes out of her way. “So, have you heard from Ravi yet?”

“Yeah.” Pip pulled out her phone. “He said they finished about fifteen minutes ago. He’ll be over to record soon.”

“OK. How was today?”

“He said it was rough. I wish I could be there.” Pip leaned against the counter, dropping her chin onto her knuckles.

“You know you can’t, you have school,” her mom said. It wasn’t a discussion she was prepared to have again; Pip knew that. “And didn’t you have enough after Tuesday? I know I did.”

Tuesday, the first day of the trial at New Haven Superior Court, Pip had been called as a witness for the prosecution. Dressed in a new suit and a white shirt, trying to keep her hands from fidgeting so the jury wouldn’t see. Sweat prickling down her back. And every second, she’d felt his eyes on her from the defendant’s table, his gaze a physical thing, crawling over her exposed skin. Max Hastings.

The one time she glanced at him, she’d seen the smirk behind his eyes that no one else would see. Not behind those fake, clear-lens glasses, anyway. How dare he? How dare he stand up and plead not guilty when they both knew the truth? She had a recording, a phone conversation with Max admitting to drugging and raping Becca Bell. It was all right there. Max had confessed when Pip threatened to tell everyone his secrets: the hit-and-run and Sal’s alibi. But it hadn’t mattered anyway; the private recording was inadmissible in court. The prosecution had to settle for Pip’s recounting of the conversation instead. Which she’d done, word for word . . . well, apart from the beginning, of course, and those same secrets she had to keep to protect Naomi Ward.

“Yeah, it was horrible,” Pip said, “but I should still be there.” She should; she’d promised to follow this story to all of its ends. But instead, Ravi would be there every day in the public gallery, taking notes for her. Because school wasn’t optional: so said her mom and the new principal.

“Pip, please,” her mom said in that warning voice. “This week is difficult enough as it is. And with the memorial tomorrow too. What a week.”

“Yep,” Pip agreed with a sigh.

“You OK?” Her mom paused, resting a hand on Pip’s shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m always OK.”

Her mom didn’t quite believe her, she could tell. But it didn’t matter because a moment later, there was a knock on the front door: Ravi’s distinctive pattern. Long-short-long. And Pip’s heart picked up to match it, as it always did.

File Name:

A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder: The Trial of Max Hastings (update 3).wav

[Jingle plays]

Pip: Hello, Pip Fitz-Amobi here and welcome back to A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder: The Trial of Max Hastings. This is the third update, so if you haven’t yet heard the first two mini-episodes, please go back and listen to those first. We are going to cover what happened today, the third day of Max Hastings’s trial, and joining me is Ravi Singh . . .

Ravi: Hello.

Pip: . . . who has been watching the trial unfold from the public gallery. Today started with the testimony from another of the victims, Natalie da Silva. You may well recognize the name; Nat was involved in my investigation into the Andie Bell case. I learned that Andie had bullied Nat at school, and had even sought and distributed indecent images of her on social media. I believed it could be a possible motive and, for a while, I considered Nat a person of interest. I was entirely wrong, of course. Today, Nat appeared in New Haven Superior Court to give evidence about how, on February 21, 2014, she was allegedly drugged and sexually assaulted by Max Hastings at a calamity party. But as I’ve explained before, due to Connecticut’s ridiculous statute of limitations, Max cannot be charged for either rape or sexual assault because the alleged offenses happened more than five years ago in the cases of both Nat da Silva and Becca Bell. For these two victims, Max is instead being charged with kidnapping in the first degree, as the state has no statute of limitations for that crime. In Connecticut, the definition of kidnapping includes restraining someone with intent to inflict physical injury or sexual abuse and therefore the state attorney general recommended these charges instead. Of course, the whole thing is disgraceful, but I won’t start on my feelings about the statute of limitations again. I think I’ve previously made those very clear. So, Ravi, can you take us through how Nat’s testimony went?

Ravi: Yeah. So the prosecutor asked Nat to establish a timeline of that evening: when she arrived at the party, the last instance she looked at the time before she began to feel incapacitated, what time she woke up in the morning and left the house. Nat said she has only a few hazy snatches of memory: someone leading her into the back room, away from the party, and laying her down on a sofa; her feeling paralyzed, unable to move, and then of someone lying down beside her. Other than that, she described herself as being blacked out. And then, when she woke up the next morning, she felt awful and dizzy, like it was the worst hangover she’d ever had. Her clothes were in disarray and her underwear had been removed.

Pip: And, to revisit what the prosecution’s expert witness said on Tuesday about the effects of benzodiazepines like Rohypnol, Nat’s testimony is very much in line with what you’d expect. The drug acts like a sedative and can have a depressant effect on the body’s central nervous system, which explains Nat’s feeling of being paralyzed. It feels almost like you’re separated from your own body, like it just won’t listen to you, your limbs aren’t connected anymore.

Ravi: Right, and the prosecutor also made sure the expert witness repeated, several times, that a side effect of Rohypnol was “blacking out,” as Nat said, or having anterograde amnesia, which means an inability to create new memories. I think the prosecutor wants to keep reminding the jury of this point because it will play a significant part in the testimonies of all the victims, the fact that they don’t remember exactly what happened because the drug affected their ability to make memories.

Pip: The prosecutor also repeated that fact regarding Becca Bell. As a reminder, Becca recently changed her plea to guilty, despite a defense team who were confident that they could get her no jail time due to her being a minor at the time of Andie’s death, and the circumstances surrounding it. She accepted a four-year sentence, suspended after eighteen months, followed by two years’ probation. Yesterday, Becca testified by video link from prison, where she will be for the next year and a half.

Ravi: Exactly. And like with Becca, today the prosecution was eager to establish that Nat had only one or two alcoholic drinks the night of the alleged attacks, which couldn’t possibly account for her level of intoxication. Specifically, Nat said she only drank one bottle of beer that night. And she stated who allegedly gave her that drink on her arrival: Max.

\"},{\"id\":\"77711689T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

One

“Pip, is that you?” her mom called from the kitchen.

“Hey,” Pip replied, dropping her bronze-colored backpack in the hall, textbooks thumping together inside.

Josh was in the living room, sitting on the floor two feet from the TV, fast-forwarding through the ads on the Disney Channel. “You’ll get square eyes,” Pip remarked as she walked by.

“You’ll get a square butt,” Josh snapped back with a snort. A terrible retort, objectively speaking, but he was quick for a ten-year-old.

“Hi, darling, how was school?” her mom asked, sipping from a flowery mug as Pip walked into the kitchen and settled on one of the stools at the counter.

“Fine. It was fine.” School was always fine now. Not good, not bad. Just fine. She pulled off her shoes, the leather unsticking from her feet and smacking against the tiles.

“Ugh,” her mom said. “Do you always have to leave your shoes in the kitchen?”

“Do you always have to catch me doing it?”

“Yes. I’m your mother,” she said, whacking Pip’s arm lightly with her new cookbook. “Oh, and, Pippa, I need to talk to you about something.”

The full name. So much meaning in that extra syllable.

“Am I in trouble?”

Her mom didn’t answer the question. “Flora Green called me today. You know she’s the new teaching assistant at Josh’s school?”

“Yes. . . .” Pip nodded for her mother to continue.

“Oh,” Pip said, that pit opening up in her stomach again. Yes, she was in trouble. “OK, OK. Should I talk to him?”

“Yes, I think you should. Now,” her mom said, raising her mug and taking a noisy sip.

Pip slid off the stool with a gritted smile and padded back toward the living room.

“Josh,” she said lightly, sitting on the floor beside him. She muted the television.

“Hey!”

Pip ignored him. “So, I heard what happened at school today.”

“Oh yeah. There’s two main suspects.” He turned to her, his brown eyes lighting up. “Maybe you can help--”

“Josh, listen to me,” Pip said, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. “Being a detective is not all it’s cracked up to be. In fact . . . it’s a pretty bad thing to be.”

“But I--”

Josh nodded, his eyes growing wide and sad.

“Yes . . .” He nodded, holding on to the s as it grew into the next word. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be silly.” She smiled, folding him into a quick hug. “You have nothing to be sorry for. So no more playing detective?”

“Nope, promise.”

Well, that had been easy.

“Done,” Pip said, back in the kitchen. “I guess the missing pencil sharpener will forever remain a mystery.”

“Ah, maybe not,” her mom said with a barely concealed smile. “I bet it was that Alex Davis, the little shit.”

Pip snorted.

Her mom kicked Pip’s shoes out of her way. “So, have you heard from Ravi yet?”

“Yeah.” Pip pulled out her phone. “He said they finished about fifteen minutes ago. He’ll be over to record soon.”

“OK. How was today?”

“He said it was rough. I wish I could be there.” Pip leaned against the counter, dropping her chin onto her knuckles.

“You know you can’t, you have school,” her mom said. It wasn’t a discussion she was prepared to have again; Pip knew that. “And didn’t you have enough after Tuesday? I know I did.”

“Pip, please,” her mom said in that warning voice. “This week is difficult enough as it is. And with the memorial tomorrow too. What a week.”

“Yep,” Pip agreed with a sigh.

“You OK?” Her mom paused, resting a hand on Pip’s shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m always OK.”

File Name:

A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder: The Trial of Max Hastings (update 3).wav

[Jingle plays]

Ravi: Hello.

\"},{\"id\":\"72785432T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"One

“Pip, is that you?” her mom called from the kitchen.

“Hey,” Pip replied, dropping her bronze-colored backpack in the hall, textbooks thumping together inside.

Josh was in the living room, sitting on the floor two feet from the TV, fast-forwarding through the ads on the Disney Channel. “You’ll get square eyes,” Pip remarked as she walked by.

“You’ll get a square butt,” Josh snapped back with a snort. A terrible retort, objectively speaking, but he was quick for a ten-year-old.

“Hi, darling, how was school?” her mom asked, sipping from a flowery mug as Pip walked into the kitchen and settled on one of the stools at the counter.

“Fine. It was fine.” School was always fine now. Not good, not bad. Just fine. She pulled off her shoes, the leather unsticking from her feet and smacking against the tiles.

“Ugh,” her mom said. “Do you always have to leave your shoes in the kitchen?”

“Do you always have to catch me doing it?”

“Yes. I’m your mother,” she said, whacking Pip’s arm lightly with her new cookbook. “Oh, and, Pippa, I need to talk to you about something.”

The full name. So much meaning in that extra syllable.

“Am I in trouble?”

Her mom didn’t answer the question. “Flora Green called me today. You know she’s the new teaching assistant at Josh’s school?”

“Yes. . . .” Pip nodded for her mother to continue.

“Oh,” Pip said, that pit opening up in her stomach again. Yes, she was in trouble. “OK, OK. Should I talk to him?”

“Yes, I think you should. Now,” her mom said, raising her mug and taking a noisy sip.

Pip slid off the stool with a gritted smile and padded back toward the living room.

“Josh,” she said lightly, sitting on the floor beside him. She muted the television.

“Hey!”

Pip ignored him. “So, I heard what happened at school today.”

“Oh yeah. There’s two main suspects.” He turned to her, his brown eyes lighting up. “Maybe you can help—”

“Josh, listen to me,” Pip said, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. “Being a detective is not all it’s cracked up to be. In fact . . . it’s a pretty bad thing to be.”

“But I—”

Josh nodded, his eyes growing wide and sad.

“Yes . . .” He nodded, holding on to the s as it grew into the next word. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be silly.” She smiled, folding him into a quick hug. “You have nothing to be sorry for. So no more playing detective?”

“Nope, promise.”

Well, that had been easy.

“Done,” Pip said, back in the kitchen. “I guess the missing pencil sharpener will forever remain a mystery.”

“Ah, maybe not,” her mom said with a barely concealed smile. “I bet it was that Alex Davis, the little shit.”

Pip snorted.

Her mom kicked Pip’s shoes out of her way. “So, have you heard from Ravi yet?”

“Yeah.” Pip pulled out her phone. “He said they finished about fifteen minutes ago. He’ll be over to record soon.”

“OK. How was today?”

“He said it was rough. I wish I could be there.” Pip leaned against the counter, dropping her chin onto her knuckles.

“You know you can’t, you have school,” her mom said. It wasn’t a discussion she was prepared to have again; Pip knew that. “And didn’t you have enough after Tuesday? I know I did.”

“Pip, please,” her mom said in that warning voice. “This week is difficult enough as it is. And with the memorial tomorrow too. What a week.”

“Yep,” Pip agreed with a sigh.

“You OK?” Her mom paused, resting a hand on Pip’s shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m always OK.”

File Name:

A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder: The Trial of Max Hastings (update 3).wav

[Jingle plays]

Ravi: Hello.

\"},{\"id\":\"78216611T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"One

“Pip, is that you?” her mom called from the kitchen.

“Hey,” Pip replied, dropping her bronze-colored backpack in the hall, textbooks thumping together inside.

Josh was in the living room, sitting on the floor two feet from the TV, fast-forwarding through the ads on the Disney Channel. “You’ll get square eyes,” Pip remarked as she walked by.

“You’ll get a square butt,” Josh snapped back with a snort. A terrible retort, objectively speaking, but he was quick for a ten-year-old.

“Hi, darling, how was school?” her mom asked, sipping from a flowery mug as Pip walked into the kitchen and settled on one of the stools at the counter.

“Fine. It was fine.” School was always fine now. Not good, not bad. Just fine. She pulled off her shoes, the leather unsticking from her feet and smacking against the tiles.

“Ugh,” her mom said. “Do you always have to leave your shoes in the kitchen?”

“Do you always have to catch me doing it?”

“Yes. I’m your mother,” she said, whacking Pip’s arm lightly with her new cookbook. “Oh, and, Pippa, I need to talk to you about something.”

The full name. So much meaning in that extra syllable.

“Am I in trouble?”

Her mom didn’t answer the question. “Flora Green called me today. You know she’s the new teaching assistant at Josh’s school?”

“Yes. . . .” Pip nodded for her mother to continue.

“Oh,” Pip said, that pit opening up in her stomach again. Yes, she was in trouble. “OK, OK. Should I talk to him?”

“Yes, I think you should. Now,” her mom said, raising her mug and taking a noisy sip.

Pip slid off the stool with a gritted smile and padded back toward the living room.

“Josh,” she said lightly, sitting on the floor beside him. She muted the television.

“Hey!”

Pip ignored him. “So, I heard what happened at school today.”

“Oh yeah. There’s two main suspects.” He turned to her, his brown eyes lighting up. “Maybe you can help—”

“Josh, listen to me,” Pip said, tucking her dark hair behind her ears. “Being a detective is not all it’s cracked up to be. In fact . . . it’s a pretty bad thing to be.”

“But I—”

Josh nodded, his eyes growing wide and sad.

“Yes . . .” He nodded, holding on to the s as it grew into the next word. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be silly.” She smiled, folding him into a quick hug. “You have nothing to be sorry for. So no more playing detective?”

“Nope, promise.”

Well, that had been easy.

“Done,” Pip said, back in the kitchen. “I guess the missing pencil sharpener will forever remain a mystery.”

“Ah, maybe not,” her mom said with a barely concealed smile. “I bet it was that Alex Davis, the little shit.”

Pip snorted.

Her mom kicked Pip’s shoes out of her way. “So, have you heard from Ravi yet?”

“Yeah.” Pip pulled out her phone. “He said they finished about fifteen minutes ago. He’ll be over to record soon.”

“OK. How was today?”

“He said it was rough. I wish I could be there.” Pip leaned against the counter, dropping her chin onto her knuckles.

“You know you can’t, you have school,” her mom said. It wasn’t a discussion she was prepared to have again; Pip knew that. “And didn’t you have enough after Tuesday? I know I did.”

“Pip, please,” her mom said in that warning voice. “This week is difficult enough as it is. And with the memorial tomorrow too. What a week.”

“Yep,” Pip agreed with a sigh.

“You OK?” Her mom paused, resting a hand on Pip’s shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m always OK.”

File Name:

A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder: The Trial of Max Hastings (update 3).wav

[Jingle plays]

Ravi: Hello.

\"},{\"id\":\"116878281T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Praise for worldwide sensation Holly Jackson:

“This truly unique premise snowballs into a roller coaster ride of page-turning suspense and knock-out twists!” —Freida McFadden, author of The Housemaid on Not Quite Dead Yet

“A masterclass in thriller writing and an example of storytelling at its finest.” —Alex Michaelides, author of The Silent Patient on Not Quite Dead Yet

“A thrilling, twisting, heartbreaker.” —Chris Whitaker, author of All the Colors of the Dark on Not Quite Dead Yet

“The popular YA mystery-thriller series.” —Teen Vogue on A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder

“[A] BookTok sensation.” —Seventeen on A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder

“Weaves true crime with a twisty murder mystery.”—People on The Reappearance of Rachel Price

“A story that will leave you guessing until the very end.” —Book of the Month on The Reappearance of Rachel Price

“Another unputdownable thriller.” —E! News on Five Survive

“Gripping, puzzling, and exciting.” —Forbes on Five Survive\"},{\"id\":\"91023941T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

The second in The Good Girls Guide To Murder series, Pip’s podcast is satiating her need to be a detective (for now) but when a friend goes missing, it’s up to Pip to snap back into action.

\"},{\"id\":\"116878282T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Holly Jackson is the author of the #1 New York Times bestselling series A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder, an international sensation with millions of copies sold worldwide, as well as the #1 New York Times bestsellers and instant classics Five Survive and The Reappearance of Rachel Price. Her latest thriller is Not Quite Dead Yet: A Novel. She graduated from the University of Nottingham, where she studied literary linguistics and creative writing, with a master’s degree in English. She enjoys playing video games and watching true-crime documentaries so she can pretend to be a detective. She lives in London.

\"},{\"id\":\"72138969T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Holly Jackson is the author of the #1 New York Times bestselling series A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder, an international sensation with millions of copies sold worldwide, as well as the #1 New York Times bestsellers and instant classics Five Survive and The Reappearance of Rachel Price. Her latest thriller is Not Quite Dead Yet: A Novel. She graduated from the University of Nottingham, where she studied literary linguistics and creative writing, with a master’s degree in English. She enjoys playing video games and watching true-crime documentaries so she can pretend to be a detective. She lives in London.\"},{\"id\":\"77712808T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Holly Jackson is the author of the #1 New York Times bestseller, A Good Girl's Guide to Murder. She started writing stories at a young age, completing her first (poor) attempt at a novel when she was fifteen. She graduated from the University of Nottingham, where she studied literary linguistics and creative writing, with a master's degree in English. She enjoys playing video games and watching true-crime documentaries so she can pretend to be a detective. She lives in London. Follow Holly on Twitter and Instagram at @HoJay92.\"},{\"id\":\"72138968T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Holly Jackson is the author of the #1 New York Times bestselling series A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder, an international sensation with millions of copies sold worldwide, as well as the #1 New York Times bestsellers and instant classics Five Survive and The Reappearance of Rachel Price. Her latest thriller is Not Quite Dead Yet: A Novel. She graduated from the University of Nottingham, where she studied literary linguistics and creative writing, with a master’s degree in English. She enjoys playing video games and watching true-crime documentaries so she can pretend to be a detective. She lives in London.\"},{\"id\":\"72138970T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Holly Jackson is the author of the #1 New York Times bestselling series A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder, an international sensation with millions of copies sold worldwide, as well as the #1 New York Times bestsellers and instant classics Five Survive and The Reappearance of Rachel Price. Her latest thriller is Not Quite Dead Yet: A Novel. She graduated from the University of Nottingham, where she studied literary linguistics and creative writing, with a master’s degree in English. She enjoys playing video games and watching true-crime documentaries so she can pretend to be a detective. She lives in London.\"},{\"id\":\"95606826T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"6\",\"text\":\"Holly Jackson is the author of the #1 New York Times bestselling series A Good Girl's Guide to Murder, an international sensation with millions of copies sold worldwide, as well as the #1 New York Times bestsellers and instant classics Five Survive and The Reappearance of Rachel Price. Her latest thriller is Not Quite Dead Yet: A Novel. She graduated from the University of Nottingham, where she studied literary linguistics and creative writing, with a master's degree in English. She enjoys playing video games and watching true-crime documentaries so she can pretend to be a detective. She lives in London.\"}]",{"_41":2532,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":2533},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51412593082609","Good-Girl-Bad-Blood/Holly-Jackson",{"_41":2535,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":2536},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51412588986609","1137663491",{"_41":2538,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51412591739121",{"_41":2540,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":2454},"gid://shopify/Metafield/73251161178353",{"_41":2542,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":2488},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51412586365169",{"_41":2544,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1171,"_1111":2545},"gid://shopify/Metafield/78910811963633","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.6\"}",{"_41":2547,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1175,"_1111":1677},"gid://shopify/Metafield/71246036762865",{"_33":2549,"_942":2550,"_963":-5,"_964":-5,"_965":-5,"_966":-5,"_967":-5,"_968":-5,"_969":-5},"WEP_7Jefl0jr1xshAXchV",{"_1064":1065,"_41":2551,"_72":2552,"_1068":1069,"_886":2553,"_893":2554,"_1072":2555,"_1074":2556,"_1081":2559,"_1089":59,"_1090":2561,"_1096":2564,"_931":2573,"_1117":2575,"_1119":2576},"gid://shopify/Product/9082871611633","The Reappearance of Rachel Price","9780593374221","#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • From the author of the multimillion-copy bestselling A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder series and Five Survive comes a gripping mystery thriller following one girl's search for the truth about her mother’s shocking disappearance—and even more shocking reappearance—during the filming of a true crime documentary.A COSMOPOLITAN BEST YOUNG ADULT BOOK OF THE YEARLights. Camera. Lies. Eighteen-year-old Bel has lived her whole life in the shadow of her mom’s mysterious disappearance. Sixteen years ago, Rachel Price vanished and young Bel was the only witness, but she has no memory of it. Rachel is gone, long presumed dead, and Bel wishes everyone would just move on. But the case is dredged up from the past when the Price family agrees to a true crime documentary. Bel can’t wait for filming to end, for life to go back to normal. And then the impossible happens. Rachel Price reappears, and life will never be normal again.Rachel has an unbelievable story about what happened to her. Unbelievable, because Bel isn’t sure it’s real. If Rachel is lying, then where has she been all this time? And—could she be dangerous? With the cameras still rolling, Bel must uncover the truth about her mother, and find out why Rachel Price really came back from the dead . . . From world-renowned author Holly Jackson comes a mind-blowing masterpiece about one girl’s search for the truth, and the terror in finding out who your family really is.","#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • From the author of the multimillion-copy bestselling A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder series and Five Survive comes a gripping mystery thriller following one girl's search for the truth about her mother’s shocking disappearance—and even more shocking reappearance—during the filming of a true crime documentary.

A COSMOPOLITAN BEST YOUNG ADULT BOOK OF THE YEAR

Lights. Camera. Lies.

Eighteen-year-old Bel has lived her whole life in the shadow of her mom’s mysterious disappearance. Sixteen years ago, Rachel Price vanished and young Bel was the only witness, but she has no memory of it. Rachel is gone, long presumed dead, and Bel wishes everyone would just move on.

But the case is dredged up from the past when the Price family agrees to a true crime documentary. Bel can’t wait for filming to end, for life to go back to normal. And then the impossible happens. Rachel Price reappears, and life will never be normal again.

Rachel has an unbelievable story about what happened to her. Unbelievable, because Bel isn’t sure it’s real. If Rachel is lying, then where has she been all this time? And—could she be dangerous? With the cameras still rolling, Bel must uncover the truth about her mother, and find out why Rachel Price really came back from the dead . . .

From world-renowned author Holly Jackson comes a mind-blowing masterpiece about one girl’s search for the truth, and the terror in finding out who your family really is.",{"_41":2557,"_54":2558,"_56":1689,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47754399187185","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593374221_p0.jpg?v=1765484840",{"_1083":2560},{"_1085":1197,"_1087":1088},{"_1083":2562,"_1094":2563},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":2565},[2566],{"_41":2567,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":2568,"_1104":2569,"_1062":2570,"_1107":2571,"_1113":2553,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46508003754225",{"_41":2557,"_54":2558,"_1080":-5,"_56":1689,"_50":1079},{"_1085":1197,"_1087":1088},{"_72":2552,"_886":2553},[2572],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":2574},"[\"NOOK Recommends (p21)\",\"BookTok (p9299)\"]",{"_1111":2553},[2577,-5,-5,2579,2581,2583,2585,2587,2590,2593,2596,-5,2598,2600,-5,2602,2604],{"_41":2578,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":2514},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51170772320497",{"_41":2580,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51170772746481",{"_41":2582,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51170771992817",{"_41":2584,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1473},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51170773270769",{"_41":2586,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1148},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51170772844785",{"_41":2588,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":2589},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51170773958897","[{\"id\":\"116116863T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"ONE

“What do you think happened to your mother?”

The word sounded wrong to Bel when he said it. Mother. Unnatural. Not quite as bad as Mom. That one pushed between her lips, misshapen and mad, like a bloated slug finally breaking free, splatting there on the floor for everyone to stare at. Because everyone would, everyone always did. The word didn’t belong in her mouth, so Bel didn’t say it, not if she could help it. At least there was a coldness to mother, a sense of distance.

“It’s OK, please take your time,” Ramsey said, the vowels clipped and exposed.

