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mysterious realm on the other side of our screens. A dark force that draws victims into its static. The unlikely hero called to save them and herself from this electric hell. Public Access Afterworld is the profound, binge-all-night, headrush of a novel by the celebrated filmmaker of I Saw the TV Glow and Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma\"Beautiful, funny, and scathing . . . I stayed up all night binge-reading.\"-SenLinYu\"Gave me a vertiginous thrill I haven't encountered since David Mitchell.\"-Torrey Peters\"Psychedelic horror of the first order.\"-Grady Hendrix\"Heart-wrenching, hilarious, visionary, and so damned smart, this novel is a major work by a major writer.\"-Paul Tremblay\"Utterly hypnotic.\"-Lev Grossman\"Dazzling and politically acute, Schoenbrun's debut announces a major literary voice.\"-Kirkus Reviews (starred review)\"A dazzling story . . . a great American novel.\"-Publishers Weekly (starred review)\"One of the best novels of the year.\"-Booklist (starred review) One of Publishers Weekly's 10 Most Anticipated Books * One of the Most Anticipated Books of the Year: The New York Times Book Review Podcast, The Boston Globe, Lit Hub, The Chicago Review of Books, The Bookseller, Reactor, Book Riot, Crime Reads, Library Journal, Kirkus Reviews, and Debutiful Find the receiver. Make it real.At 5:35 p.m. on September 3, 1988, Dallas weatherman Ray \"Can You Say Sunshine\" Davino makes passing reference to Public Access Afterworld during a rambling monologue, right before he puts a gun to his head on live television and pulls the trigger.On June 12, 2009, David Sawyer and Erin Morrison, two lonely, TV-obsessed suburban teens who might be falling in love, gather in Erin's basement to watch TV's analog-to-digital transition. But in the static that follows, Erin witnesses surreal broadcasts from a pirate TV network called Public Access Afterworld, and their lives are changed forever.Seventeen years later, Bethany Peters toils through the night shift at megacorp GlobalVill's bleak Austin campus. A trans content moderator, she spends her evenings reviewing an endless stream of horrific videos. But then a young streamer begins to crop up in her feed calling out to Public Access Afterworld.But what is Public Access Afterworld?Spanning decades and realities, with an unforgettable ensemble of outcasts and nerds-especially the messy but wholly relatable Bethany, who must overcome paranoia and self-doubt to transform into a hero of our times-Public Access Afterworld will have you reading through the night and rooting for its characters to survive. A mesmerizing mash-up of speculative fiction, horror, and conspiracy, it marks the arrival of a major new force in contemporary fiction by a groundbreaking filmmaker who's been compared to David Lynch and Paul Thomas Anderson.","descriptionHtml"," A mysterious realm on the other side of our screens. A dark force that draws victims into its static. The unlikely hero called to save them and herself from this electric hell. Public Access Afterworld is the profound, binge-all-night, headrush of a novel by the celebrated filmmaker of I Saw the TV Glow and Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma

\"Beautiful, funny, and scathing . . . I stayed up all night binge-reading.\"-SenLinYu
\"Gave me a vertiginous thrill I haven't encountered since David Mitchell.\"-Torrey Peters
\"Psychedelic horror of the first order.\"-Grady Hendrix
\"Heart-wrenching, hilarious, visionary, and so damned smart, this novel is a major work by a major writer.\"-Paul Tremblay
\"Utterly hypnotic.\"-Lev Grossman
\"Dazzling and politically acute, Schoenbrun's debut announces a major literary voice.\"-Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
\"A dazzling story . . . a great American novel.\"-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
\"One of the best novels of the year.\"-Booklist (starred review)
One of Publishers Weekly's 10 Most Anticipated Books * One of the Most Anticipated Books of the Year: The New York Times Book Review Podcast, The Boston Globe, Lit Hub, The Chicago Review of Books, The Bookseller, Reactor, Book Riot, Crime Reads, Library Journal, Kirkus Reviews, and Debutiful

Find the receiver. Make it real.

At 5:35 p.m. on September 3, 1988, Dallas weatherman Ray \"Can You Say Sunshine\" Davino makes passing reference to Public Access Afterworld during a rambling monologue, right before he puts a gun to his head on live television and pulls the trigger.

On June 12, 2009, David Sawyer and Erin Morrison, two lonely, TV-obsessed suburban teens who might be falling in love, gather in Erin's basement to watch TV's analog-to-digital transition. But in the static that follows, Erin witnesses surreal broadcasts from a pirate TV network called Public Access Afterworld, and their lives are changed forever.

Seventeen years later, Bethany Peters toils through the night shift at megacorp GlobalVill's bleak Austin campus. A trans content moderator, she spends her evenings reviewing an endless stream of horrific videos. But then a young streamer begins to crop up in her feed calling out to Public Access Afterworld.

But what is Public Access Afterworld?

Spanning decades and realities, with an unforgettable ensemble of outcasts and nerds-especially the messy but wholly relatable Bethany, who must overcome paranoia and self-doubt to transform into a hero of our times-Public Access Afterworld will have you reading through the night and rooting for its characters to survive. A mesmerizing mash-up of speculative fiction, horror, and conspiracy, it marks the arrival of a major new force in contemporary fiction by a groundbreaking filmmaker who's been compared to David Lynch and Paul Thomas Anderson.","featuredImage",{"_45":1900,"_58":1901,"_60":1902,"_54":1903,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/49392824877297","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593978382_p0.jpg?v=1786075809",1315,2000,"altText","priceRange",{"_1907":1908},"minVariantPrice",{"_1909":1910,"_1911":1912},"amount","30.0","currencyCode","USD","availableForSale","compareAtPriceRange",{"_1907":1916,"_1918":1919},{"_1909":1917,"_1911":1912},"33.0","maxVariantPrice",{"_1909":1917,"_1911":1912},"variants",{"_1922":1923},"nodes",[1924],{"_45":1925,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":1928,"_714":1929,"_1930":1931,"_1932":1933,"_1934":1935,"_1940":1893,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47277996900593","requiresShipping","compareAtPrice",{"_1909":1917,"_1911":1912},{"_45":1900,"_58":1901,"_1904":-5,"_60":1902,"_54":1903},"price",{"_1909":1910,"_1911":1912},"product",{"_75":1890,"_834":1893},"selectedOptions",[1936],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},"Title","value","Default Title","sku","unitPrice","webPromotions",{"_1938":1944},"[\"BADGE - $3 OFF (p7877)\",\"B|$3 Off|#DD2A27|#701F15 (p7847)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"Retail Price fixing (p261)\",\"Barnes & Noble Holiday Gift Guide (p5430)\"]","ean",{"_1938":1893},"parentFormat",{"_1938":1892},"generalProperties","metafields",[1952,-5,-5,1959,1962,-5,1964,1968,1972,1976,1980,-5,1984,1986,-5,1988,1992,1997],{"_45":1953,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":1958},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74220795363569","namespace","bnb","key","keyContributor","[{\"contributorId\":31681133,\"fullName\":\"Jane Schoenbrun\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":1960,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74220795822321","parentSecondaryFormat",{"_45":1963,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74220795068657",{"_45":1965,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":1967},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74220795953393","formatId","118",{"_45":1969,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":1971},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74220798083313","commentary","[{\"id\":\"133866738T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"1

My TV show starts nine feet under the American suburbs, in Erin Morrison's basement.

That basement was a refuge. A nook to hide from the town above. Waste your youth watching horror movies and weird early internet videos. A cocoon without windows, incubated by central air.

My TV show starts on Friday, June 12, 2009, the night of the analog-to-digital switch-off. Maybe that date doesn't mean anything to you, but if your high school experience was anything like mine, you probably remember the legally mandated deadline when every television network in America, be it local or national, was required to flip the switch and put analog broadcasting out of its misery forever. David Sawyer and Erin Morrison had been quietly anticipating the deadline all school year long. They were, of course, losers.

It had all been a long time coming. Analog broadcasting had spent at least a decade in the TV equivalent of hospice, and during that time, houses all over town had been leveling up to flat-screens and TiVos, banishing their old bulky sets to collect dust in attics and basements. Digital television was the future. It meant more channels, crisper picture quality. Analog television meant fuzzy images and . . . I don't know, Dick Van Dyke reruns? Maybe back in the 1950s, all that had been a necessary stepping stone, but now analog was a relic, one whose government-mandated extinction date was way past due.

For David and Erin, the switch-off was an excuse for celebration. The best friends stayed up late that night, throwing themselves a two-person kegger in the basement with a bottle of Tito's they \\\"borrowed\\\" from Erin's mom's liquor cabinet. As the hour approached, they traded swigs, passing the bottle back and forth from beanbag to couch, waiting for analog broadcasting to end and the digital era to begin. That's what they would say on the news later that night (for the very first time broadcast exclusively over cable boxes and digital receivers): \\\"The digital era has begun.\\\"

Around eleven-thirty, David stumbled to his feet and got to work setting up his Canon VIXIA. He fiddled with the tripod, trying to get the framing just right so he could capture the exact moment in history when some Cronkite-style newsman, nearly extinct himself, in some television studio somewhere, flipped the switch and transitioned eighty years of television back to that which came before it: static.

Never-ending static. Fuzzy and numbing.

Keep your eye on the static: It's an important part of my TV show's mythology.

David loved Erin's basement. You could call it his second home, but that would be giving too much credit to his first. To David, Erin's basement was a sanctuary. Its lava lamps and glow-in-the-dark alien smoking weed posters from Spencer Gifts. That \\\"I Love NYC\\\" snow globe on the mantel that Erin brought back from a school trip to the city at the end of the third grade, just months before 9/11 rendered its miniature skyline as outdated as the analog signal David and Erin were tuning into for the very last time.

A short list of things David loved: Erin's basement, which we've already covered. Television, obviously. Blockbuster, before it closed. Ms. Walsh's AV dungeon and the Auxiliaries who spent their time down there. Reading the plots of horror movies on Wikipedia without ever watching them. Double Stuf Oreos (David liked to combine the frosted halves of two to make a custom sandwich he dubbed the Quadruple Stuf Oreo).

And Erin. There was no one and nothing in this world David loved more than Erin Morrison, not even television. Erin, that anxious, mousy girl who'd first talked to him in the cafeteria back in fourth grade because they were reading the same Animorphs book. Erin, whom David had started having weekly playdates with before elementary school was over, even though both their moms were clearly uncomfortable with them being coed best friends.

And okay, look: Yes. If you need to know, David was utterly, totally, one hundred percent madly in love with Erin. Obviously. Always had been. Always would be.

David loved Erin. David loved watching TV with Erin down in her basement. And David knew without a doubt in his mind that before too long, Erin was going to leave him.

\\\"Okay, it's . . .\\\" David checks his watch. He grins at his camcorder, standing in front of Erin's old Toshiba.

\\\"It's 11:58 p.m., June twelfth, 2009. And this is the biggest moment in television history since the Man on the Moon. The Fall of the Berlin Wall. Or when JFK got shot by someone who was definitely not Lee Harvey Oswald.\\\"

\\\"It's the end of analog broadcasting,\\\" Erin says from behind the camera.

\\\"It's over, baby! RIP!\\\" David shouts.

Erin smiles, watching her best friend from the beanbag and beaming like a proud parent at a school play. David checks his watch.

\\\"In just one minute and eleven seconds, Uncle Sam is gonna flip the switch, and eighty years of television history is going to go up in static. And the last thing ever broadcast on analog television was . . .\\\" David looks behind him. \\\"Sex and the f***ing City. The lamest show ever!\\\" On the screen, the Sex and the City credits begin to scroll faster than anyone could possibly read.

Now midnight approaches. David checks his watch again and hams a countdown for the camera like it's New Year's Eve and he's a young, lactose intolerant Dick Clark.

\\\"All right. In EIGHT. SEVEN. SIX . . .\\\"

From her spot on the beanbag, Erin joins in on the count.

\\\"FIVE. FOUR. THREE.

\\\"TWO.

\\\"ONE.\\\"

They don't hit the mark exactly. Maybe David's watch is a little off. Or maybe that decrepit Cronkite in his radio tower flips the switch a second or two past midnight. But who cares? Because even though it happens a moment later than it's supposed to, it still happens.

TSSSSSSSSSSSS-

Static. Without warning. A signal washed of its image. A transmission cut with the abruptness of lightning.

TSSSSSSSSSS. The static hisses from its boxed enclosure. Vibrates against the glass of Erin's newly useless Toshiba.

Do you know what static is, literally? Radio waves. Invisible to our sense perceptions, but surrounding us at all times, like water we don't even know we're swimming in. For centuries, millennia, since before the Big Bang, we didn't know these waves existed. But that doesn't mean they weren't there, waiting to be discovered.

And then about a century ago, we tuned in. We learned how to recognize those waves, to conjure them onto a screen in a digestible form. We tapped the signal, and soon we learned to work with it, to control it, to bend the static to our will.

We made shadows and shapes. Transmissions in color and black and white. The Honeymooners. The Andy Griffith Show. Sex and the f***ing City. Soon, as the decades passed, we discovered newer, more cost-effective ways to control electricity. To recognize and manipulate that invisible water that surrounds us all. To remake it in our image. So we allowed the analog signal to revert back to its original form: wild, endless static.

It's still there, of course. Even if our world moves on. Even if we hide our analog sets in storage closets and garbage dumps. The static remains underneath everything.

Eight percent uploaded.

Erin balances her mom's bottle of Tito's on her belly, sprawled out on her beanbag still watching the static on her Toshiba. David's in a leather chair at the computer desk, hunched over Erin's family desktop, uploading his video to GlobalVill.com, that new streaming platform people say is two times faster than YouTube, better quality than Dailymotion, more community-oriented than Vimeo.

This, too, another sign of the changing times. The streaming revolution is at hand. It seems like just yesterday it took David forty-five minutes to play a Flash game on his parents' 56K dial-up, three hours to download a WAV file from LimeWire. But recently, suddenly, streaming video was instantaneous. Anything was ready to watch or upload anytime. Anyone could start a TV channel of their very own.

David's not the only person racing tonight to upload his documentation of the analog switch-off, not the only loser who's dedicated his Friday night to playing amateur television historian. But he's probably the youngest. Some videos are already up on GlobalVill.com. \\\"The Exact Moment that Analog Broadcasting Ended!\\\" uploaded by JakeMonster. \\\"Analog TV is Over You Guys!\\\" uploaded by triggerhappyninja. David's been scooped, beaten to the punch thanks to Erin's mediocre DSL connection.

Nine percent. The upload stutters along.

\\\"I switched your settings off Energy Saver,\\\" David tells Erin. He stumbles across the room, scoops up his cellphone, then grabs his house keys from next to that Twin Tower snow globe up on the mantel.

\\\"I'm okay to bike. I think I'm okay to bike.\\\"

\\\"It's one a.m.,\\\" Erin says. \\\"Crash on the couch. Mom can make us waffles in the morning.\\\"

David looks towards the staircase and thinks about emerging out of air-conditioning into the swamp outside. A minor bout of vertigo wobbles him.

Erin rolls her eyes. \\\"You're drunk,\\\" she says. Static hums from the screen across the room.\"},{\"id\":\"133866724T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"1

My TV show starts nine feet under the American suburbs, in Erin Morrison's basement.

That basement was a refuge. A nook to hide from the town above. Waste your youth watching horror movies and weird early internet videos. A cocoon without windows, incubated by central air.

My TV show starts on Friday, June 12, 2009, the night of the analog-to-digital switch-off. Maybe that date doesn't mean anything to you, but if your high school experience was anything like mine, you probably remember the legally mandated deadline when every television network in America, be it local or national, was required to flip the switch and put analog broadcasting out of its misery forever. David Sawyer and Erin Morrison had been quietly anticipating the deadline all school year long. They were, of course, losers.

It had all been a long time coming. Analog broadcasting had spent at least a decade in the TV equivalent of hospice, and during that time, houses all over town had been leveling up to flat-screens and TiVos, banishing their old bulky sets to collect dust in attics and basements. Digital television was the future. It meant more channels, crisper picture quality. Analog television meant fuzzy images and . . . I don't know, Dick Van Dyke reruns? Maybe back in the 1950s, all that had been a necessary stepping stone, but now analog was a relic, one whose government-mandated extinction date was way past due.