Bel looked across at him, avoiding the camera. Lines of concern crisscrossed his black skin, pulling around his eyes as they fixed on Bel’s, because she was already taking her time, too much, more than she had in the pre-interviews the past few days. He reached up to scratch his temple, right where his dark coiled hair faded out above his ears. Ramsey Lee: filmmaker, director, from South London— a whole world away, and yet here he was in Gorham, New Hampshire, sitting across from her.

Ramsey cleared his throat.

“Um . . . ,” Bel began, choking on that slug. “I don’t know.”

Ramsey sat back, his chair creaking, and Bel knew from the flicker of disappointment in his face that she was doing a bad job. Worse. It must have been the camera. The camera changed things, the permanence of it. One day thousands of people would watch this, separated from her only by the glass of their television screens. They would analyze every word she said, every pause she took, and have something to say about it. They’d study her face: her warm white skin and the flush of her cheeks, her sharp chin that sharpened more when she spoke and especially when she smiled, her short honey-blond hair, her round gray-blue eyes. Doesn’t she look just like Rachel did, they’d say, those people beyond the television screen. Bel thought she looked more like her dad, actually. Thanks, though.

“Sorry,” Bel added, pressing her eyelids together, bright orange patches where the three softbox lights glared at her. She just had to get through this documentary, pretend to not be hating every second, talk about Rachel, then life could go back to normal, back to not talking about Rachel.

Ramsey shook his head, a smile breaking through.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s a difficult question.”

It wasn’t, though, not really. And the answer wasn’t difficult either. Bel really didn’t know what had happened to her. No one did. That was the point of all this.

“I think she was—”

Someone stumbled behind the camera, tripping on a cable that ripped out of the wall. One of the lights flickered and died, swaying on its rickety leg. A hand reached out to grab it before it fell, righting it.

“Oh shit. Sorry, Rams,” the tripper said, chasing the loose wire back to the outlet. Now that the light was out, Bel could see him properly for the first time. She couldn’t say she’d noticed him before, when Ramsey had introduced the crew, too dazzled by the lights and the camera. He must have been the youngest of the four documentary crew members, couldn’t be much older than her. And he was, just maybe, the most ridiculous person Bel had ever seen. He had shoulder-length brown hair that fell in thick curls, pushed off to one side of his pale face, full of angles and shadows. He wore flared tartan pants and a bright purple sweater with little green-and-yellow dinosaurs marching across his chest.

“Sorry,” he said again, the o giving him away; must be from London too. He grunted as he pushed the plug in and the light sparked back to life, hiding him from Bel. Thank God, that ugly sweater was distracting.

“I told you to gaffer all the wires down, Ash,” Ramsey said, shifting to glance behind the box light.

“I did . . . ,” came Ash’s voice from behind the light, somehow angular, just like his face. “Until the tape ran out.”

“Mate, we have like fifty thousand rolls upstairs,” Ramsey replied.

“Fifty thousand and one,” said the woman standing behind the microphone: a long pole balanced on a tripod, with a fluffy gray head hovering over Bel and Ramsey, just above the shot. Saba, that was what Ramsey had called her, introducing her as the Sound Person. She was wearing a huge pair of headphones that dwarfed her face, pushing the brown skin of her cheeks into unnatural folds.

“Sorry,” came Ash’s voice. “I’ll fix it later.”

“It’s OK,” Ramsey said, his face softening for a second. Then, to the man behind the huge camera: “James, why are you panning to Ash?”

“Thought we were aiming for a cinéma vérité style for the doc, that you might want this in,” the camera operator replied.

“No, I don’t want this in. Let’s reset the shot and go for another take. And everyone watch where you’re stepping this time.”

Ramsey flashed an apologetic smile at Bel, sitting here on a plush couch across from them all, the cushions artfully arranged and rearranged behind her.

“Ash is my brother-in-law,” he said, as though in explanation. “Known him since he was eleven. It’s his first job, isn’t it, Ash? Camera assistant.”

Ash: camera assistant. Saba: sound person. James: camera operator. And Ramsey: filmmaker, producer, director. Must have been nice, to have words like that follow your name, words you’d chosen. Bel’s were different: This is Annabel. The daughter of Rachel Price. That last part said in a knowing whisper. Because even though Rachel was gone, everything existed only in relation to her. Gorham wasn’t its own place anymore; it was the town where Rachel Price had lived. Number 33 Milton Street wasn’t Bel’s home, it was the house Rachel Price had lived in. Bel’s dad, Charlie Price, well, he was Rachel Price’s husband, even though the Price part had come from him.

“Ash, the clapper,” Ramsey reminded him.

“Oh.” Ash emerged from behind the light, a black-and-white clapper board clasped between his hands. Printed on it were the words: The Disappearance of Rachel Price. The name of the documentary. Below that, a handwritten: Interview with Bel. And she was surprised, really, that it didn’t just say Rachel Price’s daughter.

Ash walked in front of the camera, the hems of his pants swishing loudly together.

“Take six,” he said, bringing the clapper stick down to the slate with a sharp bang, hurrying out of the shot.

“Let’s start again.” Ramsey let out a long breath. They’d been here for hours already, and it was starting to show on his face. “Your mum has now been missing for more than sixteen years. In all that time, there has been no sign of her. No activity on her bank accounts, no communication with family, no body found despite extensive searches. Of course there have been sightings,” he said, leaning on the word too hard so it came out sideways. “People on the internet who claim to have seen Rachel in Paris. Brazil. Even one a few months ago nearby in North Conway. But of course, these are unsubstantiated claims. Your mum vanished without a trace on February thirteenth, 2008. What do you think happened to her?”

Bel couldn’t say I don’t know again, otherwise she’d never be allowed to leave.

“It’s as much a mystery for me as the rest of the world,” she said, and from the flash in Ramsey’s eyes, she knew that was a better answer. OK, keep going. “I know all the theories people have about what happened. And if I had to pick the one . . .”

Ramsey nodded, urging her on.

“I think she was trying to leave. She left. Then maybe she was killed by an opportunistic killer—that’s the term the media uses. Or maybe she got lost in the White Mountains and died in the snow, and an animal got to her remains. That’s why we never found her.”

Ramsey leaned forward, finger cupping his chin thoughtfully.

“So, Bel, you’re saying you think the most likely scenario is that your mother is dead?”

Bel half nodded, staring down at the coffee table in front of her. The full glass bottle of water that was a prop only, she wasn’t allowed to drink it. The marble chessboard laid out with all the pieces prepared for battle, her knees pointed down the center in no-man’s-land. This repurposed conference room in the Royalty Inn hotel on Main Street was the stage. The water bottle, the chessboard and the cushions were the props. None of this was real to anyone else, it was all for show.

“Yes. I think she’s dead. I think she died that day or not long after.”

Did she think that? Did it really matter? Gone was gone.

Ramsey was looking at the chessboard too now.

“You say you think your mum was trying to leave,” he said, bringing his eyes back. “Do you mean that she was running away?”

Bel shrugged. “I guess.”

“But there is compelling evidence that opposes the ran away theory. Rachel didn’t withdraw any money from her bank account in the days and weeks leading up to her disappearance. If she was planning to run away and start a new life, she would have needed money to do that. Not only that, but she didn’t take her wallet containing her ID with her, and she’d left her bank cards at home. Nor did she take her phone. She didn’t pack any clothes or belongings. None at all. She didn’t even take her coat with her on that freezing day, it was left in the car too, with her phone and wallet.”

And me, Bel thought.

“What do you say to that?” Ramsey asked her.

What did he want her to say?

“I don’t know.” Bel went back to those three words, hid behind them.

Ramsey seemed to sense the barricade, backing off and straightening up.

“You’re eighteen now, Bel. You weren’t even two years old when Rachel went missing. Twenty-two months old, in fact. And of course, one of the most notable things about this case that sets it apart from all others, was that you were with her. You were with your mum when she disappeared.”

“Yes,” Bel said, knowing what question was coming next. It didn’t matter how many times it was asked; the answer was the same. And it was worse for Bel, trust her.

“And you don’t remember anything at all that day? Being in the mall? Being in the car?”

“I don’t remember anything,” she said flatly. “I was too young to remember. Or to tell anyone what I saw that day.”

“And here’s the craziest thing.” Ramsey leaned forward, words spiking in the middle as he attempted to keep his voice even. “You were a toddler, too young to communicate properly with anyone, with the police. But if someone did take Rachel, abduct her from the car where it was found abandoned with you inside, that means you must have seen exactly who it was. You saw them. At one point in time, you must have known, however briefly, the answer to the mystery.”

“I know.”

Crazy, wasn’t it? The craziest thing, in fact.

Bel closed her eyes, three blazing sunspots invading the dark world inside her head. Those lights were just too bright. Were they giving off heat too, or was that just her imagination? Explain why her face was so hot, then.

“Are you OK to continue?” Ramsey asked her.

“Yeah.” She didn’t have a choice, really. Contracts had been agreed to, waivers and releases signed. And, most importantly, she had promised her dad. She could pretend to be nice, for his sake. Say yes and no and sorry in the right places.

“You really have no memories from that day at all?”

“No.” And she wouldn’t the next time he asked too. Or the one after that. She had no memory of what happened, no idea. Just what she knew later, when she was old enough to know things: that she had been left behind. Abandoned there in the backseat of the car, however it happened.

“This case is one of the most discussed and studied on true-crime podcasts and social media, enduring in the public consciousness even sixteen years later,” Ramsey said, eyes glittering. “The name Rachel Price is almost synonymous with mystery. Because her disappearance was like a puzzle, and it’s human nature to want to solve a puzzle, don’t you think?”

Was Bel supposed to answer that? Too late.

“And that’s because,” Ramsey continued, “Rachel seemed to disappear twice that day. Can you tell us what happened that afternoon, at two p.m.? Where your mum and you went?”

“Again?”

“Yes, please. For the camera,” Ramsey said, taking the blame off Bel and putting it on the camera instead. Cameras didn’t have feelings. Ramsey seemed nice like that. But then, of course, he wanted her to think he was nice, didn’t he?

Bel cleared her throat. “That afternoon, I was in the car with Rachel. She drove us to the White Mountains Mall, which is in Berlin. Not far from Gorham, about ten minutes away. Security cameras recorded both of us walking into the mall. Rachel was carrying me.”

“And why were you at the mall?”

“She often took me there on her days off, I’ve been told,” Bel said. “Rachel used to work at a coffeehouse there. Went back for the coffee, to see her old friends. That wasn’t out of the ordinary. It was called the Moose Mouse Coffeehouse.”

Of course, Bel didn’t remember that, but she’d seen the security camera footage since, the last images of Rachel Price alive. Sitting at the coffeehouse, baby Bel in a bright blue padded coat with marshmallow arms, wriggling in Rachel’s lap. Surrounded by empty tables. Blurry but happy, those tiny figures seemed. Not knowing that they were both about to disappear, one for good.

“But what was out of the ordinary,” Ramsey countered, “is that after you finished your drinks, Rachel got up to leave, still carrying you. You walked away from the Moose Mouse Coffeehouse at two-forty-nine, the cameras show us this, we can follow you on the footage. But then you turn a corner, a blind spot between the mall security cameras, and . . . ?”\"},{\"id\":\"99628136T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"ONE

“What do you think happened to your mother?”

The word sounded wrong to Bel when he said it. Mother. Unnatural. Not quite as bad as Mom. That one pushed between her lips, misshapen and mad, like a bloated slug finally breaking free, splatting there on the floor for everyone to stare at. Because everyone would, everyone always did. The word didn’t belong in her mouth, so Bel didn’t say it, not if she could help it. At least there was a coldness to mother, a sense of distance.

“It’s OK, please take your time,” Ramsey said, the vowels clipped and exposed.

Bel looked across at him, avoiding the camera. Lines of concern crisscrossed his black skin, pulling around his eyes as they fixed on Bel’s, because she was already taking her time, too much, more than she had in the pre-interviews the past few days. He reached up to scratch his temple, right where his dark coiled hair faded out above his ears. Ramsey Lee: filmmaker, director, from South London— a whole world away, and yet here he was in Gorham, New Hampshire, sitting across from her.

Ramsey cleared his throat.

“Um . . . ,” Bel began, choking on that slug. “I don’t know.”

Ramsey sat back, his chair creaking, and Bel knew from the flicker of disappointment in his face that she was doing a bad job. Worse. It must have been the camera. The camera changed things, the permanence of it. One day thousands of people would watch this, separated from her only by the glass of their television screens. They would analyze every word she said, every pause she took, and have something to say about it. They’d study her face: her warm white skin and the flush of her cheeks, her sharp chin that sharpened more when she spoke and especially when she smiled, her short honey-blond hair, her round gray-blue eyes. Doesn’t she look just like Rachel did, they’d say, those people beyond the television screen. Bel thought she looked more like her dad, actually. Thanks, though.

“Sorry,” Bel added, pressing her eyelids together, bright orange patches where the three softbox lights glared at her. She just had to get through this documentary, pretend to not be hating every second, talk about Rachel, then life could go back to normal, back to not talking about Rachel.

Ramsey shook his head, a smile breaking through.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s a difficult question.”

It wasn’t, though, not really. And the answer wasn’t difficult either. Bel really didn’t know what had happened to her. No one did. That was the point of all this.

“I think she was—”

Someone stumbled behind the camera, tripping on a cable that ripped out of the wall. One of the lights flickered and died, swaying on its rickety leg. A hand reached out to grab it before it fell, righting it.

“Oh shit. Sorry, Rams,” the tripper said, chasing the loose wire back to the outlet. Now that the light was out, Bel could see him properly for the first time. She couldn’t say she’d noticed him before, when Ramsey had introduced the crew, too dazzled by the lights and the camera. He must have been the youngest of the four documentary crew members, couldn’t be much older than her. And he was, just maybe, the most ridiculous person Bel had ever seen. He had shoulder-length brown hair that fell in thick curls, pushed off to one side of his pale face, full of angles and shadows. He wore flared tartan pants and a bright purple sweater with little green-and-yellow dinosaurs marching across his chest.

“Sorry,” he said again, the o giving him away; must be from London too. He grunted as he pushed the plug in and the light sparked back to life, hiding him from Bel. Thank God, that ugly sweater was distracting.

“I told you to gaffer all the wires down, Ash,” Ramsey said, shifting to glance behind the box light.

“I did . . . ,” came Ash’s voice from behind the light, somehow angular, just like his face. “Until the tape ran out.”

“Mate, we have like fifty thousand rolls upstairs,” Ramsey replied.

“Fifty thousand and one,” said the woman standing behind the microphone: a long pole balanced on a tripod, with a fluffy gray head hovering over Bel and Ramsey, just above the shot. Saba, that was what Ramsey had called her, introducing her as the Sound Person. She was wearing a huge pair of headphones that dwarfed her face, pushing the brown skin of her cheeks into unnatural folds.

“Sorry,” came Ash’s voice. “I’ll fix it later.”

“It’s OK,” Ramsey said, his face softening for a second. Then, to the man behind the huge camera: “James, why are you panning to Ash?”

“Thought we were aiming for a cinéma vérité style for the doc, that you might want this in,” the camera operator replied.

“No, I don’t want this in. Let’s reset the shot and go for another take. And everyone watch where you’re stepping this time.”

Ramsey flashed an apologetic smile at Bel, sitting here on a plush couch across from them all, the cushions artfully arranged and rearranged behind her.

“Ash is my brother-in-law,” he said, as though in explanation. “Known him since he was eleven. It’s his first job, isn’t it, Ash? Camera assistant.”

Ash: camera assistant. Saba: sound person. James: camera operator. And Ramsey: filmmaker, producer, director. Must have been nice, to have words like that follow your name, words you’d chosen. Bel’s were different: This is Annabel. The daughter of Rachel Price. That last part said in a knowing whisper. Because even though Rachel was gone, everything existed only in relation to her. Gorham wasn’t its own place anymore; it was the town where Rachel Price had lived. Number 33 Milton Street wasn’t Bel’s home, it was the house Rachel Price had lived in. Bel’s dad, Charlie Price, well, he was Rachel Price’s husband, even though the Price part had come from him.

“Ash, the clapper,” Ramsey reminded him.

“Oh.” Ash emerged from behind the light, a black-and-white clapper board clasped between his hands. Printed on it were the words: The Disappearance of Rachel Price. The name of the documentary. Below that, a handwritten: Interview with Bel. And she was surprised, really, that it didn’t just say Rachel Price’s daughter.

Ash walked in front of the camera, the hems of his pants swishing loudly together.

“Take six,” he said, bringing the clapper stick down to the slate with a sharp bang, hurrying out of the shot.

“Let’s start again.” Ramsey let out a long breath. They’d been here for hours already, and it was starting to show on his face. “Your mum has now been missing for more than sixteen years. In all that time, there has been no sign of her. No activity on her bank accounts, no communication with family, no body found despite extensive searches. Of course there have been sightings,” he said, leaning on the word too hard so it came out sideways. “People on the internet who claim to have seen Rachel in Paris. Brazil. Even one a few months ago nearby in North Conway. But of course, these are unsubstantiated claims. Your mum vanished without a trace on February thirteenth, 2008. What do you think happened to her?”

Bel couldn’t say I don’t know again, otherwise she’d never be allowed to leave.

“It’s as much a mystery for me as the rest of the world,” she said, and from the flash in Ramsey’s eyes, she knew that was a better answer. OK, keep going. “I know all the theories people have about what happened. And if I had to pick the one . . .”

Ramsey nodded, urging her on.

“I think she was trying to leave. She left. Then maybe she was killed by an opportunistic killer—that’s the term the media uses. Or maybe she got lost in the White Mountains and died in the snow, and an animal got to her remains. That’s why we never found her.”

Ramsey leaned forward, finger cupping his chin thoughtfully.

“So, Bel, you’re saying you think the most likely scenario is that your mother is dead?”

Bel half nodded, staring down at the coffee table in front of her. The full glass bottle of water that was a prop only, she wasn’t allowed to drink it. The marble chessboard laid out with all the pieces prepared for battle, her knees pointed down the center in no-man’s-land. This repurposed conference room in the Royalty Inn hotel on Main Street was the stage. The water bottle, the chessboard and the cushions were the props. None of this was real to anyone else, it was all for show.

“Yes. I think she’s dead. I think she died that day or not long after.”

Did she think that? Did it really matter? Gone was gone.

Ramsey was looking at the chessboard too now.

“You say you think your mum was trying to leave,” he said, bringing his eyes back. “Do you mean that she was running away?”

Bel shrugged. “I guess.”

“But there is compelling evidence that opposes the ran away theory. Rachel didn’t withdraw any money from her bank account in the days and weeks leading up to her disappearance. If she was planning to run away and start a new life, she would have needed money to do that. Not only that, but she didn’t take her wallet containing her ID with her, and she’d left her bank cards at home. Nor did she take her phone. She didn’t pack any clothes or belongings. None at all. She didn’t even take her coat with her on that freezing day, it was left in the car too, with her phone and wallet.”

And me, Bel thought.

“What do you say to that?” Ramsey asked her.

What did he want her to say?

“I don’t know.” Bel went back to those three words, hid behind them.

Ramsey seemed to sense the barricade, backing off and straightening up.

“You’re eighteen now, Bel. You weren’t even two years old when Rachel went missing. Twenty-two months old, in fact. And of course, one of the most notable things about this case that sets it apart from all others, was that you were with her. You were with your mum when she disappeared.”

“Yes,” Bel said, knowing what question was coming next. It didn’t matter how many times it was asked; the answer was the same. And it was worse for Bel, trust her.

“And you don’t remember anything at all that day? Being in the mall? Being in the car?”

“I don’t remember anything,” she said flatly. “I was too young to remember. Or to tell anyone what I saw that day.”

“And here’s the craziest thing.” Ramsey leaned forward, words spiking in the middle as he attempted to keep his voice even. “You were a toddler, too young to communicate properly with anyone, with the police. But if someone did take Rachel, abduct her from the car where it was found abandoned with you inside, that means you must have seen exactly who it was. You saw them. At one point in time, you must have known, however briefly, the answer to the mystery.”

“I know.”

Crazy, wasn’t it? The craziest thing, in fact.

Bel closed her eyes, three blazing sunspots invading the dark world inside her head. Those lights were just too bright. Were they giving off heat too, or was that just her imagination? Explain why her face was so hot, then.

“Are you OK to continue?” Ramsey asked her.

“Yeah.” She didn’t have a choice, really. Contracts had been agreed to, waivers and releases signed. And, most importantly, she had promised her dad. She could pretend to be nice, for his sake. Say yes and no and sorry in the right places.

“You really have no memories from that day at all?”

“No.” And she wouldn’t the next time he asked too. Or the one after that. She had no memory of what happened, no idea. Just what she knew later, when she was old enough to know things: that she had been left behind. Abandoned there in the backseat of the car, however it happened.

“This case is one of the most discussed and studied on true-crime podcasts and social media, enduring in the public consciousness even sixteen years later,” Ramsey said, eyes glittering. “The name Rachel Price is almost synonymous with mystery. Because her disappearance was like a puzzle, and it’s human nature to want to solve a puzzle, don’t you think?”

Was Bel supposed to answer that? Too late.

“And that’s because,” Ramsey continued, “Rachel seemed to disappear twice that day. Can you tell us what happened that afternoon, at two p.m.? Where your mum and you went?”

“Again?”

“Yes, please. For the camera,” Ramsey said, taking the blame off Bel and putting it on the camera instead. Cameras didn’t have feelings. Ramsey seemed nice like that. But then, of course, he wanted her to think he was nice, didn’t he?

Bel cleared her throat. “That afternoon, I was in the car with Rachel. She drove us to the White Mountains Mall, which is in Berlin. Not far from Gorham, about ten minutes away. Security cameras recorded both of us walking into the mall. Rachel was carrying me.”

“And why were you at the mall?”

“She often took me there on her days off, I’ve been told,” Bel said. “Rachel used to work at a coffeehouse there. Went back for the coffee, to see her old friends. That wasn’t out of the ordinary. It was called the Moose Mouse Coffeehouse.”

Of course, Bel didn’t remember that, but she’d seen the security camera footage since, the last images of Rachel Price alive. Sitting at the coffeehouse, baby Bel in a bright blue padded coat with marshmallow arms, wriggling in Rachel’s lap. Surrounded by empty tables. Blurry but happy, those tiny figures seemed. Not knowing that they were both about to disappear, one for good.

“But what was out of the ordinary,” Ramsey countered, “is that after you finished your drinks, Rachel got up to leave, still carrying you. You walked away from the Moose Mouse Coffeehouse at two-forty-nine, the cameras show us this, we can follow you on the footage. But then you turn a corner, a blind spot between the mall security cameras, and . . . ?”\"},{\"id\":\"111008404T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"ONE

“What do you think happened to your mother?”

The word sounded wrong to Bel when he said it. Mother. Unnatural. Not quite as bad as Mom. That one pushed between her lips, misshapen and mad, like a bloated slug finally breaking free, splatting there on the floor for everyone to stare at. Because everyone would, everyone always did. The word didn’t belong in her mouth, so Bel didn’t say it, not if she could help it. At least there was a coldness to mother, a sense of distance.

“It’s OK, please take your time,” Ramsey said, the vowels clipped and exposed.

Bel looked across at him, avoiding the camera. Lines of concern crisscrossed his black skin, pulling around his eyes as they fixed on Bel’s, because she was already taking her time, too much, more than she had in the pre-interviews the past few days. He reached up to scratch his temple, right where his dark coiled hair faded out above his ears. Ramsey Lee: filmmaker, director, from South London— a whole world away, and yet here he was in Gorham, New Hampshire, sitting across from her.

Ramsey cleared his throat.

“Um . . . ,” Bel began, choking on that slug. “I don’t know.”

Ramsey sat back, his chair creaking, and Bel knew from the flicker of disappointment in his face that she was doing a bad job. Worse. It must have been the camera. The camera changed things, the permanence of it. One day thousands of people would watch this, separated from her only by the glass of their television screens. They would analyze every word she said, every pause she took, and have something to say about it. They’d study her face: her warm white skin and the flush of her cheeks, her sharp chin that sharpened more when she spoke and especially when she smiled, her short honey-blond hair, her round gray-blue eyes. Doesn’t she look just like Rachel did, they’d say, those people beyond the television screen. Bel thought she looked more like her dad, actually. Thanks, though.

“Sorry,” Bel added, pressing her eyelids together, bright orange patches where the three softbox lights glared at her. She just had to get through this documentary, pretend to not be hating every second, talk about Rachel, then life could go back to normal, back to not talking about Rachel.

Ramsey shook his head, a smile breaking through.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s a difficult question.”

It wasn’t, though, not really. And the answer wasn’t difficult either. Bel really didn’t know what had happened to her. No one did. That was the point of all this.

“I think she was—”

Someone stumbled behind the camera, tripping on a cable that ripped out of the wall. One of the lights flickered and died, swaying on its rickety leg. A hand reached out to grab it before it fell, righting it.

“Oh shit. Sorry, Rams,” the tripper said, chasing the loose wire back to the outlet. Now that the light was out, Bel could see him properly for the first time. She couldn’t say she’d noticed him before, when Ramsey had introduced the crew, too dazzled by the lights and the camera. He must have been the youngest of the four documentary crew members, couldn’t be much older than her. And he was, just maybe, the most ridiculous person Bel had ever seen. He had shoulder-length brown hair that fell in thick curls, pushed off to one side of his pale face, full of angles and shadows. He wore flared tartan pants and a bright purple sweater with little green-and-yellow dinosaurs marching across his chest.