For David and Erin, the switch-off was an excuse for celebration. The best friends stayed up late that night, throwing themselves a two-person kegger in the basement with a bottle of Tito's they \\\"borrowed\\\" from Erin's mom's liquor cabinet. As the hour approached, they traded swigs, passing the bottle back and forth from beanbag to couch, waiting for analog broadcasting to end and the digital era to begin. That's what they would say on the news later that night (for the very first time broadcast exclusively over cable boxes and digital receivers): \\\"The digital era has begun.\\\"

Around eleven-thirty, David stumbled to his feet and got to work setting up his Canon VIXIA. He fiddled with the tripod, trying to get the framing just right so he could capture the exact moment in history when some Cronkite-style newsman, nearly extinct himself, in some television studio somewhere, flipped the switch and transitioned eighty years of television back to that which came before it: static.

Never-ending static. Fuzzy and numbing.

Keep your eye on the static: It's an important part of my TV show's mythology.

David loved Erin's basement. You could call it his second home, but that would be giving too much credit to his first. To David, Erin's basement was a sanctuary. Its lava lamps and glow-in-the-dark alien smoking weed posters from Spencer Gifts. That \\\"I Love NYC\\\" snow globe on the mantel that Erin brought back from a school trip to the city at the end of the third grade, just months before 9/11 rendered its miniature skyline as outdated as the analog signal David and Erin were tuning into for the very last time.

A short list of things David loved: Erin's basement, which we've already covered. Television, obviously. Blockbuster, before it closed. Ms. Walsh's AV dungeon and the Auxiliaries who spent their time down there. Reading the plots of horror movies on Wikipedia without ever watching them. Double Stuf Oreos (David liked to combine the frosted halves of two to make a custom sandwich he dubbed the Quadruple Stuf Oreo).

And Erin. There was no one and nothing in this world David loved more than Erin Morrison, not even television. Erin, that anxious, mousy girl who'd first talked to him in the cafeteria back in fourth grade because they were reading the same Animorphs book. Erin, whom David had started having weekly playdates with before elementary school was over, even though both their moms were clearly uncomfortable with them being coed best friends.

And okay, look: Yes. If you need to know, David was utterly, totally, one hundred percent madly in love with Erin. Obviously. Always had been. Always would be.

David loved Erin. David loved watching TV with Erin down in her basement. And David knew without a doubt in his mind that before too long, Erin was going to leave him.

\\\"Okay, it's . . .\\\" David checks his watch. He grins at his camcorder, standing in front of Erin's old Toshiba.

\\\"It's 11:58 p.m., June twelfth, 2009. And this is the biggest moment in television history since the Man on the Moon. The Fall of the Berlin Wall. Or when JFK got shot by someone who was definitely not Lee Harvey Oswald.\\\"

\\\"It's the end of analog broadcasting,\\\" Erin says from behind the camera.

\\\"It's over, baby! RIP!\\\" David shouts.

Erin smiles, watching her best friend from the beanbag and beaming like a proud parent at a school play. David checks his watch.

\\\"In just one minute and eleven seconds, Uncle Sam is gonna flip the switch, and eighty years of television history is going to go up in static. And the last thing ever broadcast on analog television was . . .\\\" David looks behind him. \\\"Sex and the f***ing City. The lamest show ever!\\\" On the screen, the Sex and the City credits begin to scroll faster than anyone could possibly read.

Now midnight approaches. David checks his watch again and hams a countdown for the camera like it's New Year's Eve and he's a young, lactose intolerant Dick Clark.

\\\"All right. In EIGHT. SEVEN. SIX . . .\\\"

From her spot on the beanbag, Erin joins in on the count.

\\\"FIVE. FOUR. THREE.

\\\"TWO.

\\\"ONE.\\\"

They don't hit the mark exactly. Maybe David's watch is a little off. Or maybe that decrepit Cronkite in his radio tower flips the switch a second or two past midnight. But who cares? Because even though it happens a moment later than it's supposed to, it still happens.

TSSSSSSSSSSSS-

Static. Without warning. A signal washed of its image. A transmission cut with the abruptness of lightning.

TSSSSSSSSSS. The static hisses from its boxed enclosure. Vibrates against the glass of Erin's newly useless Toshiba.

Do you know what static is, literally? Radio waves. Invisible to our sense perceptions, but surrounding us at all times, like water we don't even know we're swimming in. For centuries, millennia, since before the Big Bang, we didn't know these waves existed. But that doesn't mean they weren't there, waiting to be discovered.

And then about a century ago, we tuned in. We learned how to recognize those waves, to conjure them onto a screen in a digestible form. We tapped the signal, and soon we learned to work with it, to control it, to bend the static to our will.

We made shadows and shapes. Transmissions in color and black and white. The Honeymooners. The Andy Griffith Show. Sex and the f***ing City. Soon, as the decades passed, we discovered newer, more cost-effective ways to control electricity. To recognize and manipulate that invisible water that surrounds us all. To remake it in our image. So we allowed the analog signal to revert back to its original form: wild, endless static.

It's still there, of course. Even if our world moves on. Even if we hide our analog sets in storage closets and garbage dumps. The static remains underneath everything.

Eight percent uploaded.

Erin balances her mom's bottle of Tito's on her belly, sprawled out on her beanbag still watching the static on her Toshiba. David's in a leather chair at the computer desk, hunched over Erin's family desktop, uploading his video to GlobalVill.com, that new streaming platform people say is two times faster than YouTube, better quality than Dailymotion, more community-oriented than Vimeo.

This, too, another sign of the changing times. The streaming revolution is at hand. It seems like just yesterday it took David forty-five minutes to play a Flash game on his parents' 56K dial-up, three hours to download a WAV file from LimeWire. But recently, suddenly, streaming video was instantaneous. Anything was ready to watch or upload anytime. Anyone could start a TV channel of their very own.

David's not the only person racing tonight to upload his documentation of the analog switch-off, not the only loser who's dedicated his Friday night to playing amateur television historian. But he's probably the youngest. Some videos are already up on GlobalVill.com. \\\"The Exact Moment that Analog Broadcasting Ended!\\\" uploaded by JakeMonster. \\\"Analog TV is Over You Guys!\\\" uploaded by triggerhappyninja. David's been scooped, beaten to the punch thanks to Erin's mediocre DSL connection.

Nine percent. The upload stutters along.

\\\"I switched your settings off Energy Saver,\\\" David tells Erin. He stumbles across the room, scoops up his cellphone, then grabs his house keys from next to that Twin Tower snow globe up on the mantel.

\\\"I'm okay to bike. I think I'm okay to bike.\\\"

\\\"It's one a.m.,\\\" Erin says. \\\"Crash on the couch. Mom can make us waffles in the morning.\\\"

David looks towards the staircase and thinks about emerging out of air-conditioning into the swamp outside. A minor bout of vertigo wobbles him.

Erin rolls her eyes. \\\"You're drunk,\\\" she says. Static hums from the screen across the room.\"},{\"id\":\"119773040T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"\\\"Adroitly beautiful, funny, and scathing, Public Access Afterworld is a book from a talented storyteller with much to say, who's not afraid to say it.\\\"-SenLinYu, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Alchemised

\\\"A reality-warping epic about friendship, transformation, and the internet that stretches across decades and dimensions.\\\"-New York

\\\"Reads like a David Mitchell fever dream imagined by somebody working the last Blockbuster on the planet . . . Is there anything Jane Schoenbrun can't do?\\\"-Literary Hub

\\\"[An] electric, eerie, positively Schoenbrunian first novel.\\\"-The Boston Globe

\\\"Captivating.\\\"-Library Journal

\\\"A fever dream-esque love letter to television, the internet, science fiction, and nerds.\\\"-Reactor

\\\"Few artists are able to capture the disconnection, longing, and eeriness of the early internet age and the holes it created in our society [like Schoenbrun], and Public Access Afterworld continues that trend. It's like a creepypasta come to life, and I'm here for it.\\\"-Chicago Review of Books

\\\"The mastermind behind I Saw the TV Glow is releasing their debut novel, and I couldn't be more excited. This is one to pre-order without even reading the publicity copy to hype you up.\\\"-Debutiful

\\\"Psychedelic horror of the first order.\\\"-Grady Hendrix, New York Times bestselling author of Witchcraft for Wayward Girls

\\\"Gave me a vertiginous thrill I haven't encountered since David Mitchell . . . the kind of epic book that doesn't just warp reality on the page but goes on warping it when you look up-you read the novel and the world glints with secrets anew.\\\"-Torrey Peters, author of Stag Dance and Detransition, Baby

\\\"A thriller unlike any other . . . strange, urgent, utterly . . . hypnotic-once you start reading Public Access Afterworld, you won't stop.\\\"-Lev Grossman, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Magicians

\\\"A riot in novel form by an author with an utterly singular, original vision . . . will leave you breathless and desperate for a sequel.\\\"-Kaliane Bradley, New York Times bestselling author of The Ministry of Time

\\\"Thrilling, heart-wrenching, hilarious, visionary, and so damned smart, this novel is a major work from a major talent.\\\"-Paul Tremblay, New York Times bestselling author of Dead but Dreaming of Electric Sheep

\\\"Schoenbrun, whose films We're All Going to the World's Fair and I Saw the TV Glow mark them as among the most original voices in independent cinema, brings their signature preoccupations to fiction with stunning ambition.\\\"-Kirkus Reviews, starred review

\\\"Such a compulsive read. Dark and glittering and full of static. Huzzah. Neon sign: So, so much fun.\\\"-Helen Macdonald, bestselling author of H Is for Hawk

\\\"A psychedelic work of genius.\\\"-Newsday

\\\"Schoenbrun is already well-known for their films, and this book is just as awesome as their growing oeuvre. . . . So good!\\\"-Crime Reads

\\\"For fans of Kaliane Bradley, David Mitchell, and Stranger Things . . . a cult classic in the making.\\\"-The Bookseller

\\\"A dazzling story . . . a great American novel.\\\"-Publishers Weekly, starred review

\\\"Filmmaker Schoenbrun makes their print debut with one of the best novels of the year. . . . [It] will suck readers in and not only hold their attention for the full 600 pages but also, possibly, inspire them to add their content to Public Access Afterworld. . . . [An] existentially terrifying, David Lynchian horror.\\\"-Booklist, starred review

\"},{\"id\":\"130259677T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"\\\"Adroitly beautiful, funny, and scathing, Public Access Afterworld is a book from a talented storyteller with much to say, who's not afraid to say it.\\\"--SenLinYu, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Alchemised

\\\"A reality-warping epic about friendship, transformation, and the internet that stretches across decades and dimensions.\\\"--New York

\\\"Reads like a David Mitchell fever dream imagined by somebody working the last Blockbuster on the planet . . . Is there anything Jane Schoenbrun can't do?\\\"--Literary Hub

\\\"[An] electric, eerie, positively Schoenbrunian first novel.\\\"--The Boston Globe

\\\"Captivating.\\\"--Library Journal

\\\"A fever dream-esque love letter to television, the internet, science fiction, and nerds.\\\"--Reactor

\\\"Few artists are able to capture the disconnection, longing, and eeriness of the early internet age and the holes it created in our society [like Schoenbrun], and Public Access Afterworld continues that trend. It's like a creepypasta come to life, and I'm here for it.\\\"--Chicago Review of Books

\\\"The mastermind behind I Saw the TV Glow is releasing their debut novel, and I couldn't be more excited. This is one to pre-order without even reading the publicity copy to hype you up.\\\"--Debutiful

\\\"Psychedelic horror of the first order.\\\"--Grady Hendrix, New York Times bestselling author of Witchcraft for Wayward Girls

\\\"Gave me a vertiginous thrill I haven't encountered since David Mitchell . . . the kind of epic book that doesn't just warp reality on the page but goes on warping it when you look up--you read the novel and the world glints with secrets anew.\\\"--Torrey Peters, author of Stag Dance and Detransition, Baby

\\\"A thriller unlike any other . . . strange, urgent, utterly . . . hypnotic--once you start reading Public Access Afterworld, you won't stop.\\\"--Lev Grossman, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Magicians

\\\"A riot in novel form by an author with an utterly singular, original vision . . . will leave you breathless and desperate for a sequel.\\\"--Kaliane Bradley, New York Times bestselling author of The Ministry of Time

\\\"Thrilling, heart-wrenching, hilarious, visionary, and so damned smart, this novel is a major work from a major talent.\\\"--Paul Tremblay, New York Times bestselling author of Dead but Dreaming of Electric Sheep

\\\"Schoenbrun, whose films We're All Going to the World's Fair and I Saw the TV Glow mark them as among the most original voices in independent cinema, brings their signature preoccupations to fiction with stunning ambition.\\\"--Kirkus Reviews, starred review

\\\"Such a compulsive read. Dark and glittering and full of static. Huzzah. Neon sign: So, so much fun.\\\"--Helen Macdonald, bestselling author of H Is for Hawk

\\\"A psychedelic work of genius.\\\"--Newsday

\\\"Schoenbrun is already well-known for their films, and this book is just as awesome as their growing oeuvre. . . . So good!\\\"--Crime Reads

\\\"For fans of Kaliane Bradley, David Mitchell, and Stranger Things . . . a cult classic in the making.\\\"--The Bookseller

\\\"A dazzling story . . . a great American novel.\\\"--Publishers Weekly, starred review

\\\"Filmmaker Schoenbrun makes their print debut with one of the best novels of the year . . . [it] will suck readers in and not only hold their attention for the full 600 pages but also, possibly, inspire them to add their content to Public Access Afterworld . . . [an] existentially terrifying, David Lynchian horror.\\\"--Booklist, starred review

\"},{\"id\":\"125997626T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

What is Public Access Afterworld? It’s only been whispered about for decades. But when a content moderator discovers the horrific realm beyond the static, a harrowing mystery unfolds in this debut novel from the filmmaker behind I Saw the TV Glow.

\"},{\"id\":\"119773041T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Jane Schoenbrun is an award-winning filmmaker and writer. Their films include I Saw the TV Glow, We're All Going to the World's Fair, and Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma starring Gillian Anderson and Hannah Einbinder. Public Access Afterworld is their first novel.

\"},{\"id\":\"132280745T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"125750494T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"

Jane Schoenbrun is an award-winning filmmaker and writer. Their films include I Saw the TV Glow and We're All Going to the World's Fair. Their newest film, Teenage Sex and Death at Camp Miasma starring Gillian Anderson and Hannah Einbinder, releases in 2026. Public Access Afterworld is their first novel.

\"},{\"id\":\"132280528T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"

\"}]",{"_45":1973,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":1975},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74220797034737","seoKeywords","Public-Access-Afterworld/Jane-Schoenbrun",{"_45":1977,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":1979},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74220794872049","workId","1148854163",{"_45":1981,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74220795658481","skuType","book",{"_45":1985,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":1944},"gid://shopify/Metafield/78682491453681",{"_45":1987,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":1893},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74220793463025",{"_45":1989,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74220796117233","isEligibleForFreeShipping","true",{"_45":1993,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":1996},"gid://shopify/Metafield/81833787752689","reviews","rating","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"5.0\"}",{"_45":1998,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":2000},"gid://shopify/Metafield/81833787719921","rating_count","2",{"_1887":1888,"_45":2002,"_75":2003,"_1891":2004,"_834":2005,"_1894":2006,"_1896":2007,"_1898":2008,"_1905":2013,"_1913":63,"_1914":2016,"_1920":2020,"_1942":-5,"_1945":2029,"_1947":2030,"_1949":-5,"_1950":2031},"gid://shopify/Product/8871421935857","Mister Magic: A Novel","Paperback","9780593359280","NATIONAL BESTSELLER • Who is Mister Magic? Former child stars reunite to uncover the tragedy that ended their show—and discover the secret of its enigmatic host—in this “skin-crawling story of pop culture fandom and ‘90s nostalgia” (Melissa Albert, author of The Hazel Woods) from the author of Hide. “[A] propulsive, exciting, often genuinely scary, endlessly compelling mystery.”—Terry Miles, author of RabbitsA BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: PopSugar, Polygon, Chicago Public Library, CrimeReadsThirty years after a tragic accident shut down production of the classic children’s program Mister Magic, the five surviving cast members have done their best to move on. But just as generations of cultishly devoted fans still cling to the lessons they learned from the show, the cast, known as the Circle of Friends, have spent their lives searching for the happiness they felt while they were on it. The friendship. The feeling of belonging. And the protection of Mister Magic. But with no surviving video of the show, no evidence of who directed or produced it, and no records of who—or what—the beloved host actually was, memories are all the former Circle of Friends has. Then a twist of fate brings the castmates back together at the remote desert filming compound that feels like it’s been waiting for them all this time. Even though they haven’t seen each other for years, they understand one another better than anyone has since. After all, they’re the only ones who hold the secret of that circle, the mystery of the magic man in his infinitely black cape, and, maybe, the answers to what really happened on that deadly last day. But as the Circle of Friends reclaim parts of their past, they begin to wonder: Are they here by choice, or have they been lured into a trap? Because magic never forgets the taste of your friendship. . . .","NATIONAL BESTSELLER • Who is Mister Magic? Former child stars reunite to uncover the tragedy that ended their show—and discover the secret of its enigmatic host—in this “skin-crawling story of pop culture fandom and ‘90s nostalgia” (Melissa Albert, author of The Hazel Woods) from the author of Hide.