“Sorry,” he said again, the o giving him away; must be from London too. He grunted as he pushed the plug in and the light sparked back to life, hiding him from Bel. Thank God, that ugly sweater was distracting.

“I told you to gaffer all the wires down, Ash,” Ramsey said, shifting to glance behind the box light.

“I did . . . ,” came Ash’s voice from behind the light, somehow angular, just like his face. “Until the tape ran out.”

“Mate, we have like fifty thousand rolls upstairs,” Ramsey replied.

“Fifty thousand and one,” said the woman standing behind the microphone: a long pole balanced on a tripod, with a fluffy gray head hovering over Bel and Ramsey, just above the shot. Saba, that was what Ramsey had called her, introducing her as the Sound Person. She was wearing a huge pair of headphones that dwarfed her face, pushing the brown skin of her cheeks into unnatural folds.

“Sorry,” came Ash’s voice. “I’ll fix it later.”

“It’s OK,” Ramsey said, his face softening for a second. Then, to the man behind the huge camera: “James, why are you panning to Ash?”

“Thought we were aiming for a cinéma vérité style for the doc, that you might want this in,” the camera operator replied.

“No, I don’t want this in. Let’s reset the shot and go for another take. And everyone watch where you’re stepping this time.”

Ramsey flashed an apologetic smile at Bel, sitting here on a plush couch across from them all, the cushions artfully arranged and rearranged behind her.

“Ash is my brother-in-law,” he said, as though in explanation. “Known him since he was eleven. It’s his first job, isn’t it, Ash? Camera assistant.”

Ash: camera assistant. Saba: sound person. James: camera operator. And Ramsey: filmmaker, producer, director. Must have been nice, to have words like that follow your name, words you’d chosen. Bel’s were different: This is Annabel. The daughter of Rachel Price. That last part said in a knowing whisper. Because even though Rachel was gone, everything existed only in relation to her. Gorham wasn’t its own place anymore; it was the town where Rachel Price had lived. Number 33 Milton Street wasn’t Bel’s home, it was the house Rachel Price had lived in. Bel’s dad, Charlie Price, well, he was Rachel Price’s husband, even though the Price part had come from him.

“Ash, the clapper,” Ramsey reminded him.

“Oh.” Ash emerged from behind the light, a black-and-white clapper board clasped between his hands. Printed on it were the words: The Disappearance of Rachel Price. The name of the documentary. Below that, a handwritten: Interview with Bel. And she was surprised, really, that it didn’t just say Rachel Price’s daughter.

Ash walked in front of the camera, the hems of his pants swishing loudly together.

“Take six,” he said, bringing the clapper stick down to the slate with a sharp bang, hurrying out of the shot.

“Let’s start again.” Ramsey let out a long breath. They’d been here for hours already, and it was starting to show on his face. “Your mum has now been missing for more than sixteen years. In all that time, there has been no sign of her. No activity on her bank accounts, no communication with family, no body found despite extensive searches. Of course there have been sightings,” he said, leaning on the word too hard so it came out sideways. “People on the internet who claim to have seen Rachel in Paris. Brazil. Even one a few months ago nearby in North Conway. But of course, these are unsubstantiated claims. Your mum vanished without a trace on February thirteenth, 2008. What do you think happened to her?”

Bel couldn’t say I don’t know again, otherwise she’d never be allowed to leave.

“It’s as much a mystery for me as the rest of the world,” she said, and from the flash in Ramsey’s eyes, she knew that was a better answer. OK, keep going. “I know all the theories people have about what happened. And if I had to pick the one . . .”

Ramsey nodded, urging her on.

“I think she was trying to leave. She left. Then maybe she was killed by an opportunistic killer—that’s the term the media uses. Or maybe she got lost in the White Mountains and died in the snow, and an animal got to her remains. That’s why we never found her.”

Ramsey leaned forward, finger cupping his chin thoughtfully.

“So, Bel, you’re saying you think the most likely scenario is that your mother is dead?”

Bel half nodded, staring down at the coffee table in front of her. The full glass bottle of water that was a prop only, she wasn’t allowed to drink it. The marble chessboard laid out with all the pieces prepared for battle, her knees pointed down the center in no-man’s-land. This repurposed conference room in the Royalty Inn hotel on Main Street was the stage. The water bottle, the chessboard and the cushions were the props. None of this was real to anyone else, it was all for show.

“Yes. I think she’s dead. I think she died that day or not long after.”

Did she think that? Did it really matter? Gone was gone.

Ramsey was looking at the chessboard too now.

“You say you think your mum was trying to leave,” he said, bringing his eyes back. “Do you mean that she was running away?”

Bel shrugged. “I guess.”

“But there is compelling evidence that opposes the ran away theory. Rachel didn’t withdraw any money from her bank account in the days and weeks leading up to her disappearance. If she was planning to run away and start a new life, she would have needed money to do that. Not only that, but she didn’t take her wallet containing her ID with her, and she’d left her bank cards at home. Nor did she take her phone. She didn’t pack any clothes or belongings. None at all. She didn’t even take her coat with her on that freezing day, it was left in the car too, with her phone and wallet.”

And me, Bel thought.

“What do you say to that?” Ramsey asked her.

What did he want her to say?

“I don’t know.” Bel went back to those three words, hid behind them.

Ramsey seemed to sense the barricade, backing off and straightening up.

“You’re eighteen now, Bel. You weren’t even two years old when Rachel went missing. Twenty-two months old, in fact. And of course, one of the most notable things about this case that sets it apart from all others, was that you were with her. You were with your mum when she disappeared.”

“Yes,” Bel said, knowing what question was coming next. It didn’t matter how many times it was asked; the answer was the same. And it was worse for Bel, trust her.

“And you don’t remember anything at all that day? Being in the mall? Being in the car?”

“I don’t remember anything,” she said flatly. “I was too young to remember. Or to tell anyone what I saw that day.”

“And here’s the craziest thing.” Ramsey leaned forward, words spiking in the middle as he attempted to keep his voice even. “You were a toddler, too young to communicate properly with anyone, with the police. But if someone did take Rachel, abduct her from the car where it was found abandoned with you inside, that means you must have seen exactly who it was. You saw them. At one point in time, you must have known, however briefly, the answer to the mystery.”

“I know.”

Crazy, wasn’t it? The craziest thing, in fact.

Bel closed her eyes, three blazing sunspots invading the dark world inside her head. Those lights were just too bright. Were they giving off heat too, or was that just her imagination? Explain why her face was so hot, then.

“Are you OK to continue?” Ramsey asked her.

“Yeah.” She didn’t have a choice, really. Contracts had been agreed to, waivers and releases signed. And, most importantly, she had promised her dad. She could pretend to be nice, for his sake. Say yes and no and sorry in the right places.

“You really have no memories from that day at all?”

“No.” And she wouldn’t the next time he asked too. Or the one after that. She had no memory of what happened, no idea. Just what she knew later, when she was old enough to know things: that she had been left behind. Abandoned there in the backseat of the car, however it happened.

“This case is one of the most discussed and studied on true-crime podcasts and social media, enduring in the public consciousness even sixteen years later,” Ramsey said, eyes glittering. “The name Rachel Price is almost synonymous with mystery. Because her disappearance was like a puzzle, and it’s human nature to want to solve a puzzle, don’t you think?”

Was Bel supposed to answer that? Too late.

“And that’s because,” Ramsey continued, “Rachel seemed to disappear twice that day. Can you tell us what happened that afternoon, at two p.m.? Where your mum and you went?”

“Again?”

“Yes, please. For the camera,” Ramsey said, taking the blame off Bel and putting it on the camera instead. Cameras didn’t have feelings. Ramsey seemed nice like that. But then, of course, he wanted her to think he was nice, didn’t he?

Bel cleared her throat. “That afternoon, I was in the car with Rachel. She drove us to the White Mountains Mall, which is in Berlin. Not far from Gorham, about ten minutes away. Security cameras recorded both of us walking into the mall. Rachel was carrying me.”

“And why were you at the mall?”

“She often took me there on her days off, I’ve been told,” Bel said. “Rachel used to work at a coffeehouse there. Went back for the coffee, to see her old friends. That wasn’t out of the ordinary. It was called the Moose Mouse Coffeehouse.”

Of course, Bel didn’t remember that, but she’d seen the security camera footage since, the last images of Rachel Price alive. Sitting at the coffeehouse, baby Bel in a bright blue padded coat with marshmallow arms, wriggling in Rachel’s lap. Surrounded by empty tables. Blurry but happy, those tiny figures seemed. Not knowing that they were both about to disappear, one for good.

“But what was out of the ordinary,” Ramsey countered, “is that after you finished your drinks, Rachel got up to leave, still carrying you. You walked away from the Moose Mouse Coffeehouse at two-forty-nine, the cameras show us this, we can follow you on the footage. But then you turn a corner, a blind spot between the mall security cameras, and . . . ?”\"},{\"id\":\"99596464T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"ONE

“What do you think happened to your mother?”

The word sounded wrong to Bel when he said it. Mother. Unnatural. Not quite as bad as Mom. That one pushed between her lips, misshapen and mad, like a bloated slug finally breaking free, splatting there on the floor for everyone to stare at. Because everyone would, everyone always did. The word didn’t belong in her mouth, so Bel didn’t say it, not if she could help it. At least there was a coldness to mother, a sense of distance.

“It’s OK, please take your time,” Ramsey said, the vowels clipped and exposed.

Bel looked across at him, avoiding the camera. Lines of concern crisscrossed his black skin, pulling around his eyes as they fixed on Bel’s, because she was already taking her time, too much, more than she had in the pre-interviews the past few days. He reached up to scratch his temple, right where his dark coiled hair faded out above his ears. Ramsey Lee: filmmaker, director, from South London— a whole world away, and yet here he was in Gorham, New Hampshire, sitting across from her.

Ramsey cleared his throat.

“Um . . . ,” Bel began, choking on that slug. “I don’t know.”

Ramsey sat back, his chair creaking, and Bel knew from the flicker of disappointment in his face that she was doing a bad job. Worse. It must have been the camera. The camera changed things, the permanence of it. One day thousands of people would watch this, separated from her only by the glass of their television screens. They would analyze every word she said, every pause she took, and have something to say about it. They’d study her face: her warm white skin and the flush of her cheeks, her sharp chin that sharpened more when she spoke and especially when she smiled, her short honey-blond hair, her round gray-blue eyes. Doesn’t she look just like Rachel did, they’d say, those people beyond the television screen. Bel thought she looked more like her dad, actually. Thanks, though.

“Sorry,” Bel added, pressing her eyelids together, bright orange patches where the three softbox lights glared at her. She just had to get through this documentary, pretend to not be hating every second, talk about Rachel, then life could go back to normal, back to not talking about Rachel.

Ramsey shook his head, a smile breaking through.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s a difficult question.”

It wasn’t, though, not really. And the answer wasn’t difficult either. Bel really didn’t know what had happened to her. No one did. That was the point of all this.

“I think she was—”

Someone stumbled behind the camera, tripping on a cable that ripped out of the wall. One of the lights flickered and died, swaying on its rickety leg. A hand reached out to grab it before it fell, righting it.

“Oh shit. Sorry, Rams,” the tripper said, chasing the loose wire back to the outlet. Now that the light was out, Bel could see him properly for the first time. She couldn’t say she’d noticed him before, when Ramsey had introduced the crew, too dazzled by the lights and the camera. He must have been the youngest of the four documentary crew members, couldn’t be much older than her. And he was, just maybe, the most ridiculous person Bel had ever seen. He had shoulder-length brown hair that fell in thick curls, pushed off to one side of his pale face, full of angles and shadows. He wore flared tartan pants and a bright purple sweater with little green-and-yellow dinosaurs marching across his chest.

“Sorry,” he said again, the o giving him away; must be from London too. He grunted as he pushed the plug in and the light sparked back to life, hiding him from Bel. Thank God, that ugly sweater was distracting.

“I told you to gaffer all the wires down, Ash,” Ramsey said, shifting to glance behind the box light.

“I did . . . ,” came Ash’s voice from behind the light, somehow angular, just like his face. “Until the tape ran out.”

“Mate, we have like fifty thousand rolls upstairs,” Ramsey replied.

“Fifty thousand and one,” said the woman standing behind the microphone: a long pole balanced on a tripod, with a fluffy gray head hovering over Bel and Ramsey, just above the shot. Saba, that was what Ramsey had called her, introducing her as the Sound Person. She was wearing a huge pair of headphones that dwarfed her face, pushing the brown skin of her cheeks into unnatural folds.

“Sorry,” came Ash’s voice. “I’ll fix it later.”

“It’s OK,” Ramsey said, his face softening for a second. Then, to the man behind the huge camera: “James, why are you panning to Ash?”

“Thought we were aiming for a cinéma vérité style for the doc, that you might want this in,” the camera operator replied.

“No, I don’t want this in. Let’s reset the shot and go for another take. And everyone watch where you’re stepping this time.”

Ramsey flashed an apologetic smile at Bel, sitting here on a plush couch across from them all, the cushions artfully arranged and rearranged behind her.

“Ash is my brother-in-law,” he said, as though in explanation. “Known him since he was eleven. It’s his first job, isn’t it, Ash? Camera assistant.”

Ash: camera assistant. Saba: sound person. James: camera operator. And Ramsey: filmmaker, producer, director. Must have been nice, to have words like that follow your name, words you’d chosen. Bel’s were different: This is Annabel. The daughter of Rachel Price. That last part said in a knowing whisper. Because even though Rachel was gone, everything existed only in relation to her. Gorham wasn’t its own place anymore; it was the town where Rachel Price had lived. Number 33 Milton Street wasn’t Bel’s home, it was the house Rachel Price had lived in. Bel’s dad, Charlie Price, well, he was Rachel Price’s husband, even though the Price part had come from him.

“Ash, the clapper,” Ramsey reminded him.

“Oh.” Ash emerged from behind the light, a black-and-white clapper board clasped between his hands. Printed on it were the words: The Disappearance of Rachel Price. The name of the documentary. Below that, a handwritten: Interview with Bel. And she was surprised, really, that it didn’t just say Rachel Price’s daughter.

Ash walked in front of the camera, the hems of his pants swishing loudly together.

“Take six,” he said, bringing the clapper stick down to the slate with a sharp bang, hurrying out of the shot.

“Let’s start again.” Ramsey let out a long breath. They’d been here for hours already, and it was starting to show on his face. “Your mum has now been missing for more than sixteen years. In all that time, there has been no sign of her. No activity on her bank accounts, no communication with family, no body found despite extensive searches. Of course there have been sightings,” he said, leaning on the word too hard so it came out sideways. “People on the internet who claim to have seen Rachel in Paris. Brazil. Even one a few months ago nearby in North Conway. But of course, these are unsubstantiated claims. Your mum vanished without a trace on February thirteenth, 2008. What do you think happened to her?”

Bel couldn’t say I don’t know again, otherwise she’d never be allowed to leave.

“It’s as much a mystery for me as the rest of the world,” she said, and from the flash in Ramsey’s eyes, she knew that was a better answer. OK, keep going. “I know all the theories people have about what happened. And if I had to pick the one . . .”

Ramsey nodded, urging her on.

“I think she was trying to leave. She left. Then maybe she was killed by an opportunistic killer—that’s the term the media uses. Or maybe she got lost in the White Mountains and died in the snow, and an animal got to her remains. That’s why we never found her.”

Ramsey leaned forward, finger cupping his chin thoughtfully.

“So, Bel, you’re saying you think the most likely scenario is that your mother is dead?”

Bel half nodded, staring down at the coffee table in front of her. The full glass bottle of water that was a prop only, she wasn’t allowed to drink it. The marble chessboard laid out with all the pieces prepared for battle, her knees pointed down the center in no-man’s-land. This repurposed conference room in the Royalty Inn hotel on Main Street was the stage. The water bottle, the chessboard and the cushions were the props. None of this was real to anyone else, it was all for show.

“Yes. I think she’s dead. I think she died that day or not long after.”

Did she think that? Did it really matter? Gone was gone.

Ramsey was looking at the chessboard too now.

“You say you think your mum was trying to leave,” he said, bringing his eyes back. “Do you mean that she was running away?”

Bel shrugged. “I guess.”

“But there is compelling evidence that opposes the ran away theory. Rachel didn’t withdraw any money from her bank account in the days and weeks leading up to her disappearance. If she was planning to run away and start a new life, she would have needed money to do that. Not only that, but she didn’t take her wallet containing her ID with her, and she’d left her bank cards at home. Nor did she take her phone. She didn’t pack any clothes or belongings. None at all. She didn’t even take her coat with her on that freezing day, it was left in the car too, with her phone and wallet.”

And me, Bel thought.

“What do you say to that?” Ramsey asked her.

What did he want her to say?

“I don’t know.” Bel went back to those three words, hid behind them.

Ramsey seemed to sense the barricade, backing off and straightening up.

“You’re eighteen now, Bel. You weren’t even two years old when Rachel went missing. Twenty-two months old, in fact. And of course, one of the most notable things about this case that sets it apart from all others, was that you were with her. You were with your mum when she disappeared.”

“Yes,” Bel said, knowing what question was coming next. It didn’t matter how many times it was asked; the answer was the same. And it was worse for Bel, trust her.

“And you don’t remember anything at all that day? Being in the mall? Being in the car?”

“I don’t remember anything,” she said flatly. “I was too young to remember. Or to tell anyone what I saw that day.”

“And here’s the craziest thing.” Ramsey leaned forward, words spiking in the middle as he attempted to keep his voice even. “You were a toddler, too young to communicate properly with anyone, with the police. But if someone did take Rachel, abduct her from the car where it was found abandoned with you inside, that means you must have seen exactly who it was. You saw them. At one point in time, you must have known, however briefly, the answer to the mystery.”

“I know.”

Crazy, wasn’t it? The craziest thing, in fact.

Bel closed her eyes, three blazing sunspots invading the dark world inside her head. Those lights were just too bright. Were they giving off heat too, or was that just her imagination? Explain why her face was so hot, then.

“Are you OK to continue?” Ramsey asked her.

“Yeah.” She didn’t have a choice, really. Contracts had been agreed to, waivers and releases signed. And, most importantly, she had promised her dad. She could pretend to be nice, for his sake. Say yes and no and sorry in the right places.

“You really have no memories from that day at all?”

“No.” And she wouldn’t the next time he asked too. Or the one after that. She had no memory of what happened, no idea. Just what she knew later, when she was old enough to know things: that she had been left behind. Abandoned there in the backseat of the car, however it happened.

“This case is one of the most discussed and studied on true-crime podcasts and social media, enduring in the public consciousness even sixteen years later,” Ramsey said, eyes glittering. “The name Rachel Price is almost synonymous with mystery. Because her disappearance was like a puzzle, and it’s human nature to want to solve a puzzle, don’t you think?”

Was Bel supposed to answer that? Too late.

“And that’s because,” Ramsey continued, “Rachel seemed to disappear twice that day. Can you tell us what happened that afternoon, at two p.m.? Where your mum and you went?”

“Again?”

“Yes, please. For the camera,” Ramsey said, taking the blame off Bel and putting it on the camera instead. Cameras didn’t have feelings. Ramsey seemed nice like that. But then, of course, he wanted her to think he was nice, didn’t he?

Bel cleared her throat. “That afternoon, I was in the car with Rachel. She drove us to the White Mountains Mall, which is in Berlin. Not far from Gorham, about ten minutes away. Security cameras recorded both of us walking into the mall. Rachel was carrying me.”

“And why were you at the mall?”

“She often took me there on her days off, I’ve been told,” Bel said. “Rachel used to work at a coffeehouse there. Went back for the coffee, to see her old friends. That wasn’t out of the ordinary. It was called the Moose Mouse Coffeehouse.”

Of course, Bel didn’t remember that, but she’d seen the security camera footage since, the last images of Rachel Price alive. Sitting at the coffeehouse, baby Bel in a bright blue padded coat with marshmallow arms, wriggling in Rachel’s lap. Surrounded by empty tables. Blurry but happy, those tiny figures seemed. Not knowing that they were both about to disappear, one for good.

“But what was out of the ordinary,” Ramsey countered, “is that after you finished your drinks, Rachel got up to leave, still carrying you. You walked away from the Moose Mouse Coffeehouse at two-forty-nine, the cameras show us this, we can follow you on the footage. But then you turn a corner, a blind spot between the mall security cameras, and . . . ?”\"},{\"id\":\"116116865T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Praise for worldwide sensation Holly Jackson:

“This truly unique premise snowballs into a roller coaster ride of page-turning suspense and knock-out twists!” —Freida McFadden, author of The Housemaid on Not Quite Dead Yet

“A masterclass in thriller writing and an example of storytelling at its finest.” —Alex Michaelides, author of The Silent Patient on Not Quite Dead Yet

“A thrilling, twisting, heartbreaker.” —Chris Whitaker, author of All the Colors of the Dark on Not Quite Dead Yet

“The popular YA mystery-thriller series.” —Teen Vogue on A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder

“[A] BookTok sensation.” —Seventeen on A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder

“Weaves true crime with a twisty murder mystery.”—People on The Reappearance of Rachel Price

“A story that will leave you guessing until the very end.” —Book of the Month on The Reappearance of Rachel Price

“Another unputdownable thriller.” —E! News on Five Survive

“Gripping, puzzling, and exciting.” —Forbes on Five Survive\"},{\"id\":\"116116864T\",\"type\":\"Award Note\",\"linkText\":\"Award Note\",\"typeId\":\"1036\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"2026 Iowa High School Book Award, Nominated
2026 Kentucky Bluegrass Award, Nominated
2026 Massachusetts Children's Book Award, Nominated
2026 Nevada Young Readers Award, Nominated
2026 Ohio Buckeye Children's Book Award, Nominated
\"},{\"id\":\"92246313T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

With a unique and compelling true crime documentary angle, this propulsive commercial thriller is sure to captivate even the most reluctant reader. This is a search for truth riddled with secrets and lies and a pulse-pounding and deliciously twisted mystery, all from the mind of the renowned Holly Jackson.

\"},{\"id\":\"116116866T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Holly Jackson is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Good Girl’s Guide to Murder series, an international sensation with millions of copies sold worldwide, as well as Five Survive and The Reappearance of Rachel Price. She graduated from the University of Nottingham, where she studied literary linguistics and creative writing, with a master’s degree in English. She enjoys playing video games and watching true-crime documentaries so she can pretend to be a detective. She lives in London.

\"},{\"id\":\"91008699T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Random House Children’s Books is a division of Penguin Random House.
Holly Jackson is the author of the #1 New York Times bestselling series A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder, an international sensation with millions of copies sold worldwide as well as the #1 New York Times bestseller and instant classic, Five Survive, and her forthcoming novel, The Repappearance of Rachel Price. She graduated from the University of Nottingham, where she studied literary linguistics and creative writing, with a master’s degree in English. She enjoys playing video games and watching true-crime documentaries so she can pretend to be a detective. She lives in London.\"},{\"id\":\"111008275T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Holly Jackson is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Good Girl’s Guide to Murder series, an international sensation with millions of copies sold worldwide, as well as Five Survive and The Reappearance of Rachel Price. She graduated from the University of Nottingham, where she studied literary linguistics and creative writing, with a master’s degree in English. She enjoys playing video games and watching true-crime documentaries so she can pretend to be a detective. She lives in London.\"},{\"id\":\"90947912T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Holly Jackson is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Good Girl’s Guide to Murder series, an international sensation with millions of copies sold worldwide, as well as Five Survive and The Reappearance of Rachel Price. She graduated from the University of Nottingham, where she studied literary linguistics and creative writing, with a master’s degree in English. She enjoys playing video games and watching true-crime documentaries so she can pretend to be a detective. She lives in London.\"},{\"id\":\"110770392T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Holly Jackson is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Good Girl's Guide to Murder series, an international sensation with millions of copies sold worldwide, as well as Five Survive and The Reappearance of Rachel Price. She graduated from the University of Nottingham, where she studied literary linguistics and creative writing, with a master's degree in English. She enjoys playing video games and watching true-crime documentaries so she can pretend to be a detective. She lives in London.\"}]",{"_41":2591,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":2592},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51170773532913","The-Reappearance-of-Rachel-Price/Holly-Jackson",{"_41":2594,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":2595},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51170771730673","1143949269",{"_41":2597,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51170772648177",{"_41":2599,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":2574},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51170774057201",{"_41":2601,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":2553},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51170770321649",{"_41":2603,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1171,"_1111":1429},"gid://shopify/Metafield/66425478938865",{"_41":2605,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1175,"_1111":868},"gid://shopify/Metafield/66425478906097",{"_33":2607,"_942":2608,"_963":-5,"_964":-5,"_965":-5,"_966":-5,"_967":-5,"_968":-5,"_969":-5},"Ee2JcnsdkePVI7O6AJCPI",{"_1064":1065,"_41":2609,"_72":2610,"_1068":1069,"_886":2611,"_893":2612,"_1072":2613,"_1074":2614,"_1081":2618,"_1089":59,"_1090":2620,"_1096":2623,"_931":2632,"_1117":2634,"_1119":2635},"gid://shopify/Product/9083414249713","A Steeping of Blood","9780374389437","\"Brewed to perfection.” —Rebecca Ross, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Divine RivalsAfter the jaw-dropping ending of #1 New York Times-bestseller A Tempest of Tea, Hafsah Faizal crafts a deliciously twisty and seductive sequel that will leave readers breathless until the very last page. A romantic vampire fantasy novel for fans of Immortal Dark and Heartless Hunter.Arthie Casimir has had her tea. Now she's out for blood. White Roaring is sharpening its fangs after the deadly night that left the city in shambles. The press are dead, the public is calling for justice, vampires are in danger, and amid the turmoil, the Ram announces a celebration.Still reeling from the bloodshed, Arthie Casimir has no time to mourn the death of anyone, let alone her own. She has no time for love, either, even though it had saved her life. As Arthie navigates new emotions and new allies, she must reassemble her scrambled crew and scrape what little they have left to fight one last time—and she will need to face the ghosts of her past to do it.In Ceylan.Don't miss these other titles from Hafsah Fazial:We Hunt the Flame, the commercially acclaimed first book in the Sands of Arawiya duologyWe Free the Stars, the second book in the Sands of Arawiya duologyA Tempest of Tea, the instant #1 New York Times-Bestseller!","

\"Brewed to perfection.” —Rebecca Ross, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Divine Rivals

After the jaw-dropping ending of #1 New York Times-bestseller A Tempest of Tea, Hafsah Faizal crafts a deliciously twisty and seductive sequel that will leave readers breathless until the very last page. A romantic vampire fantasy novel for fans of Immortal Dark and Heartless Hunter.

Arthie Casimir has had her tea. Now she's out for blood.

White Roaring is sharpening its fangs after the deadly night that left the city in shambles. The press are dead, the public is calling for justice, vampires are in danger, and amid the turmoil, the Ram announces a celebration.

Still reeling from the bloodshed, Arthie Casimir has no time to mourn the death of anyone, let alone her own. She has no time for love, either, even though it had saved her life. As Arthie navigates new emotions and new allies, she must reassemble her scrambled crew and scrape what little they have left to fight one last time—and she will need to face the ghosts of her past to do it.

In Ceylan.

Don't miss these other titles from Hafsah Fazial:
We Hunt the Flame, the commercially acclaimed first book in the Sands of Arawiya duology
We Free the Stars, the second book in the Sands of Arawiya duology
A Tempest of Tea, the instant #1 New York Times-Bestseller!

",{"_41":2615,"_54":2616,"_56":2617,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47724751257841","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780374389437_p0.jpg?v=1765432016",1324,{"_1083":2619},{"_1085":1629,"_1087":1088},{"_1083":2621,"_1094":2622},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":2624},[2625],{"_41":2626,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":2627,"_1104":2628,"_1062":2629,"_1107":2630,"_1113":2611,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46508589973745",{"_41":2615,"_54":2616,"_1080":-5,"_56":2617,"_50":1079},{"_1085":1629,"_1087":1088},{"_72":2610,"_886":2611},[2631],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":2633},"[\"NOOK Recommends (p21)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\"]",{"_1111":2611},[2636,2639,2642,2644,2646,2648,2650,2652,2655,2658,2661,-5,2663,2665,-5,-5,-5],{"_41":2637,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":2638},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51198029857009","[{\"contributorId\":19997045,\"fullName\":\"Hafsah Faizal\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_41":2640,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1130,"_1111":2641},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51198030741745","Blood and Tea",{"_41":2643,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1134,"_1111":1615},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51198030938353",{"_41":2645,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51198031888625",{"_41":2647,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51198028742897",{"_41":2649,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1284},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51198033723633",{"_41":2651,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1148},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51198032150769",{"_41":2653,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":2654},"gid://shopify/Metafield/59498881155313","[{\"id\":\"114903841T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Praise for A Steeping of Blood:

\\\\\\\"This genre mashup set in an intricate fantasy world combines exciting action and adventure, heartfelt romance, and complex paranormal beings, all while feeling relevant to real-world issues... An exciting and bittersweet ending to a compelling duology.\\\\\\\"—Kirkus

\\\\\\\"A satisfying conclusion to an intricately built series.\\\\\\\" —School Library Journal

Praise for A Tempest of Tea:
#1 New York Times Bestseller
#1 Indie Bestseller
Kids’ Indie Next List
A Kirkus Reviews Best Book of the Year
Tayshas Reading List Selection
YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults List

\\\\\\\"Anyone who enjoys the rhythms of a heist will find a lot to love in this book.\\\\\\\" —NPR

\\\\\\\"Slinky and witty and clever, with a lot of cosiness and a lot of claws.\\\\\\\"—Holly Black, #1 New York Times bestselling author

“A riveting page-turner, A Tempest of Tea is brewed to perfection: a deftly built world, a heist-fueled plot, a hint of romance, and a cast of endearing characters. Hafsah Faizal’s latest novel crackles with adrenaline and charm.” —Rebecca Ross, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Divine Rivals

\\\\\\\"Crowd-pleasing fun laced with political fire: a winner.\\\\\\\" —Kirkus, starred review

\\\\\\\"Faizal crafts a steadfast love letter to the security of found family, the strength and struggles of immigrants thriving in the face of violent colonialism and white supremacy, and the wondrous experience of a good cup of tea. Faizal draws on well-known adventure tropes then delightfully subverts them via sumptuous writing, making for a sublime heist novel and revenge tale.\\\\\\\" —Publishers Weekly, starred review

\\\\\\\"All the thrills of an Ocean's 11-style heist, made even more fun with magic weapons, steamy kisses, and… vampires?! A rollicking banquet of a book!\\\\\\\" —Marissa Meyer, #1 New York Times bestselling author

\\\\\\\"A wicked blend of secrets, heists, and vampires, with simmering notes of romance and a smoky foundation of revenge—A Tempest of Tea is a story that isn’t afraid to show its fangs.\\\\\\\" —Margaret Owen, New York Times Bestselling author of the Little Thieves trilogy

\\\\\\\"A Tempest of Tea is a masterpiece, filled with phenomenal prose, impeccable world building, and a mesmerizing found-family cast embarking on the heist of their lives! Hafsah Faizal has written the kind of book you can’t stop thinking about—and you won’t be able to wait for the sequel!\\\\\\\" —Ali Hazelwood, New York Times bestselling author of The Love Hypothesis

\\\\\\\"...the true strengths of this series opener are its nimble critique of colonialism and its layered, mercurial characters. And then there's that cliff-hanger: hold on for book two.\\\\\\\" —Booklist

\\\\\\\"...Peaky Blinders meets Arthurian legend. Shuffling between three points of view, the story balances mysterious intrigue and budding romances quite well... Add in the spine-gripping revelations at the end, and readers will be scrambling for more.\\\\\\\" —School Library Journal

\\\\\\\"Readers who enjoy Leigh Bardugo and Roshani Chokshi, are excited about vampires coming back into vogue, or are looking for historical fantasy and fast-paced, alluring drama will surely drink up A Tempest of Tea.\\\\\\\" —BookPage

\"},{\"id\":\"114903842T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Hafsah Faizal is the #1 New York Times–bestselling author of A Tempest of Tea, The Wishless Ones, and the Sands of Arawiya duology and the founder of IceyDesigns, where she creates websites for authors and beauteous goodies for everyone else. A Forbes 30 Under 30 honoree, she was born in Florida and raised in California. She now resides in North Carolina with her husband and a library of books waiting to be devoured.

\"},{\"id\":\"109425257T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Hafsah Faizal is the #1 New York Times–bestselling author of A Tempest of Tea, The Wishless Ones, and the Sands of Arawiya duology and the founder of IceyDesigns, where she creates websites for authors and beauteous goodies for everyone else. A Forbes 30 Under 30 honoree, she was born in Florida and raised in California. She now resides in North Carolina with her husband and a library of books waiting to be devoured.
Hafsah Faizal is the #1 New York Times–bestselling author of A Tempest of Tea, The Wishless Ones, and the Sands of Arawiya duology and the founder of IceyDesigns, where she creates websites for authors and beauteous goodies for everyone else. A Forbes 30 Under 30 honoree, she was born in Florida and raised in California. She now resides in North Carolina with her husband and a library of books waiting to be devoured.\"},{\"id\":\"109443539T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Hafsah Faizal is the #1 New York Times–bestselling author of A Tempest of Tea, The Wishless Ones, and the Sands of Arawiya duology and the founder of IceyDesigns, where she creates websites for authors and beauteous goodies for everyone else. A Forbes 30 Under 30 honoree, she was born in Florida and raised in California. She now resides in North Carolina with her husband and a library of books waiting to be devoured.\"}]",{"_41":2656,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":2657},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51198036508913","A-Steeping-of-Blood/Hafsah-Faizal",{"_41":2659,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":2660},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51198027694321","1146565223",{"_41":2662,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51198031692017",{"_41":2664,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":2633},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51198036836593",{"_41":2666,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":2611},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51198024122609",{"_33":2668,"_942":2669,"_963":-5,"_964":-5,"_965":-5,"_966":-5,"_967":-5,"_968":-5,"_969":-5},"vDmusgyCf2ThI6Vdefrbn",{"_1064":1065,"_41":2670,"_72":2671,"_1068":1069,"_886":2672,"_893":2673,"_1072":2674,"_1074":2675,"_1081":2678,"_1089":59,"_1090":2680,"_1096":2683,"_931":-5,"_1117":2692,"_1119":2693},"gid://shopify/Product/9084571386097","All We Lost Was Everything","9780593855959","A sexy, dark romantic thriller—with a shocking twist—by the author of Everything We Never Said.Perfect for fans of Binding 13!When eighteen-year-old River Santos’s house burned down, she lost everything. Her clothes. Her guitar. Her songbook.Most importantly, she lost her father. But when someone anonymously donates two million dollars to her GoFundMe, it’s like she’s won the worst sort of lottery. She’s a millionaire, but at what cost?With every person who comes into the diner where she works, she wonders, \"Was it you?\" The only person she’s sure didn’t donate the money is her extremely hot—and extremely standoffish—coworker, Logan Evans. Ever since he started at the diner, he’s acted like he hates her. Which is why she’s shocked when he helps her save face in front of her ex… Their attraction can’t be denied, but when River discovers a long-hidden family secret, she suddenly finds herself questioning everyone in her life. Her dad, who wasn’t as perfect as he seemed. Her chaotic mother, who left without so much as a goodbye at the beginning of her senior year. The anonymous donor, whose intentions may not have been altruistic after all. And most especially Logan, who has dark secrets of his own. After the fire, River thought she had hit rock bottom. But as it turns out, there’s always more to lose…","A sexy, dark romantic thriller—with a shocking twist—by the author of Everything We Never Said.

Perfect for fans of Binding 13!

When eighteen-year-old River Santos’s house burned down, she lost everything. Her clothes. Her guitar. Her songbook.

Most importantly, she lost her father.

But when someone anonymously donates two million dollars to her GoFundMe, it’s like she’s won the worst sort of lottery. She’s a millionaire, but at what cost?

With every person who comes into the diner where she works, she wonders, \"Was it you?\" The only person she’s sure didn’t donate the money is her extremely hot—and extremely standoffish—coworker, Logan Evans. Ever since he started at the diner, he’s acted like he hates her. Which is why she’s shocked when he helps her save face in front of her ex…

Their attraction can’t be denied, but when River discovers a long-hidden family secret, she suddenly finds herself questioning everyone in her life. Her dad, who wasn’t as perfect as he seemed. Her chaotic mother, who left without so much as a goodbye at the beginning of her senior year. The anonymous donor, whose intentions may not have been altruistic after all. And most especially Logan, who has dark secrets of his own.

After the fire, River thought she had hit rock bottom. But as it turns out, there’s always more to lose…",{"_41":2676,"_54":2677,"_56":1689,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47757756760305","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593855959_p0.jpg?v=1765492560",{"_1083":2679},{"_1085":1197,"_1087":1088},{"_1083":2681,"_1094":2682},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":2684},[2685],{"_41":2686,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":2687,"_1104":2688,"_1062":2689,"_1107":2690,"_1113":2672,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46509903249649",{"_41":2676,"_54":2677,"_1080":-5,"_56":1689,"_50":1079},{"_1085":1197,"_1087":1088},{"_72":2671,"_886":2672},[2691],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":2672},[2694,-5,-5,2697,2699,2701,2703,2705,2708,2711,2714,-5,-5,2716,-5,2718,2721],{"_41":2695,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":2696},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51255534026993","[{\"contributorId\":30239904,\"fullName\":\"Sloan Harlow\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_41":2698,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51255536255217",{"_41":2700,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51255532814577",{"_41":2702,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1144},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51255539597553",{"_41":2704,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1148},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51255536681201",{"_41":2706,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":2707},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51255542448369","[{\"id\":\"118290132T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Jaw-dropping twists. A page-turning mystery… steamy and passionate. A sexy thriller. —Kirkus

\\\\\\\"Skillful plotting and shocking reveals propel this twisty, Arizona-set romantic thriller from Harlow. Steamy, page-turning drama and tense mystery.\\\\\\\" —PW

\\\\\\\"Part mystery, part thriller, part romance, River’s story is difficult to put down.\\\\\\\" —Booklist\"},{\"id\":\"107608127T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Tension, romance and mystery boiled into a tumultuous read that sees one teenager up against a whirlwind of emotions and life changes. All she wanted to do was move forward, but is that even an option anymore?

\"},{\"id\":\"118290133T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

SLOAN HARLOW is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Everything We Never Said and All We Lost Was Everything. She splits her time between St. Petersburg, Florida, and Canton, Georgia, and is still trying to train her black cat, Pabu, to not nap on her keyboard.

\"},{\"id\":\"107578210T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"SLOAN HARLOW is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Everything We Never Said and All We Lost Was Everything. She splits her time between St. Petersburg, Florida, and Canton, Georgia, and is still trying to train her black cat, Pabu, to not nap on her keyboard.\"},{\"id\":\"107608070T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Sloan Harlow was interested in writing from a very young age. Everything We Never Said is her debut novel. She lives in Georgia with her black cat, Pabu, where she’s trying to eat as much ube ice cream as possible.\"},{\"id\":\"107639113T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"SLOAN HARLOW is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Everything We Never Said and All We Lost Was Everything. She splits her time between St. Petersburg, Florida, and Canton, Georgia, and is still trying to train her black cat, Pabu, to not nap on her keyboard.\"},{\"id\":\"107607766T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"

Sloan Harlow was interested in writing from a very young age. Everything We Never Said is her debut novel. She lives in Georgia with her black cat, Pabu, where she’s trying to eat as much ube ice cream as possible.

\"},{\"id\":\"110746415T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"6\",\"text\":\"SLOAN HARLOW is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Everything We Never Said and All We Lost Was Everything. She splits her time between St. Petersburg, Florida, and Canton, Georgia, and is still trying to train her black cat, Pabu, to not nap on her keyboard.\"}]",{"_41":2709,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":2710},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51255540908273","All-We-Lost-Was-Everything/Sloan-Harlow",{"_41":2712,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":2713},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51255531602161","1146219464",{"_41":2715,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51255535829233",{"_41":2717,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":2672},"gid://shopify/Metafield/51255527932145",{"_41":2719,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1171,"_1111":2720},"gid://shopify/Metafield/69006632943857","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.8\"}",{"_41":2722,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1175,"_1111":2024},"gid://shopify/Metafield/69006632911089",{"_33":2724,"_942":2725,"_963":-5,"_964":-5,"_965":-5,"_966":-5,"_967":-5,"_968":-5,"_969":-5},"26V58Pq0E3rrDt21b0QEC",{"_1064":1065,"_41":2726,"_72":2727,"_1068":1069,"_886":2728,"_893":2729,"_1072":2730,"_1074":2731,"_1081":2735,"_1089":59,"_1090":2737,"_1096":2740,"_931":2749,"_1117":2751,"_1119":2752},"gid://shopify/Product/8917313716465","Cemetery Boys","9781250250513","Longlisted for the National Book Award for Young People's Literature!A New York Times Bestseller!A YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults Top Ten pick!“Goundbreaking.” –Entertainment WeeklyA trans boy determined to prove his gender to his traditional Latinx family summons a ghost who refuses to leave in Aiden Thomas's paranormal YA debut.Yadriel has summoned a ghost, and now he can't get rid of him.When his traditional Latinx family has problems accepting his true gender, Yadriel becomes determined to prove himself a real brujo. With the help of his cousin and best friend Maritza, he performs the ritual himself, and then sets out to find the ghost of his murdered cousin and set it free.However, the ghost he summons is actually Julian Diaz, the school's resident bad boy, and Julian is not about to go quietly into death. He's determined to find out what happened and tie off some loose ends before he leaves. Left with no choice, Yadriel agrees to help Julian, so that they can both get what they want. But the longer Yadriel spends with Julian, the less he wants to let him leave.\"This stunning debut novel from Thomas is detailed, heart-rending, and immensely romantic. I was bawling by the end of it, but not from sadness: I just felt so incredibly happy that this queer Latinx adventure will get to be read by other kids. Cemetery Boys is necessary: for trans kids, for queer kids, for those in the Latinx community who need to see themselves on the page. Don’t miss this book.\" —Mark Oshiro, author of Anger is a Gift and co-author of The Sun and the Star","

Longlisted for the National Book Award for Young People's Literature!
A New York Times Bestseller!
A YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults Top Ten pick!

“Goundbreaking.” –Entertainment Weekly

A trans boy determined to prove his gender to his traditional Latinx family summons a ghost who refuses to leave in Aiden Thomas's paranormal YA debut.

Yadriel has summoned a ghost, and now he can't get rid of him.

When his traditional Latinx family has problems accepting his true gender, Yadriel becomes determined to prove himself a real brujo. With the help of his cousin and best friend Maritza, he performs the ritual himself, and then sets out to find the ghost of his murdered cousin and set it free.

However, the ghost he summons is actually Julian Diaz, the school's resident bad boy, and Julian is not about to go quietly into death. He's determined to find out what happened and tie off some loose ends before he leaves. Left with no choice, Yadriel agrees to help Julian, so that they can both get what they want. But the longer Yadriel spends with Julian, the less he wants to let him leave.

\"This stunning debut novel from Thomas is detailed, heart-rending, and immensely romantic. I was bawling by the end of it, but not from sadness: I just felt so incredibly happy that this queer Latinx adventure will get to be read by other kids. Cemetery Boys is necessary: for trans kids, for queer kids, for those in the Latinx community who need to see themselves on the page. Don’t miss this book.\" —Mark Oshiro, author of Anger is a Gift and co-author of The Sun and the Star

",{"_41":2732,"_54":2733,"_56":2734,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47765552103665","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781250250513_p0.jpg?v=1765506256",1292,{"_1083":2736},{"_1085":1254,"_1087":1088},{"_1083":2738,"_1094":2739},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":2741},[2742],{"_41":2743,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":2744,"_1104":2745,"_1062":2746,"_1107":2747,"_1113":2728,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46323643252977",{"_41":2732,"_54":2733,"_1080":-5,"_56":2734,"_50":1079},{"_1085":1254,"_1087":1088},{"_72":2727,"_886":2728},[2748],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":2750},"[\"Celebrate Pride with NOOK (p4027)\",\"Transgender Voices & Stories (p9055)\",\"NOOK Recommends (p21)\",\"Disability Pride Month (p10234)\"]",{"_1111":2728},[2753,2756,2758,2760,2762,2764,2766,2768,2771,2774,2777,-5,2779,2781,-5,2783,2785],{"_41":2754,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":2755},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43037771628785","[{\"contributorId\":20085440,\"fullName\":\"Aiden Thomas\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_41":2757,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1130,"_1111":2727},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43037772120305",{"_41":2759,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1134,"_1111":862},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43037772284145",{"_41":2761,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43037772972273",{"_41":2763,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43037771104497",{"_41":2765,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1284},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43037774577905",{"_41":2767,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1148},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43037773103345",{"_41":2769,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":2770},"gid://shopify/Metafield/43037776314609","[{\"id\":\"115042078T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Longlisted for the National Book Award for Young People's Literature!
A New York Times Bestseller!
A YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults Top Ten pick!

\\\\\\\" 'Scooby-Doo' meets 'Love, Simon' in this inclusive supernatural romance steeped in East Los Angeles Latinx culture.... Thomas injects the queer paranormal romance genre with a fresh shot of lavishly detailed Latinx culture, blending in Mayan, Mexican, Central American and South American traditions while commenting on cultural appropriation, deportation and class. Windows into the intersecting Latinx and L.G.B.T.Q. experience are plentiful here, and the opportunities for discovery and discussion are endless.\\\\\\\" —New York Times Book Review

\\\\\\\"Aiden Thomas' debut novel can't help but charm and captivate readers of all ages, though teen readers will invariably identify with and appreciate the high jinks and emotional vulnerability that make each character and scenario deliciously enchanting.\\\\\\\" —Booklist, starred review

\\\\\\\"Thomas marries concept and execution in a romantic mystery as poignant as it is spellbinding, weaved in a mosaic of culture, acceptance, and identity, where intricately crafted characters are the pieces and love—platonic, romantic, familial, and communal—is the glue.\\\\\\\" —Publishers Weekly, starred review

\\\\\\\"This stunning debut novel from Thomas is detailed, heart-rending, and immensely romantic. I was bawling by the end of it, but not from sadness: I just felt so incredibly happy that this queer Latinx adventure will get to be read by other kids. Cemetery Boys is necessary: for trans kids, for queer kids, for those in the Latinx community who need to see themselves on the page. Don’t miss this book.\\\\\\\" —Mark Oshiro, author of Anger is a Gift

\\\\\\\"This book is magical, tender, loving, and so so so important. I love it with all my heart.\\\\\\\" —Mason Deaver, author of I Wish You All The Best

\\\\\\\"The novel perfectly balances the vibrant, energetic Latinx culture while delving into heavy topics like LGBTQ+ acceptance, deportation, colonization, and racism within authoritative establishments.\\\\\\\" —TeenVogue.com

\\\\\\\"Cemetery Boys is a celebration of culture and identity that will captivate readers with its richly detailed world, earnest romance, and thrilling supernatural mystery. This delightful debut is a must-read for all paranormal romance fans.\\\\\\\" —Isabel Sterling, author of These Witches Don't Burn

\\\\\\\"Cemetery Boys is nothing short of an astonishing work of art. Aiden Thomas masterfully weaves a tale of family, friendships, and love in a heartwarming adventure full of affirmation and being your best self.\\\\\\\" —C.B. Lee, author of Not Your Sidekick

\\\\\\\"A gay, transgender brujo with burgeoning powers seeks answers about his cousin’s death... Both the romance and mystery burn slow and hot until the climax... Their romance provides joyful, ground-breaking representation for gay, transgender boys. Heart-pounding.\\\\\\\" —Kirkus

\\\\\\\"A story much bigger than the paper that binds it, Cemetery Boys is the tender intricacy we have all been waiting for.\\\\\\\" —Kayla Ancrum, author of The Wicker King

\\\\\\\"Speaking from experience, this is the kind of book that you read and then immediately go force all your friends to read so they can share the pleasure.\\\\\\\" —Buzzfeed

\\\\\\\"A wildly memorable novel.\\\\\\\" —Paste

\\\\\\\"Magical, swoonworthy, and utterly charming.\\\\\\\" —Bitch Media

\\\\\\\"This one is just what your heart needs right now.\\\\\\\" —TOR.com

\\\\\\\"Thomas sensitively navigates Yadriel’s struggles as a trans teen, from the insecurity of not wearing his binder at night around Julian, to deadnaming by family members, to the emotional burden of constantly forgiving people who misgender him. In spite of some heavy themes, this is a pleasing ghost-story-turned-romcom ... Readers wary of tragic endings can relax—there’s a well-deserved happy ending in store for this ghost boy and brujo.\\\\\\\" —BCCB

\\\\\\\"Packed with eerie adventure, tingly romance, and family drama, the novel lays bare the tension between upholding tradition and reaching full self-acceptance. Cheeky, relatable characters bring humor and lightness into Thomas’s debut, which also takes on themes of death, loss, abandonment, and rejection.\\\\\\\" —Horn Book

\"},{\"id\":\"116100962T\",\"type\":\"Award Note\",\"linkText\":\"Award Note\",\"typeId\":\"1036\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"2020 School Library Best Books of the Year, Long-listed
2020 NPR Best Book of the Year, Long-listed
2021 Locus Awards - Nominee, Short-listed
2020 School Library Journal Best Books of the Year, Long-listed
2020 Barnes and Noble Best New Books of the Year, Long-listed
2020 Bram Stoker Awards - Nominee, Nominated
2020 Publishers Weekly Best Books of the Year, Long-listed
\"},{\"id\":\"75876292T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

When Yadriel’s traditional Latinx family struggles to accept his gender, he takes matters into his own hands by performing a sacred but dangerous family ritual—leading to some unexpected consequences. Part paranormal fantasy, part mystery, part slow-burn romance, Cemetery Boys is a must-read for lovers of all genres.