“[A] propulsive, exciting, often genuinely scary, endlessly compelling mystery.”—Terry Miles, author of Rabbits

A BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: PopSugar, Polygon, Chicago Public Library, CrimeReads

Thirty years after a tragic accident shut down production of the classic children’s program Mister Magic, the five surviving cast members have done their best to move on. But just as generations of cultishly devoted fans still cling to the lessons they learned from the show, the cast, known as the Circle of Friends, have spent their lives searching for the happiness they felt while they were on it. The friendship. The feeling of belonging. And the protection of Mister Magic.

But with no surviving video of the show, no evidence of who directed or produced it, and no records of who—or what—the beloved host actually was, memories are all the former Circle of Friends has.

Then a twist of fate brings the castmates back together at the remote desert filming compound that feels like it’s been waiting for them all this time. Even though they haven’t seen each other for years, they understand one another better than anyone has since.

After all, they’re the only ones who hold the secret of that circle, the mystery of the magic man in his infinitely black cape, and, maybe, the answers to what really happened on that deadly last day. But as the Circle of Friends reclaim parts of their past, they begin to wonder: Are they here by choice, or have they been lured into a trap?

Because magic never forgets the taste of your friendship. . . .",{"_45":2009,"_58":2010,"_60":2011,"_54":2012,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47559852589297","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593359280_p0.jpg?v=1768955718",903,1356,{"_1907":2014},{"_1909":2015,"_1911":1912},"19.0",{"_1907":2017,"_1918":2019},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},"0.0",{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":2021},[2022],{"_45":2023,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":-5,"_714":2024,"_1930":2025,"_1932":2026,"_1934":2027,"_1940":2005,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46271911428337",{"_45":2009,"_58":2010,"_1904":-5,"_60":2011,"_54":2012},{"_1909":2015,"_1911":1912},{"_75":2003,"_834":2005},[2028],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":2005},{"_1938":2004},[2032,-5,-5,2035,2037,-5,2039,2042,2045,2048,2051,-5,-5,2053,-5,2055,2057,2060],{"_45":2033,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":2034},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859425046769","[{\"contributorId\":11580806,\"fullName\":\"Kiersten White\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":2036,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859425702129",{"_45":2038,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859424784625",{"_45":2040,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":2041},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859425800433","121",{"_45":2043,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":2044},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859427864817","[{\"id\":\"121794020T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"One

The thing is, the doors were open that morning.

Val knows—she knows, she knows—that waking up to find both doors of their sagging cabin opened wide to the world is probably only because Dad wasn’t sleeping well, and that she should tie a bell to his foot before bed tonight. Just in case.

But.

An open door is an invitation, she whispers to herself. And she keeps the doors to their cabin firmly closed all the time. She’ll have one of the ranch hands rig up some sort of lock system, up high, where Dad won’t be able to reach it.

That’ll fix it. She can stop worrying.

She doesn’t, though. She worries through the morning riding lessons, worries through lunch with the camp full of awkwardly pubescing little delights, worries through the early-afternoon group activities, more riding, cleanup. All her favorite things—especially the cleanup, knowing parents are paying a small fortune so their daughters can spend the week doing the chores Val hates most—are eaten up by the worry.

By late afternoon she’s mostly shaken it off, though. Sometimes an open door is just an open door. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

One of the girls, Lola, freckled and sunburned and wonderful, raises her hand. “Miss Val?”

“You know where the bathroom is,” Val answers. “You don’t have to ask when you need to go.” It’s almost time for pickup, which means she needs to get Poppy from the goat pen. The other five dusty and happy and tired campers are here with Val, finishing up in the stables.

“No!” Lola giggles shyly. “It’s not that. Do you have any kids?”

An image flashes in Val’s mind. A girl, even younger than these, her brown hair forever fighting to escape messy pigtails, with eyes so blue they break her heart. Val smiles. “Not yet, but I know there’s one in my future.”

“How?” another camper, Hannah, asks, wrinkling her nose beneath smudged glasses. Val resists the impulse to clean them for her. Independence is part of what her camps promise, even if it means dirty glasses. Val’s been running the summer programs for Gloria’s Ranch since she was twenty, and they’re the absolute highlight of her whole year.

Val shrugs. “I’ve always known.”

“But aren’t you getting too old?”

Val lifts an eyebrow. Lola scowls and elbows Hannah, but Val shakes her head. “No, it’s okay to ask questions. Questions are how we get to know the world. And the answer is, I’m not too old. Not yet.”

Her heart ticks like a clock, but she still has time. Val’s belief in her blue-eyed girl is as solid as her belief in gravity. The when and the how are questions she doesn’t let herself ask. It’s easy not to ask questions. Take the question, put it behind a door. Close the door. Leave nothing open. She is aware of the hypocrisy of always encouraging her students to ask questions when she denies herself the same freedom, but there’s a whole door in her head just for the cognitive dissonance of Do what I say, not what I do.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Lola blurts out, and suddenly this interrogation makes sense. Lola’s father finds excuses to linger at every drop-off and pickup.

“Only when I want to,” Val answers. “Sometimes I have a girlfriend.” Though boyfriend and girlfriend are generous terms for the relationships she allows herself to have.

Still, her answer has the desired effect of rapidly changing the subject as all the girls’ eyes go wide. Val can see the follow-up questions bubbling, but they don’t have time. She has to get to Poppy before—

“Damn it,” Val whispers under her breath. Poppy’s mother has already pulled up in a Mercedes SUV that has about as much functionality as the designer boots she sent Poppy in for the first day. And Poppy’s still in the goat pen instead of the stables.

Val claps her hands. “Okay! Last one out of their barn clothes has to muck out Stormy’s stall tomorrow!”

The girls shriek and dart away to remove the coveralls and boots Val gives them to protect the too-cute clothes their parents always have them wear. Val cuts across the dusty path to intercept Poppy’s mom before Poppy hears what’s about to happen.

“Hi,” Val says. She can’t recall the woman’s name. She never can with other adults. It’s hard to care.

The sunglasses come up, pushed onto carefully styled hair. “What’s Poppy doing in the goat pen?”

“She’s working with our baby goats, Luke and Leia, training them to—”

“I’m paying you for riding lessons!”

Parents always trot that out as leverage, but technically she isn’t paying Val at all. Val doesn’t get paid. She smiles politely. “You’re paying for a week of day camp at Gloria’s Ranch, which includes experiences with a variety of animals. And can include riding lessons, if the girls want that, which Poppy does not.”

“It’s not up to her! I want her to learn how to ride!”

Val resists the urge to smack the sunglasses off the woman’s head. “Poppy is spending a week outside building confidence with friends and animals. Do you want me to force her into a saddle and watch her have a panic attack? Because that’s not safe for Poppy or the horse.”

“But I’m paying—”

“No.” Val cuts her off. “Look at your daughter. Right now.”

Poppy’s perched on top of a bale of hay, expression intense with concentration as she balances next to a tiny baby goat. She gives a command, then jumps off and turns around expectantly. The goat follows. Poppy whoops in delighted triumph.

“But—” the mom says, her anger deflated in the face of Poppy’s elation.

“She’s afraid of horses. It’s a perfectly rational fear. Horses are terrifying creatures. Barrel chests and pin legs and have you seen their teeth?”

The woman raises a perfect eyebrow. “It sounds like you’re scared of them.”

“Oh, absolutely I am. I ignore it because I have to. But there’s no reason for Poppy to overcome this particular fear. No one needs to ride horses. She’s a remarkable little girl, and when she grows into a remarkable adult, she’ll remember how her mother listened to her and helped her find other things she was good at.”

The woman sighs out the last of her anger. “She does look happy.”

“And filthy.” Val wrinkles her nose. She’s not even pleased that she convinced this woman she was right. It was always going to go this way. When Val sets her mind to something, it happens.

The woman laughs, fully won over. “And filthy.”

“Poppy! Into the barn!” Val points and Poppy hops across the pen like a little goat herself.

“I really wanted to buy her cute riding clothes,” her mother says, wistful.

Sometimes Val forgets that adults are just children with both more and less autonomy. She smiles slyly and nudges the woman with her shoulder. “You know, we have riding classes for adults, too, and you’d look fabulous in a new riding outfit.”

Val’s rewarded with another laugh and a thoughtful glance toward the stables. The woman’s already picking out which horse is prettiest, probably imagining owning one herself. Good for business if she stables it here.

What would we do without you, Val? Gloria asks in her mind, and Val thinks back what she always does: You’ll never have to find out.

It tastes bitter today.\"},{\"id\":\"94997246T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"One

The thing is, the doors were open that morning.

Val knows—she knows, she knows—that waking up to find both doors of their sagging cabin opened wide to the world is probably only because Dad wasn’t sleeping well, and that she should tie a bell to his foot before bed tonight. Just in case.

But.

An open door is an invitation, she whispers to herself. And she keeps the doors to their cabin firmly closed all the time. She’ll have one of the ranch hands rig up some sort of lock system, up high, where Dad won’t be able to reach it.

That’ll fix it. She can stop worrying.

She doesn’t, though. She worries through the morning riding lessons, worries through lunch with the camp full of awkwardly pubescing little delights, worries through the early-afternoon group activities, more riding, cleanup. All her favorite things—especially the cleanup, knowing parents are paying a small fortune so their daughters can spend the week doing the chores Val hates most—are eaten up by the worry.

By late afternoon she’s mostly shaken it off, though. Sometimes an open door is just an open door. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

One of the girls, Lola, freckled and sunburned and wonderful, raises her hand. “Miss Val?”

“You know where the bathroom is,” Val answers. “You don’t have to ask when you need to go.” It’s almost time for pickup, which means she needs to get Poppy from the goat pen. The other five dusty and happy and tired campers are here with Val, finishing up in the stables.

“No!” Lola giggles shyly. “It’s not that. Do you have any kids?”

An image flashes in Val’s mind. A girl, even younger than these, her brown hair forever fighting to escape messy pigtails, with eyes so blue they break her heart. Val smiles. “Not yet, but I know there’s one in my future.”

“How?” another camper, Hannah, asks, wrinkling her nose beneath smudged glasses. Val resists the impulse to clean them for her. Independence is part of what her camps promise, even if it means dirty glasses. Val’s been running the summer programs for Gloria’s Ranch since she was twenty, and they’re the absolute highlight of her whole year.

Val shrugs. “I’ve always known.”

“But aren’t you getting too old?”

Val lifts an eyebrow. Lola scowls and elbows Hannah, but Val shakes her head. “No, it’s okay to ask questions. Questions are how we get to know the world. And the answer is, I’m not too old. Not yet.”

Her heart ticks like a clock, but she still has time. Val’s belief in her blue-eyed girl is as solid as her belief in gravity. The when and the how are questions she doesn’t let herself ask. It’s easy not to ask questions. Take the question, put it behind a door. Close the door. Leave nothing open. She is aware of the hypocrisy of always encouraging her students to ask questions when she denies herself the same freedom, but there’s a whole door in her head just for the cognitive dissonance of Do what I say, not what I do.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Lola blurts out, and suddenly this interrogation makes sense. Lola’s father finds excuses to linger at every drop-off and pickup.

“Only when I want to,” Val answers. “Sometimes I have a girlfriend.” Though boyfriend and girlfriend are generous terms for the relationships she allows herself to have.

Still, her answer has the desired effect of rapidly changing the subject as all the girls’ eyes go wide. Val can see the follow-up questions bubbling, but they don’t have time. She has to get to Poppy before—

“Damn it,” Val whispers under her breath. Poppy’s mother has already pulled up in a Mercedes SUV that has about as much functionality as the designer boots she sent Poppy in for the first day. And Poppy’s still in the goat pen instead of the stables.

Val claps her hands. “Okay! Last one out of their barn clothes has to muck out Stormy’s stall tomorrow!”

The girls shriek and dart away to remove the coveralls and boots Val gives them to protect the too-cute clothes their parents always have them wear. Val cuts across the dusty path to intercept Poppy’s mom before Poppy hears what’s about to happen.

“Hi,” Val says. She can’t recall the woman’s name. She never can with other adults. It’s hard to care.

The sunglasses come up, pushed onto carefully styled hair. “What’s Poppy doing in the goat pen?”

“She’s working with our baby goats, Luke and Leia, training them to—”

“I’m paying you for riding lessons!”

Parents always trot that out as leverage, but technically she isn’t paying Val at all. Val doesn’t get paid. She smiles politely. “You’re paying for a week of day camp at Gloria’s Ranch, which includes experiences with a variety of animals. And can include riding lessons, if the girls want that, which Poppy does not.”

“It’s not up to her! I want her to learn how to ride!”

Val resists the urge to smack the sunglasses off the woman’s head. “Poppy is spending a week outside building confidence with friends and animals. Do you want me to force her into a saddle and watch her have a panic attack? Because that’s not safe for Poppy or the horse.”

“But I’m paying—”

“No.” Val cuts her off. “Look at your daughter. Right now.”

Poppy’s perched on top of a bale of hay, expression intense with concentration as she balances next to a tiny baby goat. She gives a command, then jumps off and turns around expectantly. The goat follows. Poppy whoops in delighted triumph.

“But—” the mom says, her anger deflated in the face of Poppy’s elation.

“She’s afraid of horses. It’s a perfectly rational fear. Horses are terrifying creatures. Barrel chests and pin legs and have you seen their teeth?”

The woman raises a perfect eyebrow. “It sounds like you’re scared of them.”

“Oh, absolutely I am. I ignore it because I have to. But there’s no reason for Poppy to overcome this particular fear. No one needs to ride horses. She’s a remarkable little girl, and when she grows into a remarkable adult, she’ll remember how her mother listened to her and helped her find other things she was good at.”

The woman sighs out the last of her anger. “She does look happy.”

“And filthy.” Val wrinkles her nose. She’s not even pleased that she convinced this woman she was right. It was always going to go this way. When Val sets her mind to something, it happens.

The woman laughs, fully won over. “And filthy.”

“Poppy! Into the barn!” Val points and Poppy hops across the pen like a little goat herself.

“I really wanted to buy her cute riding clothes,” her mother says, wistful.

Sometimes Val forgets that adults are just children with both more and less autonomy. She smiles slyly and nudges the woman with her shoulder. “You know, we have riding classes for adults, too, and you’d look fabulous in a new riding outfit.”

Val’s rewarded with another laugh and a thoughtful glance toward the stables. The woman’s already picking out which horse is prettiest, probably imagining owning one herself. Good for business if she stables it here.

What would we do without you, Val? Gloria asks in her mind, and Val thinks back what she always does: You’ll never have to find out.

It tastes bitter today.\"},{\"id\":\"90888134T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"One

The thing is, the doors were open that morning.

Val knows—she knows, she knows—that waking up to find both doors of their sagging cabin opened wide to the world is probably only because Dad wasn’t sleeping well, and that she should tie a bell to his foot before bed tonight. Just in case.

But.

An open door is an invitation, she whispers to herself. And she keeps the doors to their cabin firmly closed all the time. She’ll have one of the ranch hands rig up some sort of lock system, up high, where Dad won’t be able to reach it.

That’ll fix it. She can stop worrying.

She doesn’t, though. She worries through the morning riding lessons, worries through lunch with the camp full of awkwardly pubescing little delights, worries through the early-afternoon group activities, more riding, cleanup. All her favorite things—especially the cleanup, knowing parents are paying a small fortune so their daughters can spend the week doing the chores Val hates most—are eaten up by the worry.