\"},{\"id\":\"115042080T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Aiden Thomas is a trans, Latinx, New York Times Bestselling Author with an MFA in Creative Writing from Mills College. Originally from Oakland, California, they now make their home in the Pacific NW. Aiden is notorious for not being able to guess the endings of books and movies, and organizes their bookshelves by color. Their books include the Sunbearer Duology, Cemetery Boys, and Lost in the Never Woods.

\"},{\"id\":\"86860571T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Aiden Thomas, author of Cemetery Boys, received their MFA in Creative Writing from Mills College. Born in Oakland, California, Aiden often haunted Mountain View Cemetery like a second home during their misspent youth. As a queer, trans Latinx, Aiden advocates strongly for diverse representation in all media. Aiden is notorious among their friends for always being surprised by twist endings to books/movies and organizing their bookshelves by color. When not writing, Aiden enjoys exploring the outdoors with their dog, Ronan. Their cat, Figaro, prefers to support their indoor hobbies, like reading and drinking too much coffee.
Aiden Thomas is a trans, Latinx, New York Times Bestselling Author with an MFA in Creative Writing from Mills College. Originally from Oakland, California, they now make their home in Portland, OR. Aiden is notorious for not being able to guess the endings of books and movies, and organizes their bookshelves by color. Their books include Cemetery Boys and Lost in the Never Woods.\"},{\"id\":\"72167628T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Aiden Thomas, author of Cemetery Boys, received their MFA in Creative Writing from Mills College. Born in Oakland, California, Aiden often haunted Mountain View Cemetery like a second home during their misspent youth. As a queer, trans Latinx, Aiden advocates strongly for diverse representation in all media. Aiden is notorious among their friends for always being surprised by twist endings to books/movies and organizing their bookshelves by color. When not writing, Aiden enjoys exploring the outdoors with their dog, Ronan. Their cat, Figaro, prefers to support their indoor hobbies, like reading and drinking too much coffee.\"},{\"id\":\"106808551T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Aiden Thomas is a trans, Latinx, New York Times Bestselling Author with an MFA in Creative Writing from Mills College. Originally from Oakland, California, they now make their home in Portland, OR. Aiden is notorious for not being able to guess the endings of books and movies, and organizes their bookshelves by color. Their books include the Sunbearer Trials Duology, Cemetery Boys, and Lost in the Never Woods.\"},{\"id\":\"61283991T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Aiden Thomas is a trans, Latinx, New York Times Bestselling Author with an MFA in Creative Writing from Mills College. Originally from Oakland, California, they now make their home in Portland, OR. Aiden is notorious for not being able to guess the endings of books and movies, and organizes their bookshelves by color. 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With epic betrayals, shocking twists, and delicious tension, I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough. An absolute thrill of a novel.”—Rachel Griffin, New York Times bestselling author of The Nature of WitchesIn the Kingdom of Daradon, a persecuted few are Wielders, in possession of a magical Spectre–a shimmering thread that can extend beyond their visible body to give a loving caress, pick a lock . . . even kill. Feared for this ability, Wielders have always been Hunted.Alissa Paine, heiress and daughter of a Hunter family . . . is also a Wielder. At eighteen, Alissa knows she’s escaped execution thus far only due to painful self-control and the efforts of her beloved father.Summoned to the harsh and glittering royal court for the debutante season, Alissa finds herself caught in a web of intrigue and betrayal—and caught between two equally dangerous men: one a brutal ruler with the handsome face of a fairy-tale prince, who would destroy her if he knew the truth—and the other a beguiling foreign ambassador with secret agendas of his own.With the threat of discovery lurking around every corner—and romance becoming an increasingly dangerous temptation—Alissa will find that she has more to lose than her secrets. It’s Rose Season at the palace, but to survive she’ll need to become the most vicious of thorns. . . .Perfect for readers who love: Rivals to lovers romance Court intrigue Forbidden romance Slow burn romance Forbidden magic Scheming heroine Hidden identity Training scenes between the main character and the love interest “Who did this to you?” moment Treating the wound scene Falling for you but betrothed to someone else Childhood friends to enemies Villains you love to hate (or love)","

The instant #1 New York Times bestseller!

Shadow and Bone meets The Selection in this first book in Kiera Azar's sharp, sexy, and twisty debut YA romantasy trilogy!

“Dark, sexy, and completely addictive, romantasy lovers will devour Azar’s Thorn Season. With epic betrayals, shocking twists, and delicious tension, I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough. An absolute thrill of a novel.”—Rachel Griffin, New York Times bestselling author of The Nature of Witches

In the Kingdom of Daradon, a persecuted few are Wielders, in possession of a magical Spectre–a shimmering thread that can extend beyond their visible body to give a loving caress, pick a lock . . . even kill. Feared for this ability, Wielders have always been Hunted.

Alissa Paine, heiress and daughter of a Hunter family . . . is also a Wielder. At eighteen, Alissa knows she’s escaped execution thus far only due to painful self-control and the efforts of her beloved father.

Summoned to the harsh and glittering royal court for the debutante season, Alissa finds herself caught in a web of intrigue and betrayal—and caught between two equally dangerous men: one a brutal ruler with the handsome face of a fairy-tale prince, who would destroy her if he knew the truth—and the other a beguiling foreign ambassador with secret agendas of his own.

With the threat of discovery lurking around every corner—and romance becoming an increasingly dangerous temptation—Alissa will find that she has more to lose than her secrets. It’s Rose Season at the palace, but to survive she’ll need to become the most vicious of thorns. . . .

Perfect for readers who love:

Rivals to lovers romance
Court intrigue
Forbidden romance
Slow burn romance
Forbidden magic
Scheming heroine
Hidden identity
Training scenes between the main character and the love interest
“Who did this to you?” moment
Treating the wound scene
Falling for you but betrothed to someone else
Childhood friends to enemies
Villains you love to hate (or love)

",{"_41":2797,"_54":2798,"_56":1689,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47860532871409","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780063427815_p0.jpg?v=1765801321",{"_1083":2800},{"_1085":1086,"_1087":1088},{"_1083":2802,"_1094":2803},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":2805},[2806],{"_41":2807,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":2808,"_1104":2809,"_1062":2810,"_1107":2811,"_1113":2793,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46570011558129",{"_41":2797,"_54":2798,"_1080":-5,"_56":1689,"_50":1079},{"_1085":1086,"_1087":1088},{"_72":2792,"_886":2793},[2812],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":2814},"[\"eBook Coupon Exclusions (p9699)\",\"NOOK Recommends (p21)\"]",{"_1111":2793},[2817,2820,2823,2825,2827,2829,2831,2833,2836,2839,2842,-5,2844,2846,-5,-5,-5],{"_41":2818,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":2819},"gid://shopify/Metafield/53814309093617","[{\"contributorId\":31824439,\"fullName\":\"Kiera Azar\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_41":2821,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1130,"_1111":2822},"gid://shopify/Metafield/79895903797489","Thorn Season Series",{"_41":2824,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1134,"_1111":862},"gid://shopify/Metafield/79895903764721",{"_41":2826,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/53814310404337",{"_41":2828,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/53814308372721",{"_41":2830,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1718},"gid://shopify/Metafield/53814311321841",{"_41":2832,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1148},"gid://shopify/Metafield/53814310535409",{"_41":2834,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":2835},"gid://shopify/Metafield/53814312206577","[{\"id\":\"117677754T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

\\\\\\\"Evocative writing laced with romance, rebellion and rose petals. Sexy, hilarious, and completely addictive. I need more!\\\\\\\" - S. F. Williamson, New York Times and #1 Sunday Times bestselling author of A Language of Dragons

“A gripping, gorgeously written debut that refuses to play it safe.” - Kirkus Reviews (starred review)

“Using lush, polished prose, Azar balances high stakes with tight pacing to present steadily unfolding political intrigue and slow-burn romance. Across Alissa’s impassioned first-person narration, the debut author deftly explores themes of suppressed identity, friendship, love, and loyalty in the face of violent persecution, making for a confident fantasy trilogy opener.” - Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“A tension-filled, twisty journey full of surprises. Azar’s vivid, compelling writing and cleverly unfolding magic system make this a smart, sexy, and dark addition to the romantasy genre, ideal for readers hungry for complicated love triangle and lots of juicy drama.” - Booklist

\\\\\\\"With its sizzling romance, dangerous court intrigue and twisting-turning plot, Thorn Season is a dazzling romantasy debut that had me desperate to turn the next page. I’m obsessed!\\\\\\\" - Lauryn Hamilton Murray, author of Heir of Storms

“Sharply written and utterly gripping, Thorn Season ensnares with its tangled vines of political schemes, its breathtakingly alluring yet dangerous romances, and fiercely clever protagonist who is in turns charming and prickly like the titular thorn. Azar is one to watch in the YA fantasy landscape; readers won’t want to put this one down.” - Amelie Wen Zhao, New York Times bestselling author of The Scorpion and the Night Blossom

“A glittering, gorgeous book full of intrigue, intricate world building, and thrilling romance. I absolutely loved it and cannot wait for the sequel. Thorn Season is destined to be a romantasy sensation.” - Katherine Webber, Sunday Times bestselling coauthor of Twin Crowns

“Dark, sexy, and completely addictive, romantasy lovers will devour Azar’s Thorn Season. With epic betrayals, shocking twists, and delicious tension, I couldn’t turn the pages fast enough. An absolute thrill of a novel.” - Rachel Griffin, New York Times bestselling author of The Nature of Witches

\\\\\\\"Thorn Season is a heady mix of propulsive plot, decadent court intrigue, deadly mystery and thrilling romance. I devoured it and cannot wait to see where Azar takes it next. Sure to be the romantasy debut of the year.\\\\\\\" - Rachel Greenlaw, Sunday Times-bestselling author of The Woodsmoke Women's Book of Spells and Compass and Blade

\"},{\"id\":\"113999920T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

In a world of Hunters and Wielders, Alissa Paine knows how to keep out of trouble. But when debutante season begins, Alissa doesn't know which mysterious suitor she can trust with her dangerous secret in this gripping romance filled with twists and tension.

\"},{\"id\":\"117677756T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Kiera Azar was born in Surrey, where she grew up acting, singing, and songwriting. She studied biomedical science before she wrote her first book and decided to pursue her love of storytelling. Kiera is forever excited by all the books she hasn’t yet read, the music she hasn’t yet discovered, and the story ideas she hasn’t yet had. Her first novel, Thorn Season, was a #1 New York Times bestseller.

\"},{\"id\":\"118676347T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Kiera Azar was born in Surrey, where she grew up acting, singing, and songwriting. She studied biomedical science before she wrote her first book and decided to pursue her love of storytelling. Kiera is forever excited by all the books she hasn’t yet read, the music she hasn’t yet discovered, and the story ideas she hasn’t yet had.

\"},{\"id\":\"109908526T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Kiera Azar was born in Surrey, where she grew up acting, singing, and songwriting. She studied biomedical science before she wrote her first book and decided to pursue her love of storytelling. Kiera is forever excited by all the books she hasn’t yet read, the music she hasn’t yet discovered, and the story ideas she hasn’t yet had.

\"},{\"id\":\"111643016T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"

Kiera Azar was born in Surrey, where she grew up acting, singing, and songwriting. She studied biomedical science before she wrote her first book and decided to pursue her love of storytelling. Kiera is forever excited by all the books she hasn't yet read, the music she hasn't yet discovered, and the story ideas she hasn't yet had.

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“Pretty Little Liars meets The Breakfast Club” (Entertainment Weekly) in this addictive mystery about what happens when five strangers walk into detention and only four walk out alive.

Pay close attention and you might solve this.
On Monday afternoon, five students at Bayview High walk into detention.

Bronwyn, the brain, is Yale-bound and never breaks a rule.
Addy, the beauty, is the picture-perfect homecoming princess.
Nate, the criminal, is already on probation for dealing.
Cooper, the athlete, is the all-star baseball pitcher.
And Simon, the outcast, is the creator of Bayview High’s notorious gossip app.

Only, Simon never makes it out of that classroom. Before the end of detention Simon's dead. And according to investigators, his death wasn’t an accident. On Monday, he died. But on Tuesday, he’d planned to post juicy reveals about all four of his high-profile classmates, which makes all four of them suspects in his murder. Or are they the perfect patsies for a killer who’s still on the loose?

Everyone has secrets, right? What really matters is how far you would go to protect them.

All the secrets of the Bayview Four will be revealed in the TV series now streaming on NBC's Peacock!

And don’t miss the #1 New York Times bestselling sequel, One of Us is Next!",{"_41":2873,"_54":2874,"_56":1444,"_50":1079,"_1080":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47936669024497","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781524714703_p0.jpg?v=1765922821",{"_1083":2876},{"_1085":2877,"_1087":1088},"5.99",{"_1083":2879,"_1094":2880},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1085":1093,"_1087":1088},{"_1098":2882},[2883],{"_41":2884,"_1089":59,"_1102":-5,"_709":2885,"_1104":2886,"_1062":2887,"_1107":2888,"_1113":2869,"_72":1112,"_1114":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46295107633393",{"_41":2873,"_54":2874,"_1080":-5,"_56":1444,"_50":1079},{"_1085":2877,"_1087":1088},{"_72":2868,"_886":2869},[2889],{"_798":1110,"_1111":1112},{"_1111":2891},"[\"Bookseller Favorites (p10297)\"]",{"_1111":2869},[2894,2897,2900,2902,2904,2906,2908,2910,2913,2916,2919,-5,2921,2923,2925,2929,2931],{"_41":2895,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1126,"_1111":2896},"gid://shopify/Metafield/41861005115633","[{\"contributorId\":18536596,\"fullName\":\"Karen M. McManus\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_41":2898,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1130,"_1111":2899},"gid://shopify/Metafield/41861005705457","One of Us Is Lying Series",{"_41":2901,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1134,"_1111":862},"gid://shopify/Metafield/41861005934833",{"_41":2903,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1137,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/41861006786801",{"_41":2905,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1140,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/41861004427505",{"_41":2907,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1143,"_1111":1473},"gid://shopify/Metafield/41861008687345",{"_41":2909,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1147,"_1111":1148},"gid://shopify/Metafield/41861007016177",{"_41":2911,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1151,"_1111":2912},"gid://shopify/Metafield/41861010391281","[{\"id\":\"116001084T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Chapter One

Bronwyn

Monday, September 24, 2:55 p.m.

A sex tape. A pregnancy scare. Two cheating scandals. And that’s just this week’s update. If all you knew of Bayview High was Simon Kelleher’s gossip app, you’d wonder how anyone found time to go to class.

“Old news, Bronwyn,” says a voice over my shoulder. “Wait till you see tomorrow’s post.”

Damn. I hate getting caught reading About That, especially by its creator. I lower my phone and slam my locker shut. “Whose lives are you ruining next, Simon?”

Simon falls into step beside me as I move against the flow of students heading for the exit. “It’s a public service,” he says with a dismissive wave. “You tutor Reggie Crawley, don’t you? Wouldn’t you rather know he has a camera in his bedroom?”

I don’t bother answering. Me getting anywhere near the bedroom of perpetual stoner Reggie Crawley is about as likely as Simon growing a conscience.

“Anyway, they bring it on themselves. If people didn’t lie and cheat, I’d be out of business.” Simon’s cold blue eyes take in my lengthening strides. “Where are you rushing off to? Covering yourself in extracurricular glory?”

I wish. As if to taunt me, an alert crosses my phone: Mathlete practice, 3 p.m., Epoch Coffee. Followed by a text from one of my teammates: Evan’s here.

Of course he is. The cute Mathlete--less of an oxymoron than you might think--seems to only ever show up when I can’t.

“Not exactly,” I say. As a general rule, and especially lately, I try to give Simon as little information as possible. We push through green metal doors to the back stairwell, a dividing line between the dinginess of the original Bayview High and its bright, airy new wing. Every year more wealthy families get priced out of San Diego and come fifteen miles east to Bayview, expecting that their tax dollars will buy them a nicer school experience than popcorn ceilings and scarred linoleum.

Simon’s still on my heels when I reach Mr. Avery’s lab on the third floor, and I half turn with my arms crossed. “Don’t you have someplace to be?”

“Yeah. Detention,” Simon says, and waits for me to keep walking. When I grasp the knob instead, he bursts out laughing. “You’re kidding me. You too? What’s your crime?”

“I’m wrongfully accused,” I mutter, and yank the door open. Three other students are already seated, and I pause to take them in. Not the group I would have predicted. Except one.

Nate Macauley tips his chair back and smirks at me. “You make a wrong turn? This is detention, not student council.”

He should know. Nate’s been in trouble since fifth grade, which is right around the time we last spoke. The gossip mill tells me he’s on probation with Bayview’s finest for . . . something. It might be a DUI; it might be drug dealing. He’s a notorious supplier, but my knowledge is purely theoretical.

“Save the commentary.” Mr. Avery checks something off on a clipboard and closes the door behind Simon. High arched windows lining the back wall send triangles of afternoon sun splashing across the floor, and faint sounds of football practice float from the field behind the parking lot below.

I take a seat as Cooper Clay, who’s palming a crumpled piece of paper like a baseball, whispers “Heads up, Addy” and tosses it toward the girl across from him. Addy Prentiss blinks, smiles uncertainly, and lets the ball drop to the floor.

The classroom clock inches toward three, and I follow its progress with a helpless feeling of injustice. I shouldn’t even be here. I should be at Epoch Coffee, flirting awkwardly with Evan Neiman over differential equations.

Mr. Avery is a give-detention-first, ask-questions-never kind of guy, but maybe there’s still time to change his mind. I clear my throat and start to raise my hand until I notice Nate’s smirk broadening. “Mr. Avery, that wasn’t my phone you found. I don’t know how it got into my bag. This is mine,” I say, brandishing my iPhone in its melon-striped case.

Honestly, you’d have to be clueless to bring a phone to Mr. Avery’s lab. He has a strict no-phone policy and spends the first ten minutes of every class rooting through backpacks like he’s head of airline security and we’re all on the watch list. My phone was in my locker, like always.

“You too?” Addy turns to me so quickly, her blond shampoo-ad hair swirls around her shoulders. She must have been surgically removed from her boyfriend in order to show up alone. “That wasn’t my phone either.”

“Me three,” Cooper chimes in. His Southern accent makes it sound like thray. He and Addy exchange surprised looks, and I wonder how this is news to them when they’re part of the same clique. Maybe überpopular people have better things to talk about than unfair detentions.

“Somebody punked us!” Simon leans forward with his elbows on the desk, looking spring-loaded and ready to pounce on fresh gossip. His gaze darts over all four of us, clustered in the middle of the otherwise empty classroom, before settling on Nate. “Why would anybody want to trap a bunch of students with mostly spotless records in detention? Seems like the sort of thing that, oh, I don’t know, a guy who’s here all the time might do for fun.”

I look at Nate, but can’t picture it. Rigging detention sounds like work, and everything about Nate--from his messy dark hair to his ratty leather jacket--screams Can’t be bothered. Or yawns it, maybe. He meets my eyes but doesn’t say a word, just tips his chair back even farther. Another millimeter and he’ll fall right over.

Cooper sits up straighter, a frown crossing his Captain America face. “Hang on. I thought this was just a mix-up, but if the same thing happened to all of us, it’s somebody’s stupid idea of a prank. And I’m missing baseball practice because of it.” He says it like he’s a heart surgeon being detained from a lifesaving operation.

Mr. Avery rolls his eyes. “Save the conspiracy theories for another teacher. I’m not buying it. You all know the rules against bringing phones to class, and you broke them.” He gives Simon an especially sour glance. Teachers know About That exists, but there’s not much they can do to stop it. Simon only uses initials to identify people and never talks openly about school. “Now listen up. You’re here until four. I want each of you to write a five-hundred-word essay on how technology is ruining American high schools. Anyone who can’t follow the rules gets another detention tomorrow.”

“What do we write with?” Addy asks. “There aren’t any computers here.” Most classrooms have Chromebooks, but Mr. Avery, who looks like he should have retired a decade ago, is a holdout.

Mr. Avery crosses to Addy’s desk and taps the corner of a lined yellow notepad. We all have one. “Explore the magic of longhand writing. It’s a lost art.”

Addy’s pretty, heart-shaped face is a mask of confusion. “But how do we know when we’ve reached five hundred words?”

“Count,” Mr. Avery replies. His eyes drop to the phone I’m still holding. “And hand that over, Miss Rojas.”

“Doesn’t the fact that you’re confiscating my phone twice give you pause? Who has two phones?” I ask. Nate grins, so quick I almost miss it. “Seriously, Mr. Avery, somebody was playing a joke on us.”

Mr. Avery’s snowy mustache twitches in annoyance, and he extends his hand with a beckoning motion. “Phone, Miss Rojas. Unless you want a return visit.” I give it over with a sigh as he looks disapprovingly at the others. “The phones I took from the rest of you earlier are in my desk. You’ll get them back after detention.” Addy and Cooper exchange amused glances, probably because their actual phones are safe in their backpacks.

Mr. Avery tosses my phone into a drawer and sits behind the teacher’s desk, opening a book as he prepares to ignore us for the next hour. I pull out a pen, tap it against my yellow notepad, and contemplate the assignment. Does Mr. Avery really believe technology is ruining schools? That’s a pretty sweeping statement to make over a few contraband phones. Maybe it’s a trap and he’s looking for us to contradict him instead of agree.

I glance at Nate, who’s bent over his notepad writing computers suck over and over in block letters.

It’s possible I’m overthinking this.

Cooper

Monday, September 24, 3:05 p.m.

My hand hurts within minutes. It’s pathetic, I guess, but I can’t remember the last time I wrote anything longhand. Plus I’m using my right hand, which never feels natural no matter how many years I’ve done it. My father insisted I learn to write right-handed in second grade after he first saw me pitch. Your left arm’s gold, he told me. Don’t waste it on crap that don’t matter. Which is anything but pitching as far as he’s concerned.

That was when he started calling me Cooperstown, like the baseball hall of fame. Nothing like putting a little pressure on an eight-year-old.

Simon reaches for his backpack and roots around, unzipping every section. He hoists it onto his lap and peers inside. “Where the hell’s my water bottle?”

“No talking, Mr. Kelleher,” Mr. Avery says without looking up.

“I know, but--my water bottle’s missing. And I’m thirsty.”

Mr. Avery points toward the sink at the back of the room, its counter crowded with beakers and petri dishes. “Get yourself a drink. Quietly.”

Simon gets up and grabs a cup from a stack on the counter, filling it with water from the tap. He heads back to his seat and puts the cup on his desk, but seems distracted by Nate’s methodical writing. “Dude,” he says, kicking his sneaker against the leg of Nate’s desk. “Seriously. Did you put those phones in our backpacks to mess with us?”

Now Mr. Avery looks up, frowning. “I said quietly, Mr. Kelleher.”

Nate leans back and crosses his arms. “Why would I do that?”

Simon shrugs. “Why do you do anything? So you’ll have company for whatever your screw-up of the day was?”

“One more word out of either of you and it’s detention tomorrow,” Mr. Avery warns.

Simon opens his mouth anyway, but before he can speak there’s the sound of tires squealing and then the crash of two cars hitting each other. Addy gasps and I brace myself against my desk like somebody just rear-ended me. Nate, who looks glad for the interruption, is the first on his feet toward the window. “Who gets into a fender bender in the school parking lot?” he asks.

Bronwyn looks at Mr. Avery like she’s asking for permission, and when he gets up from his desk she heads for the window as well. Addy follows her, and I finally unfold myself from my seat. Might as well see what’s going on. I lean against the ledge to look outside, and Simon comes up beside me with a disparaging laugh as he surveys the scene below.

Two cars, an old red one and a nondescript gray one, are smashed into each other at a right angle. We all stare at them in silence until Mr. Avery lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’d better make sure no one was hurt.” He runs his eyes over all of us and zeroes in on Bronwyn as the most responsible of the bunch. “Miss Rojas, keep this room contained until I get back.”

“Okay,” Bronwyn says, casting a nervous glance toward Nate. We stay at the window, watching the scene below, but before Mr. Avery or another teacher appears outside, both cars start their engines and drive out of the parking lot.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Simon says. He heads back to his desk and picks up his cup, but instead of sitting he wanders to the front of the room and scans the periodic table of elements poster. He leans out into the hallway like he’s about to leave, but then he turns and raises his cup like he’s toasting us. “Anyone else want some water?”

“I do,” Addy says, slipping into her chair.

“Get it yourself, princess.” Simon smirks. Addy rolls her eyes and stays put while Simon leans against Mr. Avery’s desk. “Literally, huh? What’ll you do with yourself now that homecoming’s over? Big gap between now and senior prom.”

Addy looks at me without answering. I don’t blame her. Simon’s train of thought almost never goes anywhere good when it comes to our friends. He acts like he’s above caring whether he’s popular, but he was pretty smug when he wound up on the junior prom court last spring. I’m still not sure how he pulled that off, unless he traded keeping secrets for votes.

Simon was nowhere to be found on homecoming court last week, though. I was voted king, so maybe I’m next on his list to harass, or whatever the hell he’s doing.

“What’s your point, Simon?” I ask, taking a seat next to Addy. Addy and I aren’t close, exactly, but I kind of feel protective of her. She’s been dating my best friend since freshman year, and she’s a sweet girl. Also not the kind of person who knows how to stand up to a guy like Simon who just won’t quit.