By late afternoon she’s mostly shaken it off, though. Sometimes an open door is just an open door. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

One of the girls, Lola, freckled and sunburned and wonderful, raises her hand. “Miss Val?”

“You know where the bathroom is,” Val answers. “You don’t have to ask when you need to go.” It’s almost time for pickup, which means she needs to get Poppy from the goat pen. The other five dusty and happy and tired campers are here with Val, finishing up in the stables.

“No!” Lola giggles shyly. “It’s not that. Do you have any kids?”

An image flashes in Val’s mind. A girl, even younger than these, her brown hair forever fighting to escape messy pigtails, with eyes so blue they break her heart. Val smiles. “Not yet, but I know there’s one in my future.”

“How?” another camper, Hannah, asks, wrinkling her nose beneath smudged glasses. Val resists the impulse to clean them for her. Independence is part of what her camps promise, even if it means dirty glasses. Val’s been running the summer programs for Gloria’s Ranch since she was twenty, and they’re the absolute highlight of her whole year.

Val shrugs. “I’ve always known.”

“But aren’t you getting too old?”

Val lifts an eyebrow. Lola scowls and elbows Hannah, but Val shakes her head. “No, it’s okay to ask questions. Questions are how we get to know the world. And the answer is, I’m not too old. Not yet.”

Her heart ticks like a clock, but she still has time. Val’s belief in her blue-eyed girl is as solid as her belief in gravity. The when and the how are questions she doesn’t let herself ask. It’s easy not to ask questions. Take the question, put it behind a door. Close the door. Leave nothing open. She is aware of the hypocrisy of always encouraging her students to ask questions when she denies herself the same freedom, but there’s a whole door in her head just for the cognitive dissonance of Do what I say, not what I do.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Lola blurts out, and suddenly this interrogation makes sense. Lola’s father finds excuses to linger at every drop-off and pickup.

“Only when I want to,” Val answers. “Sometimes I have a girlfriend.” Though boyfriend and girlfriend are generous terms for the relationships she allows herself to have.

Still, her answer has the desired effect of rapidly changing the subject as all the girls’ eyes go wide. Val can see the follow-up questions bubbling, but they don’t have time. She has to get to Poppy before—

“Damn it,” Val whispers under her breath. Poppy’s mother has already pulled up in a Mercedes SUV that has about as much functionality as the designer boots she sent Poppy in for the first day. And Poppy’s still in the goat pen instead of the stables.

Val claps her hands. “Okay! Last one out of their barn clothes has to muck out Stormy’s stall tomorrow!”

The girls shriek and dart away to remove the coveralls and boots Val gives them to protect the too-cute clothes their parents always have them wear. Val cuts across the dusty path to intercept Poppy’s mom before Poppy hears what’s about to happen.

“Hi,” Val says. She can’t recall the woman’s name. She never can with other adults. It’s hard to care.

The sunglasses come up, pushed onto carefully styled hair. “What’s Poppy doing in the goat pen?”

“She’s working with our baby goats, Luke and Leia, training them to—”

“I’m paying you for riding lessons!”

Parents always trot that out as leverage, but technically she isn’t paying Val at all. Val doesn’t get paid. She smiles politely. “You’re paying for a week of day camp at Gloria’s Ranch, which includes experiences with a variety of animals. And can include riding lessons, if the girls want that, which Poppy does not.”

“It’s not up to her! I want her to learn how to ride!”

Val resists the urge to smack the sunglasses off the woman’s head. “Poppy is spending a week outside building confidence with friends and animals. Do you want me to force her into a saddle and watch her have a panic attack? Because that’s not safe for Poppy or the horse.”

“But I’m paying—”

“No.” Val cuts her off. “Look at your daughter. Right now.”

Poppy’s perched on top of a bale of hay, expression intense with concentration as she balances next to a tiny baby goat. She gives a command, then jumps off and turns around expectantly. The goat follows. Poppy whoops in delighted triumph.

“But—” the mom says, her anger deflated in the face of Poppy’s elation.

“She’s afraid of horses. It’s a perfectly rational fear. Horses are terrifying creatures. Barrel chests and pin legs and have you seen their teeth?”

The woman raises a perfect eyebrow. “It sounds like you’re scared of them.”

“Oh, absolutely I am. I ignore it because I have to. But there’s no reason for Poppy to overcome this particular fear. No one needs to ride horses. She’s a remarkable little girl, and when she grows into a remarkable adult, she’ll remember how her mother listened to her and helped her find other things she was good at.”

The woman sighs out the last of her anger. “She does look happy.”

“And filthy.” Val wrinkles her nose. She’s not even pleased that she convinced this woman she was right. It was always going to go this way. When Val sets her mind to something, it happens.

The woman laughs, fully won over. “And filthy.”

“Poppy! Into the barn!” Val points and Poppy hops across the pen like a little goat herself.

“I really wanted to buy her cute riding clothes,” her mother says, wistful.

Sometimes Val forgets that adults are just children with both more and less autonomy. She smiles slyly and nudges the woman with her shoulder. “You know, we have riding classes for adults, too, and you’d look fabulous in a new riding outfit.”

Val’s rewarded with another laugh and a thoughtful glance toward the stables. The woman’s already picking out which horse is prettiest, probably imagining owning one herself. Good for business if she stables it here.

What would we do without you, Val? Gloria asks in her mind, and Val thinks back what she always does: You’ll never have to find out.

It tastes bitter today.\"},{\"id\":\"90410545T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"One

The thing is, the doors were open that morning.

Val knows—she knows, she knows—that waking up to find both doors of their sagging cabin opened wide to the world is probably only because Dad wasn’t sleeping well, and that she should tie a bell to his foot before bed tonight. Just in case.

But.

An open door is an invitation, she whispers to herself. And she keeps the doors to their cabin firmly closed all the time. She’ll have one of the ranch hands rig up some sort of lock system, up high, where Dad won’t be able to reach it.

That’ll fix it. She can stop worrying.

She doesn’t, though. She worries through the morning riding lessons, worries through lunch with the camp full of awkwardly pubescing little delights, worries through the early-afternoon group activities, more riding, cleanup. All her favorite things—especially the cleanup, knowing parents are paying a small fortune so their daughters can spend the week doing the chores Val hates most—are eaten up by the worry.

By late afternoon she’s mostly shaken it off, though. Sometimes an open door is just an open door. It doesn’t have to mean anything.

One of the girls, Lola, freckled and sunburned and wonderful, raises her hand. “Miss Val?”

“You know where the bathroom is,” Val answers. “You don’t have to ask when you need to go.” It’s almost time for pickup, which means she needs to get Poppy from the goat pen. The other five dusty and happy and tired campers are here with Val, finishing up in the stables.

“No!” Lola giggles shyly. “It’s not that. Do you have any kids?”

An image flashes in Val’s mind. A girl, even younger than these, her brown hair forever fighting to escape messy pigtails, with eyes so blue they break her heart. Val smiles. “Not yet, but I know there’s one in my future.”

“How?” another camper, Hannah, asks, wrinkling her nose beneath smudged glasses. Val resists the impulse to clean them for her. Independence is part of what her camps promise, even if it means dirty glasses. Val’s been running the summer programs for Gloria’s Ranch since she was twenty, and they’re the absolute highlight of her whole year.

Val shrugs. “I’ve always known.”

“But aren’t you getting too old?”

Val lifts an eyebrow. Lola scowls and elbows Hannah, but Val shakes her head. “No, it’s okay to ask questions. Questions are how we get to know the world. And the answer is, I’m not too old. Not yet.”

Her heart ticks like a clock, but she still has time. Val’s belief in her blue-eyed girl is as solid as her belief in gravity. The when and the how are questions she doesn’t let herself ask. It’s easy not to ask questions. Take the question, put it behind a door. Close the door. Leave nothing open. She is aware of the hypocrisy of always encouraging her students to ask questions when she denies herself the same freedom, but there’s a whole door in her head just for the cognitive dissonance of Do what I say, not what I do.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Lola blurts out, and suddenly this interrogation makes sense. Lola’s father finds excuses to linger at every drop-off and pickup.

“Only when I want to,” Val answers. “Sometimes I have a girlfriend.” Though boyfriend and girlfriend are generous terms for the relationships she allows herself to have.