“She’s a princess and you’re a jock,” he says. He thrusts his chin toward Bronwyn, then at Nate. “And you’re a brain. And you’re a criminal. You’re all walking teen-movie stereotypes.”

“What about you?” Bronwyn asks. She’s been hovering near the window, but now goes to her desk and perches on top of it. She crosses her legs and pulls her dark ponytail over one shoulder. Something about her is cuter this year. New glasses, maybe? Longer hair? All of a sudden, she’s kind of working this sexy-nerd thing.

“I’m the omniscient narrator,” Simon says.

Bronwyn’s brows rise above her black frames. “There’s no such thing in teen movies.”

“Ah, but Bronwyn.” Simon winks and chugs his water in one long gulp. “There is such a thing in life.”

He says it like a threat, and I wonder if he’s got something on Bronwyn for that stupid app of his. I hate that thing. Almost all my friends have been on it at one point or another, and sometimes it causes real problems. My buddy Luis and his girlfriend broke up because of something Simon wrote. Though it was a true story about Luis hooking up with his girlfriend’s cousin. But still. That stuff doesn’t have to be published. Hallway gossip is bad enough.

And if I’m being honest, I’m pretty freaked at what Simon could write about me if he put his mind to it.

Simon holds his cup up, grimacing. “This tastes like crap.” He drops the cup, and I roll my eyes at his attempt at drama. Even when he falls to the floor, I still think he’s messing around. But then the wheezing starts.\"},{\"id\":\"51026672T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Chapter One

Bronwyn

Monday, September 24, 2:55 p.m.

A sex tape. A pregnancy scare. Two cheating scandals. And that’s just this week’s update. If all you knew of Bayview High was Simon Kelleher’s gossip app, you’d wonder how anyone found time to go to class.

“Old news, Bronwyn,” says a voice over my shoulder. “Wait till you see tomorrow’s post.”

Damn. I hate getting caught reading About That, especially by its creator. I lower my phone and slam my locker shut. “Whose lives are you ruining next, Simon?”

Simon falls into step beside me as I move against the flow of students heading for the exit. “It’s a public service,” he says with a dismissive wave. “You tutor Reggie Crawley, don’t you? Wouldn’t you rather know he has a camera in his bedroom?”

I don’t bother answering. Me getting anywhere near the bedroom of perpetual stoner Reggie Crawley is about as likely as Simon growing a conscience.

“Anyway, they bring it on themselves. If people didn’t lie and cheat, I’d be out of business.” Simon’s cold blue eyes take in my lengthening strides. “Where are you rushing off to? Covering yourself in extracurricular glory?”

I wish. As if to taunt me, an alert crosses my phone: Mathlete practice, 3 p.m., Epoch Coffee. Followed by a text from one of my teammates: Evan’s here.

Of course he is. The cute Mathlete--less of an oxymoron than you might think--seems to only ever show up when I can’t.

“Not exactly,” I say. As a general rule, and especially lately, I try to give Simon as little information as possible. We push through green metal doors to the back stairwell, a dividing line between the dinginess of the original Bayview High and its bright, airy new wing. Every year more wealthy families get priced out of San Diego and come fifteen miles east to Bayview, expecting that their tax dollars will buy them a nicer school experience than popcorn ceilings and scarred linoleum.

Simon’s still on my heels when I reach Mr. Avery’s lab on the third floor, and I half turn with my arms crossed. “Don’t you have someplace to be?”

“Yeah. Detention,” Simon says, and waits for me to keep walking. When I grasp the knob instead, he bursts out laughing. “You’re kidding me. You too? What’s your crime?”

“I’m wrongfully accused,” I mutter, and yank the door open. Three other students are already seated, and I pause to take them in. Not the group I would have predicted. Except one.

Nate Macauley tips his chair back and smirks at me. “You make a wrong turn? This is detention, not student council.”

He should know. Nate’s been in trouble since fifth grade, which is right around the time we last spoke. The gossip mill tells me he’s on probation with Bayview’s finest for . . . something. It might be a DUI; it might be drug dealing. He’s a notorious supplier, but my knowledge is purely theoretical.

“Save the commentary.” Mr. Avery checks something off on a clipboard and closes the door behind Simon. High arched windows lining the back wall send triangles of afternoon sun splashing across the floor, and faint sounds of football practice float from the field behind the parking lot below.

I take a seat as Cooper Clay, who’s palming a crumpled piece of paper like a baseball, whispers “Heads up, Addy” and tosses it toward the girl across from him. Addy Prentiss blinks, smiles uncertainly, and lets the ball drop to the floor.

The classroom clock inches toward three, and I follow its progress with a helpless feeling of injustice. I shouldn’t even be here. I should be at Epoch Coffee, flirting awkwardly with Evan Neiman over differential equations.

Mr. Avery is a give-detention-first, ask-questions-never kind of guy, but maybe there’s still time to change his mind. I clear my throat and start to raise my hand until I notice Nate’s smirk broadening. “Mr. Avery, that wasn’t my phone you found. I don’t know how it got into my bag. This is mine,” I say, brandishing my iPhone in its melon-striped case.

Honestly, you’d have to be clueless to bring a phone to Mr. Avery’s lab. He has a strict no-phone policy and spends the first ten minutes of every class rooting through backpacks like he’s head of airline security and we’re all on the watch list. My phone was in my locker, like always.

“You too?” Addy turns to me so quickly, her blond shampoo-ad hair swirls around her shoulders. She must have been surgically removed from her boyfriend in order to show up alone. “That wasn’t my phone either.”

“Me three,” Cooper chimes in. His Southern accent makes it sound like thray. He and Addy exchange surprised looks, and I wonder how this is news to them when they’re part of the same clique. Maybe überpopular people have better things to talk about than unfair detentions.

“Somebody punked us!” Simon leans forward with his elbows on the desk, looking spring-loaded and ready to pounce on fresh gossip. His gaze darts over all four of us, clustered in the middle of the otherwise empty classroom, before settling on Nate. “Why would anybody want to trap a bunch of students with mostly spotless records in detention? Seems like the sort of thing that, oh, I don’t know, a guy who’s here all the time might do for fun.”

I look at Nate, but can’t picture it. Rigging detention sounds like work, and everything about Nate--from his messy dark hair to his ratty leather jacket--screams Can’t be bothered. Or yawns it, maybe. He meets my eyes but doesn’t say a word, just tips his chair back even farther. Another millimeter and he’ll fall right over.

Cooper sits up straighter, a frown crossing his Captain America face. “Hang on. I thought this was just a mix-up, but if the same thing happened to all of us, it’s somebody’s stupid idea of a prank. And I’m missing baseball practice because of it.” He says it like he’s a heart surgeon being detained from a lifesaving operation.

Mr. Avery rolls his eyes. “Save the conspiracy theories for another teacher. I’m not buying it. You all know the rules against bringing phones to class, and you broke them.” He gives Simon an especially sour glance. Teachers know About That exists, but there’s not much they can do to stop it. Simon only uses initials to identify people and never talks openly about school. “Now listen up. You’re here until four. I want each of you to write a five-hundred-word essay on how technology is ruining American high schools. Anyone who can’t follow the rules gets another detention tomorrow.”

“What do we write with?” Addy asks. “There aren’t any computers here.” Most classrooms have Chromebooks, but Mr. Avery, who looks like he should have retired a decade ago, is a holdout.

Mr. Avery crosses to Addy’s desk and taps the corner of a lined yellow notepad. We all have one. “Explore the magic of longhand writing. It’s a lost art.”

Addy’s pretty, heart-shaped face is a mask of confusion. “But how do we know when we’ve reached five hundred words?”

“Count,” Mr. Avery replies. His eyes drop to the phone I’m still holding. “And hand that over, Miss Rojas.”

“Doesn’t the fact that you’re confiscating my phone twice give you pause? Who has two phones?” I ask. Nate grins, so quick I almost miss it. “Seriously, Mr. Avery, somebody was playing a joke on us.”

Mr. Avery’s snowy mustache twitches in annoyance, and he extends his hand with a beckoning motion. “Phone, Miss Rojas. Unless you want a return visit.” I give it over with a sigh as he looks disapprovingly at the others. “The phones I took from the rest of you earlier are in my desk. You’ll get them back after detention.” Addy and Cooper exchange amused glances, probably because their actual phones are safe in their backpacks.

Mr. Avery tosses my phone into a drawer and sits behind the teacher’s desk, opening a book as he prepares to ignore us for the next hour. I pull out a pen, tap it against my yellow notepad, and contemplate the assignment. Does Mr. Avery really believe technology is ruining schools? That’s a pretty sweeping statement to make over a few contraband phones. Maybe it’s a trap and he’s looking for us to contradict him instead of agree.

I glance at Nate, who’s bent over his notepad writing computers suck over and over in block letters.

It’s possible I’m overthinking this.

Cooper

Monday, September 24, 3:05 p.m.

My hand hurts within minutes. It’s pathetic, I guess, but I can’t remember the last time I wrote anything longhand. Plus I’m using my right hand, which never feels natural no matter how many years I’ve done it. My father insisted I learn to write right-handed in second grade after he first saw me pitch. Your left arm’s gold, he told me. Don’t waste it on crap that don’t matter. Which is anything but pitching as far as he’s concerned.

That was when he started calling me Cooperstown, like the baseball hall of fame. Nothing like putting a little pressure on an eight-year-old.

Simon reaches for his backpack and roots around, unzipping every section. He hoists it onto his lap and peers inside. “Where the hell’s my water bottle?”

“No talking, Mr. Kelleher,” Mr. Avery says without looking up.

“I know, but--my water bottle’s missing. And I’m thirsty.”

Mr. Avery points toward the sink at the back of the room, its counter crowded with beakers and petri dishes. “Get yourself a drink. Quietly.”

Simon gets up and grabs a cup from a stack on the counter, filling it with water from the tap. He heads back to his seat and puts the cup on his desk, but seems distracted by Nate’s methodical writing. “Dude,” he says, kicking his sneaker against the leg of Nate’s desk. “Seriously. Did you put those phones in our backpacks to mess with us?”

Now Mr. Avery looks up, frowning. “I said quietly, Mr. Kelleher.”

Nate leans back and crosses his arms. “Why would I do that?”

Simon shrugs. “Why do you do anything? So you’ll have company for whatever your screw-up of the day was?”

“One more word out of either of you and it’s detention tomorrow,” Mr. Avery warns.

Simon opens his mouth anyway, but before he can speak there’s the sound of tires squealing and then the crash of two cars hitting each other. Addy gasps and I brace myself against my desk like somebody just rear-ended me. Nate, who looks glad for the interruption, is the first on his feet toward the window. “Who gets into a fender bender in the school parking lot?” he asks.

Bronwyn looks at Mr. Avery like she’s asking for permission, and when he gets up from his desk she heads for the window as well. Addy follows her, and I finally unfold myself from my seat. Might as well see what’s going on. I lean against the ledge to look outside, and Simon comes up beside me with a disparaging laugh as he surveys the scene below.

Two cars, an old red one and a nondescript gray one, are smashed into each other at a right angle. We all stare at them in silence until Mr. Avery lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’d better make sure no one was hurt.” He runs his eyes over all of us and zeroes in on Bronwyn as the most responsible of the bunch. “Miss Rojas, keep this room contained until I get back.”

“Okay,” Bronwyn says, casting a nervous glance toward Nate. We stay at the window, watching the scene below, but before Mr. Avery or another teacher appears outside, both cars start their engines and drive out of the parking lot.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Simon says. He heads back to his desk and picks up his cup, but instead of sitting he wanders to the front of the room and scans the periodic table of elements poster. He leans out into the hallway like he’s about to leave, but then he turns and raises his cup like he’s toasting us. “Anyone else want some water?”

“I do,” Addy says, slipping into her chair.

“Get it yourself, princess.” Simon smirks. Addy rolls her eyes and stays put while Simon leans against Mr. Avery’s desk. “Literally, huh? What’ll you do with yourself now that homecoming’s over? Big gap between now and senior prom.”

Addy looks at me without answering. I don’t blame her. Simon’s train of thought almost never goes anywhere good when it comes to our friends. He acts like he’s above caring whether he’s popular, but he was pretty smug when he wound up on the junior prom court last spring. I’m still not sure how he pulled that off, unless he traded keeping secrets for votes.

Simon was nowhere to be found on homecoming court last week, though. I was voted king, so maybe I’m next on his list to harass, or whatever the hell he’s doing.

“What’s your point, Simon?” I ask, taking a seat next to Addy. Addy and I aren’t close, exactly, but I kind of feel protective of her. She’s been dating my best friend since freshman year, and she’s a sweet girl. Also not the kind of person who knows how to stand up to a guy like Simon who just won’t quit.

“She’s a princess and you’re a jock,” he says. He thrusts his chin toward Bronwyn, then at Nate. “And you’re a brain. And you’re a criminal. You’re all walking teen-movie stereotypes.”

“What about you?” Bronwyn asks. She’s been hovering near the window, but now goes to her desk and perches on top of it. She crosses her legs and pulls her dark ponytail over one shoulder. Something about her is cuter this year. New glasses, maybe? Longer hair? All of a sudden, she’s kind of working this sexy-nerd thing.

“I’m the omniscient narrator,” Simon says.

Bronwyn’s brows rise above her black frames. “There’s no such thing in teen movies.”

“Ah, but Bronwyn.” Simon winks and chugs his water in one long gulp. “There is such a thing in life.”

He says it like a threat, and I wonder if he’s got something on Bronwyn for that stupid app of his. I hate that thing. Almost all my friends have been on it at one point or another, and sometimes it causes real problems. My buddy Luis and his girlfriend broke up because of something Simon wrote. Though it was a true story about Luis hooking up with his girlfriend’s cousin. But still. That stuff doesn’t have to be published. Hallway gossip is bad enough.

And if I’m being honest, I’m pretty freaked at what Simon could write about me if he put his mind to it.

Simon holds his cup up, grimacing. “This tastes like crap.” He drops the cup, and I roll my eyes at his attempt at drama. Even when he falls to the floor, I still think he’s messing around. But then the wheezing starts.\"},{\"id\":\"58110154T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"

Chapter One

Bronwyn

Monday, September 24, 2:55 p.m.

A sex tape. A pregnancy scare. Two cheating scandals. And that’s just this week’s update. If all you knew of Bayview High was Simon Kelleher’s gossip app, you’d wonder how anyone found time to go to class.

“Old news, Bronwyn,” says a voice over my shoulder. “Wait till you see tomorrow’s post.”

Damn. I hate getting caught reading About That, especially by its creator. I lower my phone and slam my locker shut. “Whose lives are you ruining next, Simon?”

Simon falls into step beside me as I move against the flow of students heading for the exit. “It’s a public service,” he says with a dismissive wave. “You tutor Reggie Crawley, don’t you? Wouldn’t you rather know he has a camera in his bedroom?”

I don’t bother answering. Me getting anywhere near the bedroom of perpetual stoner Reggie Crawley is about as likely as Simon growing a conscience.

“Anyway, they bring it on themselves. If people didn’t lie and cheat, I’d be out of business.” Simon’s cold blue eyes take in my lengthening strides. “Where are you rushing off to? Covering yourself in extracurricular glory?”

I wish. As if to taunt me, an alert crosses my phone: Mathlete practice, 3 p.m., Epoch Coffee. Followed by a text from one of my teammates: Evan’s here.

Of course he is. The cute Mathlete--less of an oxymoron than you might think--seems to only ever show up when I can’t.

“Not exactly,” I say. As a general rule, and especially lately, I try to give Simon as little information as possible. We push through green metal doors to the back stairwell, a dividing line between the dinginess of the original Bayview High and its bright, airy new wing. Every year more wealthy families get priced out of San Diego and come fifteen miles east to Bayview, expecting that their tax dollars will buy them a nicer school experience than popcorn ceilings and scarred linoleum.

Simon’s still on my heels when I reach Mr. Avery’s lab on the third floor, and I half turn with my arms crossed. “Don’t you have someplace to be?”

“Yeah. Detention,” Simon says, and waits for me to keep walking. When I grasp the knob instead, he bursts out laughing. “You’re kidding me. You too? What’s your crime?”

“I’m wrongfully accused,” I mutter, and yank the door open. Three other students are already seated, and I pause to take them in. Not the group I would have predicted. Except one.

Nate Macauley tips his chair back and smirks at me. “You make a wrong turn? This is detention, not student council.”

He should know. Nate’s been in trouble since fifth grade, which is right around the time we last spoke. The gossip mill tells me he’s on probation with Bayview’s finest for . . . something. It might be a DUI; it might be drug dealing. He’s a notorious supplier, but my knowledge is purely theoretical.

“Save the commentary.” Mr. Avery checks something off on a clipboard and closes the door behind Simon. High arched windows lining the back wall send triangles of afternoon sun splashing across the floor, and faint sounds of football practice float from the field behind the parking lot below.

I take a seat as Cooper Clay, who’s palming a crumpled piece of paper like a baseball, whispers “Heads up, Addy” and tosses it toward the girl across from him. Addy Prentiss blinks, smiles uncertainly, and lets the ball drop to the floor.

The classroom clock inches toward three, and I follow its progress with a helpless feeling of injustice. I shouldn’t even be here. I should be at Epoch Coffee, flirting awkwardly with Evan Neiman over differential equations.

Mr. Avery is a give-detention-first, ask-questions-never kind of guy, but maybe there’s still time to change his mind. I clear my throat and start to raise my hand until I notice Nate’s smirk broadening. “Mr. Avery, that wasn’t my phone you found. I don’t know how it got into my bag. This is mine,” I say, brandishing my iPhone in its melon-striped case.

Honestly, you’d have to be clueless to bring a phone to Mr. Avery’s lab. He has a strict no-phone policy and spends the first ten minutes of every class rooting through backpacks like he’s head of airline security and we’re all on the watch list. My phone was in my locker, like always.

“You too?” Addy turns to me so quickly, her blond shampoo-ad hair swirls around her shoulders. She must have been surgically removed from her boyfriend in order to show up alone. “That wasn’t my phone either.”

“Me three,” Cooper chimes in. His Southern accent makes it sound like thray. He and Addy exchange surprised looks, and I wonder how this is news to them when they’re part of the same clique. Maybe überpopular people have better things to talk about than unfair detentions.

“Somebody punked us!” Simon leans forward with his elbows on the desk, looking spring-loaded and ready to pounce on fresh gossip. His gaze darts over all four of us, clustered in the middle of the otherwise empty classroom, before settling on Nate. “Why would anybody want to trap a bunch of students with mostly spotless records in detention? Seems like the sort of thing that, oh, I don’t know, a guy who’s here all the time might do for fun.”

I look at Nate, but can’t picture it. Rigging detention sounds like work, and everything about Nate--from his messy dark hair to his ratty leather jacket--screams Can’t be bothered. Or yawns it, maybe. He meets my eyes but doesn’t say a word, just tips his chair back even farther. Another millimeter and he’ll fall right over.

Cooper sits up straighter, a frown crossing his Captain America face. “Hang on. I thought this was just a mix-up, but if the same thing happened to all of us, it’s somebody’s stupid idea of a prank. And I’m missing baseball practice because of it.” He says it like he’s a heart surgeon being detained from a lifesaving operation.

Mr. Avery rolls his eyes. “Save the conspiracy theories for another teacher. I’m not buying it. You all know the rules against bringing phones to class, and you broke them.” He gives Simon an especially sour glance. Teachers know About That exists, but there’s not much they can do to stop it. Simon only uses initials to identify people and never talks openly about school. “Now listen up. You’re here until four. I want each of you to write a five-hundred-word essay on how technology is ruining American high schools. Anyone who can’t follow the rules gets another detention tomorrow.”

“What do we write with?” Addy asks. “There aren’t any computers here.” Most classrooms have Chromebooks, but Mr. Avery, who looks like he should have retired a decade ago, is a holdout.

Mr. Avery crosses to Addy’s desk and taps the corner of a lined yellow notepad. We all have one. “Explore the magic of longhand writing. It’s a lost art.”

Addy’s pretty, heart-shaped face is a mask of confusion. “But how do we know when we’ve reached five hundred words?”

“Count,” Mr. Avery replies. His eyes drop to the phone I’m still holding. “And hand that over, Miss Rojas.”

“Doesn’t the fact that you’re confiscating my phone twice give you pause? Who has two phones?” I ask. Nate grins, so quick I almost miss it. “Seriously, Mr. Avery, somebody was playing a joke on us.”

Mr. Avery’s snowy mustache twitches in annoyance, and he extends his hand with a beckoning motion. “Phone, Miss Rojas. Unless you want a return visit.” I give it over with a sigh as he looks disapprovingly at the others. “The phones I took from the rest of you earlier are in my desk. You’ll get them back after detention.” Addy and Cooper exchange amused glances, probably because their actual phones are safe in their backpacks.

Mr. Avery tosses my phone into a drawer and sits behind the teacher’s desk, opening a book as he prepares to ignore us for the next hour. I pull out a pen, tap it against my yellow notepad, and contemplate the assignment. Does Mr. Avery really believe technology is ruining schools? That’s a pretty sweeping statement to make over a few contraband phones. Maybe it’s a trap and he’s looking for us to contradict him instead of agree.

I glance at Nate, who’s bent over his notepad writing computers suck over and over in block letters.

It’s possible I’m overthinking this.

Cooper

Monday, September 24, 3:05 p.m.

My hand hurts within minutes. It’s pathetic, I guess, but I can’t remember the last time I wrote anything longhand. Plus I’m using my right hand, which never feels natural no matter how many years I’ve done it. My father insisted I learn to write right-handed in second grade after he first saw me pitch. Your left arm’s gold, he told me. Don’t waste it on crap that don’t matter. Which is anything but pitching as far as he’s concerned.

That was when he started calling me Cooperstown, like the baseball hall of fame. Nothing like putting a little pressure on an eight-year-old.

Simon reaches for his backpack and roots around, unzipping every section. He hoists it onto his lap and peers inside. “Where the hell’s my water bottle?”

“No talking, Mr. Kelleher,” Mr. Avery says without looking up.

“I know, but--my water bottle’s missing. And I’m thirsty.”

Mr. Avery points toward the sink at the back of the room, its counter crowded with beakers and petri dishes. “Get yourself a drink. Quietly.”

Simon gets up and grabs a cup from a stack on the counter, filling it with water from the tap. He heads back to his seat and puts the cup on his desk, but seems distracted by Nate’s methodical writing. “Dude,” he says, kicking his sneaker against the leg of Nate’s desk. “Seriously. Did you put those phones in our backpacks to mess with us?”

Now Mr. Avery looks up, frowning. “I said quietly, Mr. Kelleher.”

Nate leans back and crosses his arms. “Why would I do that?”

Simon shrugs. “Why do you do anything? So you’ll have company for whatever your screw-up of the day was?”

“One more word out of either of you and it’s detention tomorrow,” Mr. Avery warns.

Simon opens his mouth anyway, but before he can speak there’s the sound of tires squealing and then the crash of two cars hitting each other. Addy gasps and I brace myself against my desk like somebody just rear-ended me. Nate, who looks glad for the interruption, is the first on his feet toward the window. “Who gets into a fender bender in the school parking lot?” he asks.

Bronwyn looks at Mr. Avery like she’s asking for permission, and when he gets up from his desk she heads for the window as well. Addy follows her, and I finally unfold myself from my seat. Might as well see what’s going on. I lean against the ledge to look outside, and Simon comes up beside me with a disparaging laugh as he surveys the scene below.

Two cars, an old red one and a nondescript gray one, are smashed into each other at a right angle. We all stare at them in silence until Mr. Avery lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’d better make sure no one was hurt.” He runs his eyes over all of us and zeroes in on Bronwyn as the most responsible of the bunch. “Miss Rojas, keep this room contained until I get back.”

“Okay,” Bronwyn says, casting a nervous glance toward Nate. We stay at the window, watching the scene below, but before Mr. Avery or another teacher appears outside, both cars start their engines and drive out of the parking lot.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Simon says. He heads back to his desk and picks up his cup, but instead of sitting he wanders to the front of the room and scans the periodic table of elements poster. He leans out into the hallway like he’s about to leave, but then he turns and raises his cup like he’s toasting us. “Anyone else want some water?”

“I do,” Addy says, slipping into her chair.

“Get it yourself, princess.” Simon smirks. Addy rolls her eyes and stays put while Simon leans against Mr. Avery’s desk. “Literally, huh? What’ll you do with yourself now that homecoming’s over? Big gap between now and senior prom.”

Addy looks at me without answering. I don’t blame her. Simon’s train of thought almost never goes anywhere good when it comes to our friends. He acts like he’s above caring whether he’s popular, but he was pretty smug when he wound up on the junior prom court last spring. I’m still not sure how he pulled that off, unless he traded keeping secrets for votes.

Simon was nowhere to be found on homecoming court last week, though. I was voted king, so maybe I’m next on his list to harass, or whatever the hell he’s doing.

“What’s your point, Simon?” I ask, taking a seat next to Addy. Addy and I aren’t close, exactly, but I kind of feel protective of her. She’s been dating my best friend since freshman year, and she’s a sweet girl. Also not the kind of person who knows how to stand up to a guy like Simon who just won’t quit.

“She’s a princess and you’re a jock,” he says. He thrusts his chin toward Bronwyn, then at Nate. “And you’re a brain. And you’re a criminal. You’re all walking teen-movie stereotypes.”

“What about you?” Bronwyn asks. She’s been hovering near the window, but now goes to her desk and perches on top of it. She crosses her legs and pulls her dark ponytail over one shoulder. Something about her is cuter this year. New glasses, maybe? Longer hair? All of a sudden, she’s kind of working this sexy-nerd thing.

“I’m the omniscient narrator,” Simon says.

Bronwyn’s brows rise above her black frames. “There’s no such thing in teen movies.”

“Ah, but Bronwyn.” Simon winks and chugs his water in one long gulp. “There is such a thing in life.”

He says it like a threat, and I wonder if he’s got something on Bronwyn for that stupid app of his. I hate that thing. Almost all my friends have been on it at one point or another, and sometimes it causes real problems. My buddy Luis and his girlfriend broke up because of something Simon wrote. Though it was a true story about Luis hooking up with his girlfriend’s cousin. But still. That stuff doesn’t have to be published. Hallway gossip is bad enough.

And if I’m being honest, I’m pretty freaked at what Simon could write about me if he put his mind to it.

Simon holds his cup up, grimacing. “This tastes like crap.” He drops the cup, and I roll my eyes at his attempt at drama. Even when he falls to the floor, I still think he’s messing around. But then the wheezing starts.

(Continues…)

Excerpted from "One of Us Is Lying"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Karen M. McManus.
Excerpted by permission of Random House Children's Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

\"},{\"id\":\"85703244T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Chapter One

Bronwyn

Monday, September 24, 2:55 p.m.

A sex tape. A pregnancy scare. Two cheating scandals. And that’s just this week’s update. If all you knew of Bayview High was Simon Kelleher’s gossip app, you’d wonder how anyone found time to go to class.

“Old news, Bronwyn,” says a voice over my shoulder. “Wait till you see tomorrow’s post.”

Damn. I hate getting caught reading About That, especially by its creator. I lower my phone and slam my locker shut. “Whose lives are you ruining next, Simon?”

Simon falls into step beside me as I move against the flow of students heading for the exit. “It’s a public service,” he says with a dismissive wave. “You tutor Reggie Crawley, don’t you? Wouldn’t you rather know he has a camera in his bedroom?”

I don’t bother answering. Me getting anywhere near the bedroom of perpetual stoner Reggie Crawley is about as likely as Simon growing a conscience.

“Anyway, they bring it on themselves. If people didn’t lie and cheat, I’d be out of business.” Simon’s cold blue eyes take in my lengthening strides. “Where are you rushing off to? Covering yourself in extracurricular glory?”

I wish. As if to taunt me, an alert crosses my phone: Mathlete practice, 3 p.m., Epoch Coffee. Followed by a text from one of my teammates: Evan’s here.

Of course he is. The cute Mathlete—less of an oxymoron than you might think—seems to only ever show up when I can’t.

“Not exactly,” I say. As a general rule, and especially lately, I try to give Simon as little information as possible. We push through green metal doors to the back stairwell, a dividing line between the dinginess of the original Bayview High and its bright, airy new wing. Every year more wealthy families get priced out of San Diego and come fifteen miles east to Bayview, expecting that their tax dollars will buy them a nicer school experience than popcorn ceilings and scarred linoleum.

Simon’s still on my heels when I reach Mr. Avery’s lab on the third floor, and I half turn with my arms crossed. “Don’t you have someplace to be?”

“Yeah. Detention,” Simon says, and waits for me to keep walking. When I grasp the knob instead, he bursts out laughing. “You’re kidding me. You too? What’s your crime?”

“I’m wrongfully accused,” I mutter, and yank the door open. Three other students are already seated, and I pause to take them in. Not the group I would have predicted. Except one.

Nate Macauley tips his chair back and smirks at me. “You make a wrong turn? This is detention, not student council.”

He should know. Nate’s been in trouble since fifth grade, which is right around the time we last spoke. The gossip mill tells me he’s on probation with Bayview’s finest for . . . something. It might be a DUI; it might be drug dealing. He’s a notorious supplier, but my knowledge is purely theoretical.

“Save the commentary.” Mr. Avery checks something off on a clipboard and closes the door behind Simon. High arched windows lining the back wall send triangles of afternoon sun splashing across the floor, and faint sounds of football practice float from the field behind the parking lot below.

I take a seat as Cooper Clay, who’s palming a crumpled piece of paper like a baseball, whispers “Heads up, Addy” and tosses it toward the girl across from him. Addy Prentiss blinks, smiles uncertainly, and lets the ball drop to the floor.

The classroom clock inches toward three, and I follow its progress with a helpless feeling of injustice. I shouldn’t even be here. I should be at Epoch Coffee, flirting awkwardly with Evan Neiman over differential equations.

Mr. Avery is a give-detention-first, ask-questions-never kind of guy, but maybe there’s still time to change his mind. I clear my throat and start to raise my hand until I notice Nate’s smirk broadening. “Mr. Avery, that wasn’t my phone you found. I don’t know how it got into my bag. This is mine,” I say, brandishing my iPhone in its melon-striped case.

Honestly, you’d have to be clueless to bring a phone to Mr. Avery’s lab. He has a strict no-phone policy and spends the first ten minutes of every class rooting through backpacks like he’s head of airline security and we’re all on the watch list. My phone was in my locker, like always.

“You too?” Addy turns to me so quickly, her blond shampoo-ad hair swirls around her shoulders. She must have been surgically removed from her boyfriend in order to show up alone. “That wasn’t my phone either.”

“Me three,” Cooper chimes in. His Southern accent makes it sound like thray. He and Addy exchange surprised looks, and I wonder how this is news to them when they’re part of the same clique. Maybe überpopular people have better things to talk about than unfair detentions.

“Somebody punked us!” Simon leans forward with his elbows on the desk, looking spring-loaded and ready to pounce on fresh gossip. His gaze darts over all four of us, clustered in the middle of the otherwise empty classroom, before settling on Nate. “Why would anybody want to trap a bunch of students with mostly spotless records in detention? Seems like the sort of thing that, oh, I don’t know, a guy who’s here all the time might do for fun.”

I look at Nate, but can’t picture it. Rigging detention sounds like work, and everything about Nate—from his messy dark hair to his ratty leather jacket—screams Can’t be bothered. Or yawns it, maybe. He meets my eyes but doesn’t say a word, just tips his chair back even farther. Another millimeter and he’ll fall right over.

Cooper sits up straighter, a frown crossing his Captain America face. “Hang on. I thought this was just a mix-up, but if the same thing happened to all of us, it’s somebody’s stupid idea of a prank. And I’m missing baseball practice because of it.” He says it like he’s a heart surgeon being detained from a lifesaving operation.

Mr. Avery rolls his eyes. “Save the conspiracy theories for another teacher. I’m not buying it. You all know the rules against bringing phones to class, and you broke them.” He gives Simon an especially sour glance. Teachers know About That exists, but there’s not much they can do to stop it. Simon only uses initials to identify people and never talks openly about school. “Now listen up. You’re here until four. I want each of you to write a five-hundred-word essay on how technology is ruining American high schools. Anyone who can’t follow the rules gets another detention tomorrow.”

“What do we write with?” Addy asks. “There aren’t any computers here.” Most classrooms have Chromebooks, but Mr. Avery, who looks like he should have retired a decade ago, is a holdout.

Mr. Avery crosses to Addy’s desk and taps the corner of a lined yellow notepad. We all have one. “Explore the magic of longhand writing. It’s a lost art.”

Addy’s pretty, heart-shaped face is a mask of confusion. “But how do we know when we’ve reached five hundred words?”

“Count,” Mr. Avery replies. His eyes drop to the phone I’m still holding. “And hand that over, Miss Rojas.”

“Doesn’t the fact that you’re confiscating my phone twice give you pause? Who has two phones?” I ask. Nate grins, so quick I almost miss it. “Seriously, Mr. Avery, somebody was playing a joke on us.”

Mr. Avery’s snowy mustache twitches in annoyance, and he extends his hand with a beckoning motion. “Phone, Miss Rojas. Unless you want a return visit.” I give it over with a sigh as he looks disapprovingly at the others. “The phones I took from the rest of you earlier are in my desk. You’ll get them back after detention.” Addy and Cooper exchange amused glances, probably because their actual phones are safe in their backpacks.

Mr. Avery tosses my phone into a drawer and sits behind the teacher’s desk, opening a book as he prepares to ignore us for the next hour. I pull out a pen, tap it against my yellow notepad, and contemplate the assignment. Does Mr. Avery really believe technology is ruining schools? That’s a pretty sweeping statement to make over a few contraband phones. Maybe it’s a trap and he’s looking for us to contradict him instead of agree.

I glance at Nate, who’s bent over his notepad writing computers suck over and over in block letters.

It’s possible I’m overthinking this.

Cooper

Monday, September 24, 3:05 p.m.

My hand hurts within minutes. It’s pathetic, I guess, but I can’t remember the last time I wrote anything longhand. Plus I’m using my right hand, which never feels natural no matter how many years I’ve done it. My father insisted I learn to write right-handed in second grade after he first saw me pitch. Your left arm’s gold, he told me. Don’t waste it on crap that don’t matter. Which is anything but pitching as far as he’s concerned.

That was when he started calling me Cooperstown, like the baseball hall of fame. Nothing like putting a little pressure on an eight-year-old.

Simon reaches for his backpack and roots around, unzipping every section. He hoists it onto his lap and peers inside. “Where the hell’s my water bottle?”

“No talking, Mr. Kelleher,” Mr. Avery says without looking up.

“I know, but—my water bottle’s missing. And I’m thirsty.”

Mr. Avery points toward the sink at the back of the room, its counter crowded with beakers and petri dishes. “Get yourself a drink. Quietly.”

Simon gets up and grabs a cup from a stack on the counter, filling it with water from the tap. He heads back to his seat and puts the cup on his desk, but seems distracted by Nate’s methodical writing. “Dude,” he says, kicking his sneaker against the leg of Nate’s desk. “Seriously. Did you put those phones in our backpacks to mess with us?”

Now Mr. Avery looks up, frowning. “I said quietly, Mr. Kelleher.”

Nate leans back and crosses his arms. “Why would I do that?”

Simon shrugs. “Why do you do anything? So you’ll have company for whatever your screw-up of the day was?”

“One more word out of either of you and it’s detention tomorrow,” Mr. Avery warns.

Simon opens his mouth anyway, but before he can speak there’s the sound of tires squealing and then the crash of two cars hitting each other. Addy gasps and I brace myself against my desk like somebody just rear-ended me. Nate, who looks glad for the interruption, is the first on his feet toward the window. “Who gets into a fender bender in the school parking lot?” he asks.

Bronwyn looks at Mr. Avery like she’s asking for permission, and when he gets up from his desk she heads for the window as well. Addy follows her, and I finally unfold myself from my seat. Might as well see what’s going on. I lean against the ledge to look outside, and Simon comes up beside me with a disparaging laugh as he surveys the scene below.

Two cars, an old red one and a nondescript gray one, are smashed into each other at a right angle. We all stare at them in silence until Mr. Avery lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’d better make sure no one was hurt.” He runs his eyes over all of us and zeroes in on Bronwyn as the most responsible of the bunch. “Miss Rojas, keep this room contained until I get back.”

“Okay,” Bronwyn says, casting a nervous glance toward Nate. We stay at the window, watching the scene below, but before Mr. Avery or another teacher appears outside, both cars start their engines and drive out of the parking lot.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Simon says. He heads back to his desk and picks up his cup, but instead of sitting he wanders to the front of the room and scans the periodic table of elements poster. He leans out into the hallway like he’s about to leave, but then he turns and raises his cup like he’s toasting us. “Anyone else want some water?”

“I do,” Addy says, slipping into her chair.

“Get it yourself, princess.” Simon smirks. Addy rolls her eyes and stays put while Simon leans against Mr. Avery’s desk. “Literally, huh? What’ll you do with yourself now that homecoming’s over? Big gap between now and senior prom.”

Addy looks at me without answering. I don’t blame her. Simon’s train of thought almost never goes anywhere good when it comes to our friends. He acts like he’s above caring whether he’s popular, but he was pretty smug when he wound up on the junior prom court last spring. I’m still not sure how he pulled that off, unless he traded keeping secrets for votes.

Simon was nowhere to be found on homecoming court last week, though. I was voted king, so maybe I’m next on his list to harass, or whatever the hell he’s doing.

“What’s your point, Simon?” I ask, taking a seat next to Addy. Addy and I aren’t close, exactly, but I kind of feel protective of her. She’s been dating my best friend since freshman year, and she’s a sweet girl. Also not the kind of person who knows how to stand up to a guy like Simon who just won’t quit.

“She’s a princess and you’re a jock,” he says. He thrusts his chin toward Bronwyn, then at Nate. “And you’re a brain. And you’re a criminal. You’re all walking teen-movie stereotypes.”

“What about you?” Bronwyn asks. She’s been hovering near the window, but now goes to her desk and perches on top of it. She crosses her legs and pulls her dark ponytail over one shoulder. Something about her is cuter this year. New glasses, maybe? Longer hair? All of a sudden, she’s kind of working this sexy-nerd thing.

“I’m the omniscient narrator,” Simon says.

Bronwyn’s brows rise above her black frames. “There’s no such thing in teen movies.”

“Ah, but Bronwyn.” Simon winks and chugs his water in one long gulp. “There is such a thing in life.”

He says it like a threat, and I wonder if he’s got something on Bronwyn for that stupid app of his. I hate that thing. Almost all my friends have been on it at one point or another, and sometimes it causes real problems. My buddy Luis and his girlfriend broke up because of something Simon wrote. Though it was a true story about Luis hooking up with his girlfriend’s cousin. But still. That stuff doesn’t have to be published. Hallway gossip is bad enough.

And if I’m being honest, I’m pretty freaked at what Simon could write about me if he put his mind to it.

Simon holds his cup up, grimacing. “This tastes like crap.” He drops the cup, and I roll my eyes at his attempt at drama. Even when he falls to the floor, I still think he’s messing around. But then the wheezing starts.\"},{\"id\":\"51044922T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Chapter One

Bronwyn

Monday, September 24, 2:55 p.m.

A sex tape. A pregnancy scare. Two cheating scandals. And that’s just this week’s update. If all you knew of Bayview High was Simon Kelleher’s gossip app, you’d wonder how anyone found time to go to class.

“Old news, Bronwyn,” says a voice over my shoulder. “Wait till you see tomorrow’s post.”

Damn. I hate getting caught reading About That, especially by its creator. I lower my phone and slam my locker shut. “Whose lives are you ruining next, Simon?”

Simon falls into step beside me as I move against the flow of students heading for the exit. “It’s a public service,” he says with a dismissive wave. “You tutor Reggie Crawley, don’t you? Wouldn’t you rather know he has a camera in his bedroom?”

I don’t bother answering. Me getting anywhere near the bedroom of perpetual stoner Reggie Crawley is about as likely as Simon growing a conscience.

“Anyway, they bring it on themselves. If people didn’t lie and cheat, I’d be out of business.” Simon’s cold blue eyes take in my lengthening strides. “Where are you rushing off to? Covering yourself in extracurricular glory?”

I wish. As if to taunt me, an alert crosses my phone: Mathlete practice, 3 p.m., Epoch Coffee. Followed by a text from one of my teammates: Evan’s here.

Of course he is. The cute Mathlete—less of an oxymoron than you might think—seems to only ever show up when I can’t.

“Not exactly,” I say. As a general rule, and especially lately, I try to give Simon as little information as possible. We push through green metal doors to the back stairwell, a dividing line between the dinginess of the original Bayview High and its bright, airy new wing. Every year more wealthy families get priced out of San Diego and come fifteen miles east to Bayview, expecting that their tax dollars will buy them a nicer school experience than popcorn ceilings and scarred linoleum.

Simon’s still on my heels when I reach Mr. Avery’s lab on the third floor, and I half turn with my arms crossed. “Don’t you have someplace to be?”

“Yeah. Detention,” Simon says, and waits for me to keep walking. When I grasp the knob instead, he bursts out laughing. “You’re kidding me. You too? What’s your crime?”

“I’m wrongfully accused,” I mutter, and yank the door open. Three other students are already seated, and I pause to take them in. Not the group I would have predicted. Except one.

Nate Macauley tips his chair back and smirks at me. “You make a wrong turn? This is detention, not student council.”

He should know. Nate’s been in trouble since fifth grade, which is right around the time we last spoke. The gossip mill tells me he’s on probation with Bayview’s finest for . . . something. It might be a DUI; it might be drug dealing. He’s a notorious supplier, but my knowledge is purely theoretical.

“Save the commentary.” Mr. Avery checks something off on a clipboard and closes the door behind Simon. High arched windows lining the back wall send triangles of afternoon sun splashing across the floor, and faint sounds of football practice float from the field behind the parking lot below.

I take a seat as Cooper Clay, who’s palming a crumpled piece of paper like a baseball, whispers “Heads up, Addy” and tosses it toward the girl across from him. Addy Prentiss blinks, smiles uncertainly, and lets the ball drop to the floor.

The classroom clock inches toward three, and I follow its progress with a helpless feeling of injustice. I shouldn’t even be here. I should be at Epoch Coffee, flirting awkwardly with Evan Neiman over differential equations.

Mr. Avery is a give-detention-first, ask-questions-never kind of guy, but maybe there’s still time to change his mind. I clear my throat and start to raise my hand until I notice Nate’s smirk broadening. “Mr. Avery, that wasn’t my phone you found. I don’t know how it got into my bag. This is mine,” I say, brandishing my iPhone in its melon-striped case.

Honestly, you’d have to be clueless to bring a phone to Mr. Avery’s lab. He has a strict no-phone policy and spends the first ten minutes of every class rooting through backpacks like he’s head of airline security and we’re all on the watch list. My phone was in my locker, like always.

“You too?” Addy turns to me so quickly, her blond shampoo-ad hair swirls around her shoulders. She must have been surgically removed from her boyfriend in order to show up alone. “That wasn’t my phone either.”

“Me three,” Cooper chimes in. His Southern accent makes it sound like thray. He and Addy exchange surprised looks, and I wonder how this is news to them when they’re part of the same clique. Maybe überpopular people have better things to talk about than unfair detentions.

“Somebody punked us!” Simon leans forward with his elbows on the desk, looking spring-loaded and ready to pounce on fresh gossip. His gaze darts over all four of us, clustered in the middle of the otherwise empty classroom, before settling on Nate. “Why would anybody want to trap a bunch of students with mostly spotless records in detention? Seems like the sort of thing that, oh, I don’t know, a guy who’s here all the time might do for fun.”

I look at Nate, but can’t picture it. Rigging detention sounds like work, and everything about Nate—from his messy dark hair to his ratty leather jacket—screams Can’t be bothered. Or yawns it, maybe. He meets my eyes but doesn’t say a word, just tips his chair back even farther. Another millimeter and he’ll fall right over.

Cooper sits up straighter, a frown crossing his Captain America face. “Hang on. I thought this was just a mix-up, but if the same thing happened to all of us, it’s somebody’s stupid idea of a prank. And I’m missing baseball practice because of it.” He says it like he’s a heart surgeon being detained from a lifesaving operation.

Mr. Avery rolls his eyes. “Save the conspiracy theories for another teacher. I’m not buying it. You all know the rules against bringing phones to class, and you broke them.” He gives Simon an especially sour glance. Teachers know About That exists, but there’s not much they can do to stop it. Simon only uses initials to identify people and never talks openly about school. “Now listen up. You’re here until four. I want each of you to write a five-hundred-word essay on how technology is ruining American high schools. Anyone who can’t follow the rules gets another detention tomorrow.”

“What do we write with?” Addy asks. “There aren’t any computers here.” Most classrooms have Chromebooks, but Mr. Avery, who looks like he should have retired a decade ago, is a holdout.

Mr. Avery crosses to Addy’s desk and taps the corner of a lined yellow notepad. We all have one. “Explore the magic of longhand writing. It’s a lost art.”

Addy’s pretty, heart-shaped face is a mask of confusion. “But how do we know when we’ve reached five hundred words?”

“Count,” Mr. Avery replies. His eyes drop to the phone I’m still holding. “And hand that over, Miss Rojas.”

“Doesn’t the fact that you’re confiscating my phone twice give you pause? Who has two phones?” I ask. Nate grins, so quick I almost miss it. “Seriously, Mr. Avery, somebody was playing a joke on us.”

Mr. Avery’s snowy mustache twitches in annoyance, and he extends his hand with a beckoning motion. “Phone, Miss Rojas. Unless you want a return visit.” I give it over with a sigh as he looks disapprovingly at the others. “The phones I took from the rest of you earlier are in my desk. You’ll get them back after detention.” Addy and Cooper exchange amused glances, probably because their actual phones are safe in their backpacks.

Mr. Avery tosses my phone into a drawer and sits behind the teacher’s desk, opening a book as he prepares to ignore us for the next hour. I pull out a pen, tap it against my yellow notepad, and contemplate the assignment. Does Mr. Avery really believe technology is ruining schools? That’s a pretty sweeping statement to make over a few contraband phones. Maybe it’s a trap and he’s looking for us to contradict him instead of agree.

I glance at Nate, who’s bent over his notepad writing computers suck over and over in block letters.

It’s possible I’m overthinking this.

Cooper

Monday, September 24, 3:05 p.m.

My hand hurts within minutes. It’s pathetic, I guess, but I can’t remember the last time I wrote anything longhand. Plus I’m using my right hand, which never feels natural no matter how many years I’ve done it. My father insisted I learn to write right-handed in second grade after he first saw me pitch. Your left arm’s gold, he told me. Don’t waste it on crap that don’t matter. Which is anything but pitching as far as he’s concerned.

That was when he started calling me Cooperstown, like the baseball hall of fame. Nothing like putting a little pressure on an eight-year-old.

Simon reaches for his backpack and roots around, unzipping every section. He hoists it onto his lap and peers inside. “Where the hell’s my water bottle?”

“No talking, Mr. Kelleher,” Mr. Avery says without looking up.

“I know, but—my water bottle’s missing. And I’m thirsty.”

Mr. Avery points toward the sink at the back of the room, its counter crowded with beakers and petri dishes. “Get yourself a drink. Quietly.”

Simon gets up and grabs a cup from a stack on the counter, filling it with water from the tap. He heads back to his seat and puts the cup on his desk, but seems distracted by Nate’s methodical writing. “Dude,” he says, kicking his sneaker against the leg of Nate’s desk. “Seriously. Did you put those phones in our backpacks to mess with us?”

Now Mr. Avery looks up, frowning. “I said quietly, Mr. Kelleher.”

Nate leans back and crosses his arms. “Why would I do that?”

Simon shrugs. “Why do you do anything? So you’ll have company for whatever your screw-up of the day was?”

“One more word out of either of you and it’s detention tomorrow,” Mr. Avery warns.

Simon opens his mouth anyway, but before he can speak there’s the sound of tires squealing and then the crash of two cars hitting each other. Addy gasps and I brace myself against my desk like somebody just rear-ended me. Nate, who looks glad for the interruption, is the first on his feet toward the window. “Who gets into a fender bender in the school parking lot?” he asks.

Bronwyn looks at Mr. Avery like she’s asking for permission, and when he gets up from his desk she heads for the window as well. Addy follows her, and I finally unfold myself from my seat. Might as well see what’s going on. I lean against the ledge to look outside, and Simon comes up beside me with a disparaging laugh as he surveys the scene below.

Two cars, an old red one and a nondescript gray one, are smashed into each other at a right angle. We all stare at them in silence until Mr. Avery lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’d better make sure no one was hurt.” He runs his eyes over all of us and zeroes in on Bronwyn as the most responsible of the bunch. “Miss Rojas, keep this room contained until I get back.”

“Okay,” Bronwyn says, casting a nervous glance toward Nate. We stay at the window, watching the scene below, but before Mr. Avery or another teacher appears outside, both cars start their engines and drive out of the parking lot.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Simon says. He heads back to his desk and picks up his cup, but instead of sitting he wanders to the front of the room and scans the periodic table of elements poster. He leans out into the hallway like he’s about to leave, but then he turns and raises his cup like he’s toasting us. “Anyone else want some water?”

“I do,” Addy says, slipping into her chair.

“Get it yourself, princess.” Simon smirks. Addy rolls her eyes and stays put while Simon leans against Mr. Avery’s desk. “Literally, huh? What’ll you do with yourself now that homecoming’s over? Big gap between now and senior prom.”

Addy looks at me without answering. I don’t blame her. Simon’s train of thought almost never goes anywhere good when it comes to our friends. He acts like he’s above caring whether he’s popular, but he was pretty smug when he wound up on the junior prom court last spring. I’m still not sure how he pulled that off, unless he traded keeping secrets for votes.

Simon was nowhere to be found on homecoming court last week, though. I was voted king, so maybe I’m next on his list to harass, or whatever the hell he’s doing.

“What’s your point, Simon?” I ask, taking a seat next to Addy. Addy and I aren’t close, exactly, but I kind of feel protective of her. She’s been dating my best friend since freshman year, and she’s a sweet girl. Also not the kind of person who knows how to stand up to a guy like Simon who just won’t quit.

“She’s a princess and you’re a jock,” he says. He thrusts his chin toward Bronwyn, then at Nate. “And you’re a brain. And you’re a criminal. You’re all walking teen-movie stereotypes.”

“What about you?” Bronwyn asks. She’s been hovering near the window, but now goes to her desk and perches on top of it. She crosses her legs and pulls her dark ponytail over one shoulder. Something about her is cuter this year. New glasses, maybe? Longer hair? All of a sudden, she’s kind of working this sexy-nerd thing.

“I’m the omniscient narrator,” Simon says.

Bronwyn’s brows rise above her black frames. “There’s no such thing in teen movies.”

“Ah, but Bronwyn.” Simon winks and chugs his water in one long gulp. “There is such a thing in life.”

He says it like a threat, and I wonder if he’s got something on Bronwyn for that stupid app of his. I hate that thing. Almost all my friends have been on it at one point or another, and sometimes it causes real problems. My buddy Luis and his girlfriend broke up because of something Simon wrote. Though it was a true story about Luis hooking up with his girlfriend’s cousin. But still. That stuff doesn’t have to be published. Hallway gossip is bad enough.

And if I’m being honest, I’m pretty freaked at what Simon could write about me if he put his mind to it.

Simon holds his cup up, grimacing. “This tastes like crap.” He drops the cup, and I roll my eyes at his attempt at drama. Even when he falls to the floor, I still think he’s messing around. But then the wheezing starts.\"},{\"id\":\"116001086T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"A New York Times Bestseller
An Entertainment Weekly Best YA Book of the Year Selection
A Buzzfeed Best YA Book of the Year Selection
A New York Public Library's Best Book for Teens Selection
A Popcrush Best Young Adult Book of the Year Selection
A CBC Teen Choice Book Award Nominee
A Bustle Best Young Adult Book of the Month
A Goodreads Best Young Adult Book of the Year Nominee
A YALSA Top Ten Best Fiction Book Nominee
A YALSA Quick Pick for Reluctant Young Adult Readers
A Kirkus Reviews Best Young Adult Book of the Century

“Pretty Little Liars meets The Breakfast Club....so make room for One of Us Is Lying in your bags, because this is one carry-on you won’t want to put down.\\\" —Entertainment Weekly Online

“You’ll tear through this juicy, super-fun (if murder can ever be fun?) thriller.\\\"—Bustle

\\\"A whodunit with a Breakfast Club twist...following four unique voices on a chase to find the killer, this one will keep you guessing until the very, very end.\\\"—Popcrush

\\\"Twisty plotting, breakneck pacing and intriguing characterisation add up to an exciting, single-sitting thrillerish treat.\\\"—The Guardian

\\\"This is no ordinary whodunit…surprising and relevant.\\\"—USA Today

\\\"Readers will have a hard time putting this clever page-turner down.\\\" —BookPage Online

“An addictive, devour-in-one-sitting thriller with so many twists and turns you'll be wondering until the very end: Who really killed Simon?”—Kara Thomas, author of The Darkest Corners and Little Monsters

★\\\"[As] McManus's intense mystery unfolds...each character becomes more complex and nuanced, adding richness and depth to the suspense.\\\" —VOYA, Starred Review

\\\"This fast-paced blend of Gossip Girl, Pretty Little Liars, and classic John Hughes will leave readers racing to the finish as the try to unravel the mystery on their own.\\\"—Kirkus Reviews

\\\"One of Us Is Lying is flat-out addictive...[McManus] weaves an authentic, suspenseful mystery that readers can imagine taking place at their very own high school.”—RT Book Reviews

\\\"A smart, twisted, and unpredictable YA mystery that will have readers guessing until the very end.\\\"—SLJ

\\\"An engaging, enticing look at the pressures of high school and the things that cause a person to lose control.\\\"—Booklist\"},{\"id\":\"116001085T\",\"type\":\"Award Note\",\"linkText\":\"Award Note\",\"typeId\":\"1036\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"2019 Louisiana Young Reader's Choice Master List, Nominated
2019 Maryland Black-Eyed Susan Award, Winner
2019 New Jersey Garden State Teen Book Award, Winner
2020 New Mexico Land of Enchantment Book Award, Nominated
2018 Westchester Fiction Award, Winner
2022 Wisconsin Golden Archer Award, Nominated
\"},{\"id\":\"92608434T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Imagine if at the beginning of The Breakfast Club, one of them is murdered. This addictive whodunit centers around four teenagers who are suspected of killing their classmate. The unexpected plot twist at the very end will leave you speechless.

\"},{\"id\":\"85835496T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Imagine if at the beginning of The Breakfast Club, one of them is murdered. This addictive whodunit centers around four teenagers, who are suspected of killing their classmate. The unexpected plot-twist at the very end will have you speechless.

\"},{\"id\":\"116001087T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Karen M. McManus earned her BA in English from the College of the Holy Cross and her MA in journalism from Northeastern University. She is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of One of Us Is Lying, its sequel One of Us Is Next, Two Can Keep a Secret and The Cousins. Her work has been published in more than 40 languages. To learn more about Karen and her books, visit karenmcmanus.com, or follow @writerkmc on Twitter and Instagram.

\"},{\"id\":\"49726302T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"EBOOK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Karen M. McManus earned her BA in English from the College of the Holy Cross and her MA in journalism from Northeastern University. She is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of One of Us Is Lying, its sequel One of Us Is Next, Two Can Keep a Secret and The Cousins. Her work has been published in more than 40 languages. To learn more about Karen and her books, visit karenmcmanus.com, or follow @writerkmc on Twitter and Instagram.\"},{\"id\":\"85703156T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Karen M. McManus earned her BA in English from the College of the Holy Cross and her MA in journalism from Northeastern University. She is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of One of Us Is Lying, its sequel One of Us Is Next, Two Can Keep a Secret and The Cousins. Her work has been published in more than 40 languages. To learn more about Karen and her books, visit karenmcmanus.com, or follow @writerkmc on Twitter and Instagram.\"},{\"id\":\"49717532T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Karen M. McManus earned her BA in English from the College of the Holy Cross and her MA in journalism from Northeastern University. She is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of One of Us Is Lying, its sequel One of Us Is Next, Two Can Keep a Secret and The Cousins. Her work has been published in more than 40 languages. To learn more about Karen and her books, visit karenmcmanus.com, or follow @writerkmc on Twitter and Instagram.\"},{\"id\":\"95151812T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Karen M. McManus earned her BA in English from the College of the Holy Cross and her MA in journalism from Northeastern University. She is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of One of Us Is Lying, its sequel One of Us Is Next, Two Can Keep a Secret and The Cousins. Her work has been published in more than 40 languages. To learn more about Karen and her books, visit karenmcmanus.com, or follow @writerkmc on Twitter and Instagram.\"}]",{"_41":2914,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1155,"_1111":2915},"gid://shopify/Metafield/41861009408241","One-of-Us-Is-Lying/Karen-M-McManus",{"_41":2917,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1159,"_1111":2918},"gid://shopify/Metafield/41861003608305","1124568207",{"_41":2920,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1163,"_1111":1069},"gid://shopify/Metafield/41861006557425",{"_41":2922,"_1123":1124,"_1125":931,"_1111":2891},"gid://shopify/Metafield/41861010587889",{"_41":2924,"_1123":1124,"_1125":1117,"_1111":2869},"gid://shopify/Metafield/41861001543921",{"_41":2926,"_1123":1124,"_1125":2927,"_1111":2928},"gid://shopify/Metafield/41861003772145","noMerchFlag","N",{"_41":2930,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1171,"_1111":2108},"gid://shopify/Metafield/78364488237297",{"_41":2932,"_1123":1170,"_1125":1175,"_1111":2933},"gid://shopify/Metafield/67191946805489","39",{"_33":2935,"_942":2936,"_963":-5,"_964":-5,"_965":-5,"_966":-5,"_967":-5,"_968":-5,"_969":-5},"CzvlN5CsdF1MPI4OF8_W3",{"_1064":1065,"_41":2937,"_72":2938,"_1068":1069,"_886":2939,"_893":2940,"_1072":2941,"_1074":2942,"_1081":2945,"_1089":59,"_1090":2947,"_1096":2950,"_931":2959,"_1117":2961,"_1119":2962},"gid://shopify/Product/8889990021361","Twilight","9780316007443","The book that inspired the global film phenomenon, starring Kristin Stewart and Robert Pattinson. Fall in love with the addictive, suspenseful love story between a teenage girl and a vampire that redefined romance for a generation, from #1 New York Times bestselling author Stephenie Meyer. Isabella Swan's move to Forks—a small, perpetually rainy town in Washington—could have been the most boring move she ever made. But once she meets the mysterious and alluring Edward Cullen, Bella's life takes a thrilling and terrifying turn. So far, Edward has managed to keep his vampire identity a secret in the small community he lives in, but now nobody is safe, especially Isabella, the person Edward holds most dear. The lovers find themselves balanced precariously on the point of a knife—between desire and danger. Deeply romantic and extraordinarily suspenseful, Twilight captures the struggle between defying our instincts and satisfying our desires. This is a love story with bite.Praise for The Twilight Saga “This tale of tortured demon lovers entices” —Kirkus Reviews “Piles on the suspense and romance.” —USA Today “A literary phenomenon.” —New York Times “In the tradition of Anne Rice. . . this dark romance is gripping.” —Booklist (starred review) A New York Times bestseller A New York Times \"Editor's Choice\" An Amazon best of #Booktok Book","

The book that inspired the global film phenomenon, starring Kristin Stewart and Robert Pattinson.

Fall in love with the addictive, suspenseful love story between a teenage girl and a vampire that redefined romance for a generation, from #1 New York Times bestselling author Stephenie Meyer.

Isabella Swan's move to Forks—a small, perpetually rainy town in Washington—could have been the most boring move she ever made. But once she meets the mysterious and alluring Edward Cullen, Bella's life takes a thrilling and terrifying turn.

So far, Edward has managed to keep his vampire identity a secret in the small community he lives in, but now nobody is safe, especially Isabella, the person Edward holds most dear. The lovers find themselves balanced precariously on the point of a knife—between desire and danger.

Deeply romantic and extraordinarily suspenseful, Twilight  captures the struggle between defying our instincts and satisfying our desires. This is a love story with bite.

Praise for The Twilight Saga
“This tale of tortured demon lovers entices” —Kirkus Reviews
“Piles on the suspense and romance.” —USA Today
“A literary phenomenon.” —New York Times
 “In the tradition of Anne Rice. . . this dark romance is gripping.” —Booklist (starred review)
 
A New York Times  bestseller
A New York Times \"Editor's Choice\"
An Amazon best of #Booktok Book

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Twilight

By Stephanie Meyer

Little Brown for Young Readers

Copyright © 2005 Stephenie Meyer
All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-316-16017-2

Chapter One

Forks High School had a frightening total of only three hundred and fifty-seven - now fifty-eight - students; there were more than seven hundred people in my junior class alone back home. All of the kids here had grown up together-their grandparents had been toddlers together. I would be the new girl from the big city, a curiosity, a freak.

Maybe, if I looked like a girl from Phoenix should, I could work this to my advantage. But physically, I'd never fit in anywhere. I should be tan, sporty, blond - a volleyball player, or a cheerleader, perhaps - all the things that go with living in the valley of the sun.

Instead, I was ivory-skinned, without even the excuse of blue eyes or red hair, despite the constant sunshine. I had always been slender, but soft somehow, obviously not an athlete; I didn't have the necessary hand-eye coordination to play sports without humiliating myself - and harming both myself and anyone else who stood too close.

When I finished putting my clothes in the old pine dresser, I took my bag of bathroom necessities and went to the communal bathroom to clean myself up after the day of travel. I looked at my face in the mirror as I brushed through my tangled, damp hair. Maybe it was the light, but already I looked sallower, unhealthy. My skin could be pretty - it was very clear, almost translucent- looking - but it all depended on color. I had no color here.

Facing my pallid reflection in the mirror, I was forced to admit that I was lying to myself. It wasn't just physically that I'd never fit in. And if I couldn't find a niche in a school with three thousand people, what were my chances here?

I didn't relate well to people my age. Maybe the truth was that I didn't relate well to people, period. Even my mother, who I was closer to than anyone else on the planet, was never in harmony with me, never on exactly the same page. Sometimes I wondered if I was seeing the same things through my eyes that the rest of the world was seeing through theirs. Maybe there was a glitch in my brain. But the cause didn't matter. All that mattered was the effect. And tomorrow would be just the beginning.

I didn't sleep well that night, even after I was done crying. The constant whooshing of the rain and wind across the roof wouldn't fade into the background. I pulled the faded old quilt over my head, and later added the pillow, too. But I couldn't fall asleep until after midnight, when the rain finally settled into a quieter drizzle.

Thick fog was all I could see out my window in the morning, and I could feel the claustrophobia creeping up on me. You could never see the sky here; it was like a cage.

Breakfast with Charlie was a quiet event. He wished me good luck at school. I thanked him, knowing his hope was wasted. Good luck tended to avoid me. Charlie left first, off to the police station that was his wife and family. After he left, I sat at the old square oak table in one of the three unmatching chairs and examined his small kitchen, with its dark paneled walls, bright yellow cabinets, and white linoleum floor. Nothing was changed. My mother had painted the cabinets eighteen years ago in an attempt to bring some sunshine into the house. Over the small fireplace in the adjoining handkerchief-sized family room was a row of pictures. First a wedding picture of Charlie and my mom in Las Vegas, then one of the three of us in the hospital after I was born, taken by a helpful nurse, followed by the procession of my school pictures up to last year's. Those were embarrassing to look at - I would have to see what I could do to get Charlie to put them somewhere else, at least while I was living here.

It was impossible, being in this house, not to realize that Charlie had never gotten over my mom. It made me uncomfortable.

I didn't want to be too early to school, but I couldn't stay in the house anymore. I donned my jacket - which had the feel of a biohazard suit - and headed out into the rain.

It was just drizzling still, not enough to soak me through immediately as I reached for the house key that was always hidden under the eaves by the door, and locked up. The sloshing of my new waterproof boots was unnerving. I missed the normal crunch of gravel as I walked. I couldn't pause and admire my truck again as I wanted; I was in a hurry to get out of the misty wet that swirled around my head and clung to my hair under my hood.

Inside the truck, it was nice and dry. Either Billy or Charlie had obviously cleaned it up, but the tan upholstered seats still smelled faintly of tobacco, gasoline, and peppermint. The engine started quickly, to my relief, but loudly, roaring to life and then idling at top volume. Well, a truck this old was bound to have a flaw. The antique radio worked, a plus that I hadn't expected.

Finding the school wasn't difficult, though I'd never been there before. The school was, like most other things, just off the highway. It was not obvious that it was a school; only the sign, which declared it to be the Forks High School, made me stop. It looked like a collection of matching houses, built with maroon-colored bricks. There were so many trees and shrubs I couldn't see its size at first. Where was the feel of the institution? I wondered nostalgically. Where were the chain-link fences, the metal detectors?

I parked in front of the first building, which had a small sign over the door reading FRONT OFFICE. No one else was parked there, so I was sure it was off limits, but I decided I would get directions inside instead of circling around in the rain like an idiot. I stepped unwillingly out of the toasty truck cab and walked down a little stone path lined with dark hedges. I took a deep breath before opening the door.

Inside, it was brightly lit, and warmer than I'd hoped. The office was small; a little waiting area with padded folding chairs, orange-flecked commercial carpet, notices and awards cluttering the walls, a big clock ticking loudly. Plants grew everywhere in large plastic pots, as if there wasn't enough greenery outside. The room was cut in half by a long counter, cluttered with wire baskets full of papers and brightly colored flyers taped to its front. There were three desks behind the counter, one of which was manned by a large, red-haired woman wearing glasses. She was wearing a purple t-shirt, which immediately made me feel overdressed.

The red-haired woman looked up. \\\\\\\"Can I help you?\\\\\\\"

\\\\\\\"I'm Isabella Swan,\\\\\\\" I informed her, and saw the immediate awareness light her eyes. I was expected, a topic of gossip no doubt. Daughter of the Chief's flighty ex-wife, come home at last.

\\\\\\\"Of course,\\\\\\\" she said. She dug through a precariously stacked pile of documents on her desk till she found the ones she was looking for. \\\\\\\"I have your schedule right here, and a map of the school.\\\\\\\" She brought several sheets to the counter to show me.

She went through my classes for me, highlighting the best route to each on the map, and gave me a slip to have each teacher sign, which I was to bring back at the end of the day. She smiled at me and hoped, like Charlie, that I would like it here in Forks. I smiled back as convincingly as I could.

When I went back out to my truck, other students were starting to arrive. I drove around the school, following the line of traffic. I was glad to see that most of the cars were older like mine, nothing flashy. At home I'd lived in one of the few lower-income neighborhoods that were included in the Paradise Valley District. It was a common thing to see a new Mercedes or Porsche in the student lot. The nicest car here was a shiny Volvo, and it stood out. Still, I cut the engine as soon as I was in a spot, so that the thunderous volume wouldn't draw attention to me. I looked at the map in the truck, trying to memorize it now; hopefully I wouldn't have to walk around with it stuck in front of my nose all day. I stuffed everything in my bag, slung the strap over my shoulder, and sucked in a huge breath. I can do this, I lied to myself feebly. No one was going to bite me. I finally exhaled and stepped out of the truck.

I kept my face pulled back into my hood as I walked to the sidewalk, crowded with teenagers. My plain black jacket didn't stand out, I noticed with relief.

Once I got around the cafeteria, building three was easy to spot. A large black \\\\\\\"3\\\\\\\" was painted on a white square on the east corner. I felt my breathing gradually creeping toward hyperventilation as I approached the door. I tried holding my breath as I followed two unisex raincoats through the door.

The classroom was small. The people in front of me stopped just inside the door to hang up their coats on a long row of hooks. I copied them. They were two girls, one a porcelain-colored blonde, the other also pale, with light brown hair. At least my skin wouldn't be a standout here.

I took the slip up to the teacher, a tall, balding man whose desk had a nameplate identifying him as Mr. Mason. He gawked at me when he saw my name - not an encouraging response - and of course I flushed tomato red. But at least he sent me to an empty desk at the back without introducing me to the class. It was harder for my new classmates to stare at me in the back, but somehow, they managed. I kept my eyes down on the reading list the teacher had given me. It was fairly basic: Bront?, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Faulkner. I'd already read everything. That was comforting ... and boring. I wondered if my mom would send me my folder of old essays, or if she would think that was cheating. I went through different arguments with her in my head while the teacher droned on.

When the bell rang, a nasal buzzing sound, a gangly boy with skin problems and hair black as an oil slick leaned across the aisle to talk to me.

\\\\\\\"You're Isabella Swan, aren't you?\\\\\\\" He looked like the overly helpful, chess club type.

\\\\\\\"Bella,\\\\\\\" I corrected. Everyone within a three-seat radius turned to look at me.

\\\\\\\"Where's your next class?\\\\\\\" he asked.

I had to check in my bag. \\\\\\\"Um, Government, with Jefferson, in building six.\\\\\\\"

There was nowhere to look without meeting curious eyes.

\\\\\\\"I'm headed toward building four, I could show you the way....\\\\\\\" Definitely over- helpful. \\\\\\\"I'm Eric,\\\\\\\" he added. I smiled tentatively. \\\\\\\"Thanks.\\\\\\\"

We got our jackets and headed out into the rain, which had picked up. I could have sworn several people behind us were walking close enough to eavesdrop. I hoped I wasn't getting paranoid.

\\\\\\\"So, this is a lot different than Phoenix, huh?\\\\\\\" he asked.

\\\\\\\"Very.\\\\\\\"

\\\\\\\"It doesn't rain much there, does it?\\\\\\\"

\\\\\\\"Three or four times a year.\\\\\\\"

\\\\\\\"Wow, what must that be like?\\\\\\\" he wondered.

\\\\\\\"Sunny,\\\\\\\" I told him.

\\\\\\\"You don't look very tan.\\\\\\\"

\\\\\\\"My mother is part albino.\\\\\\\"

He studied my face apprehensively, and I sighed. It looked like clouds and a sense of humor didn't mix. A few months of this and I'd forget how to use sarcasm.

We walked back around the cafeteria, to the south buildings by the gym. Eric walked me right to the door, though it was clearly marked.

\\\\\\\"Well, good luck,\\\\\\\" he said as I touched the handle. \\\\\\\"Maybe we'll have some other classes together.\\\\\\\" He sounded hopeful.

I smiled at him vaguely and went inside.

The rest of the morning passed in about the same fashion. My Trigonometry teacher, Mr. Varner, who I would have hated anyway just because of the subject he taught, was the only one who made me stand in front of the class and introduce myself. I stammered, blushed, and tripped over my own boots on the way to my seat.

After two classes, I started to recognize several of the faces in each class. There was always someone braver than the others who would introduce themselves and ask me questions about how I was liking Forks. I tried to be diplomatic, but mostly I just lied a lot. At least I never needed the map.

One girl sat next to me in both Trig and Spanish, and she walked with me to the cafeteria for lunch. She was tiny, several inches shorter than my five feet four inches, but her wildly curly dark hair made up a lot of the difference between our heights. I couldn't remember her name, so I smiled and nodded as she prattled about teachers and classes. I didn't try to keep up.

We sat at the end of a full table with several of her friends, who she introduced to me. I forgot all their names as soon as she spoke them. They seemed impressed by her bravery in speaking to me. The boy from English, Eric, waved at me from across the room. It was there, sitting in the lunchroom, trying to make conversation with seven curious strangers, that I first saw them.

They were sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, as far away from where I sat as possible in the long room. There were five of them. They weren't talking, and they weren't eating, though they each had a tray of untouched food in front of them. They weren't gawking at me, unlike most of the other students, so it was safe to stare at them without fear of meeting an excessively interested pair of eyes. But it was none of these things that caught, and held, my attention.

They didn't look anything alike. Of the three boys, one was big - muscled like a serious weight lifter, with dark, curly hair. Another was taller, leaner, but still muscular, and honey blond. The last was lanky, less bulky, with untidy, bronze-colored hair. He was more boyish than the others, who looked like they could be in college, or even teachers here rather than students.

The girls were opposites. The tall one was statuesque. She had a beautiful figure, the kind you saw on the cover of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, the kind that made every girl around her take a hit on her self-esteem just by being in the same room. Her hair was golden, gently waving to the middle of her back. The short girl was pixielike, thin in the extreme, with small features. Her hair was a deep black, cropped short and pointing in every direction.

And yet, they were all exactly alike. Every one of them was chalky pale, the palest of all the students living in this sunless town. Paler than me, the albino. They all had very dark eyes despite the range in hair tones. They also had dark shadows under those eyes - purplish, bruiselike shadows. As if they were all suffering from a sleepless night, or almost done recovering from a broken nose. Though their noses, all their features, were straight, perfect, angular.

But all this is not why I couldn't look away.

I stared because their faces, so different, so similar, were all devastatingly, inhumanly beautiful. They were faces you never expected to see except perhaps on the airbrushed pages of a fashion magazine. Or painted by an old master as the face of an angel. It was hard to decide who was the most beautiful - maybe the perfect blond girl, or the bronze-haired boy.

They were all looking away - away from each other, away from the other students, away from anything in particular as far as I could tell. As I watched, the small girl rose with her tray - unopened soda, unbitten apple - and walked away with a quick, graceful lope that belonged on a runway. I watched, amazed at her lithe dancer's step, till she dumped her tray and glided through the back door, faster than I would have thought possible. My eyes darted back to the others, who sat unchanging.

\\\\\\\"Who are they?\\\\\\\" I asked the girl from my Spanish class, whose name I'd forgotten.

As she looked up to see who I meant - though already knowing, probably, from my tone - suddenly he looked at her, the thinner one, the boyish one, the youngest, perhaps. He looked at my neighbor for just a fraction of a second, and then his dark eyes flickered to mine.

He looked away quickly, more quickly than I could, though in a flush of embarrassment I dropped my eyes at once. In that brief flash of a glance, his face held nothing of interest - it was as if she had called his name, and he'd looked up in involuntary response, already having decided not to answer.

My neighbor giggled in embarrassment, looking at the table like I did. \\\\\\\"That's Edward and Emmett Cullen, and Rosalie and Jasper Hale. The one who left was Alice Cullen; they all live together with Dr. Cullen and his wife.\\\\\\\" She said this under her breath.

I glanced sideways at the beautiful boy, who was looking at his tray now, picking a bagel to pieces with long, pale fingers. His mouth was moving very quickly, his perfect lips barely opening. The other three still looked away, and yet I felt he was speaking quietly to them.

Strange, unpopular names, I thought. The kinds of names grandparents had. But maybe that was in vogue here - small town names? I finally remembered that my neighbor was called Jessica, a perfectly common name. There were two girls named Jessica in my History class back home.

\\\\\\\"They are ... very nice-looking.\\\\\\\" I struggled with the conspicuous understatement.

\\\\\\\"Yes!\\\\\\\" Jessica agreed with another giggle. \\\\\\\"They're all together though - Emmett and Rosalie, and Jasper and Alice, I mean. And they live together.\\\\\\\" Her voice held all the shock and condemnation of the small town, I thought critically. But, if I was being honest, I had to admit that even in Phoenix, it would cause gossip.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Twilight by Stephanie Meyer Copyright © 2005 by Stephenie Meyer. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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