Still, her answer has the desired effect of rapidly changing the subject as all the girls’ eyes go wide. Val can see the follow-up questions bubbling, but they don’t have time. She has to get to Poppy before—

“Damn it,” Val whispers under her breath. Poppy’s mother has already pulled up in a Mercedes SUV that has about as much functionality as the designer boots she sent Poppy in for the first day. And Poppy’s still in the goat pen instead of the stables.

Val claps her hands. “Okay! Last one out of their barn clothes has to muck out Stormy’s stall tomorrow!”

The girls shriek and dart away to remove the coveralls and boots Val gives them to protect the too-cute clothes their parents always have them wear. Val cuts across the dusty path to intercept Poppy’s mom before Poppy hears what’s about to happen.

“Hi,” Val says. She can’t recall the woman’s name. She never can with other adults. It’s hard to care.

The sunglasses come up, pushed onto carefully styled hair. “What’s Poppy doing in the goat pen?”

“She’s working with our baby goats, Luke and Leia, training them to—”

“I’m paying you for riding lessons!”

Parents always trot that out as leverage, but technically she isn’t paying Val at all. Val doesn’t get paid. She smiles politely. “You’re paying for a week of day camp at Gloria’s Ranch, which includes experiences with a variety of animals. And can include riding lessons, if the girls want that, which Poppy does not.”

“It’s not up to her! I want her to learn how to ride!”

Val resists the urge to smack the sunglasses off the woman’s head. “Poppy is spending a week outside building confidence with friends and animals. Do you want me to force her into a saddle and watch her have a panic attack? Because that’s not safe for Poppy or the horse.”

“But I’m paying—”

“No.” Val cuts her off. “Look at your daughter. Right now.”

Poppy’s perched on top of a bale of hay, expression intense with concentration as she balances next to a tiny baby goat. She gives a command, then jumps off and turns around expectantly. The goat follows. Poppy whoops in delighted triumph.

“But—” the mom says, her anger deflated in the face of Poppy’s elation.

“She’s afraid of horses. It’s a perfectly rational fear. Horses are terrifying creatures. Barrel chests and pin legs and have you seen their teeth?”

The woman raises a perfect eyebrow. “It sounds like you’re scared of them.”

“Oh, absolutely I am. I ignore it because I have to. But there’s no reason for Poppy to overcome this particular fear. No one needs to ride horses. She’s a remarkable little girl, and when she grows into a remarkable adult, she’ll remember how her mother listened to her and helped her find other things she was good at.”

The woman sighs out the last of her anger. “She does look happy.”

“And filthy.” Val wrinkles her nose. She’s not even pleased that she convinced this woman she was right. It was always going to go this way. When Val sets her mind to something, it happens.

The woman laughs, fully won over. “And filthy.”

“Poppy! Into the barn!” Val points and Poppy hops across the pen like a little goat herself.

“I really wanted to buy her cute riding clothes,” her mother says, wistful.

Sometimes Val forgets that adults are just children with both more and less autonomy. She smiles slyly and nudges the woman with her shoulder. “You know, we have riding classes for adults, too, and you’d look fabulous in a new riding outfit.”

Val’s rewarded with another laugh and a thoughtful glance toward the stables. The woman’s already picking out which horse is prettiest, probably imagining owning one herself. Good for business if she stables it here.

What would we do without you, Val? Gloria asks in her mind, and Val thinks back what she always does: You’ll never have to find out.

It tastes bitter today.\"},{\"id\":\"121794021T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"“Mister Magic is a propulsive, exciting, often genuinely scary, endlessly compelling mystery. Imagine a trip through Twin Peaks by way of Stranger Things and Stephen King’s It.”—Terry Miles, author of Rabbits

“Kiersten White’s horror epic of cursed childhood media and stolen adolescence cuts to the poisoned quick of our nostalgia-obsessed modern age, and is expertly adapted for the graphic medium by Scott Peterson and the incredible team of Veronica and Andy Fish.”—James Tynion IV

“Mister Magic walks the twilit line between wonder and terror where all the best childhood games are played.”—Melissa Albert, New York Times bestselling author of The Hazel Wood

“Clever, compelling, and utterly chilling, Mister Magic: The Graphic Novelis equal parts childhood nostalgia and creeping nightmare!”—Cavan Scott, New York Times bestselling author

“It meets The Stepford Wives in this wildly compelling story that explores whether it’s possible to recapture the magic of childhood friendship and what happens when you discover the darkness hiding underneath your memories.”—Mallory O’Meara, Los Angeles Times bestselling author of The Lady from the Black Lagoon

“I found myself thoroughly drawn in by Mister Magic, a unique thriller with a compelling cast of characters whose past hides long-buried secrets.”—Karen Cleveland, New York Times bestselling author of Need to Know

“Few books I’ve read capture the wonder and terror of childhood as brilliantly as Mister Magic. Both creepy and profoundly nostalgic, it’s guaranteed to unsettle anyone who grew up with Barney & Friends, Sesame Street, or other children’s shows—or anyone who’s ever been a child. This book gave me nightmares in the best possible way.”—Ana Reyes, New York Times bestselling author of The House in the Pines

“Kiersten White gave me a serious case of the heebie-jeebies that I couldn’t shake, even long after I’d put this book down! The sense of dread starts off as a whisper and builds into a full-blown scream as pieces of the mystery surrounding Mister Magic fall into place in this terrifying novel.”—Amanda Jayatissa, author of You’re Invited

“The allure and untrustworthiness of memory and childhood experiences are deftly explored in this compelling and eerie slow burn. . . . This deeply personal and mesmerizing work from White is sure to please, especially readers with ’90s nostalgia.”—Library Journal

“In this frightening, nostalgic, and original plot, White explores themes of racism, homophobia, and sexism. Savvy readers will devour the subtext and ponder philosophical questions about reality.”—Booklist, starred review

“Both eerie and surprisingly heartwarming, White’s examination of the perils of nostalgia is sure to win fans.”—Publishers Weekly\"},{\"id\":\"91486982T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Memory is a fascinating concept, and that fascination turns to terror thanks to Kiersten White’s Mister Magic, which tells the chilling story of a children’s TV program gone wrong. And underneath that terror is a bit of warmth not often found in the genre.

\"},{\"id\":\"89526083T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Memory is a funny concept. Not in the “ha ha” way but in a truly frightening manner. (Nervous laughter). One that could only be captured by Kiersten White and elaborated by the elusive “Mr. Magic”.

\"},{\"id\":\"121794022T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Kiersten White is the New York Times bestselling, Bram Stoker Award–winning, and critically acclaimed author of many books, including The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein, the And I Darken trilogy, the Slayer series, the Camelot Rising trilogy, and her adult debut, Hide. White lives with her family in San Diego, where they obsessively care for their deeply ambivalent tortoise, Kimberly.

\"},{\"id\":\"94998072T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Kiersten White is the New York Times bestselling, Bram Stoker Award–winning, and critically acclaimed author of many books, including The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein, the And I Darken trilogy, the Slayer series, the Camelot Rising trilogy, and her adult debut, Hide. White lives with her family in San Diego, where they obsessively care for their deeply ambivalent tortoise, Kimberly.\"},{\"id\":\"90888082T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Kiersten White is the New York Times bestselling, Bram Stoker Award–winning, and critically acclaimed author of many books, including The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein, the And I Darken trilogy, the Slayer series, the Camelot Rising trilogy, and her adult debut, Hide. White lives with her family in San Diego, where they obsessively care for their deeply ambivalent tortoise, Kimberly.\"},{\"id\":\"102580277T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Kiersten White is the New York Times bestselling, Bram Stoker Award-winning, and critically acclaimed author of many books, including The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein, the And I Darken trilogy, the Slayer series, the Camelot Rising trilogy, and her adult debut, Hide. White lives with her family in San Diego, where they obsessively care for their deeply ambivalent tortoise, Kimberly.\"},{\"id\":\"87052624T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Kiersten White is the New York Times bestselling, Bram Stoker Award–winning, and critically acclaimed author of many books, including The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein, the And I Darken trilogy, the Slayer series, the Camelot Rising trilogy, and her adult debut, Hide. White lives with her family in San Diego, where they obsessively care for their deeply ambivalent tortoise, Kimberly.\"}]",{"_45":2046,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":2047},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859427012849","Mister-Magic/Kiersten-White",{"_45":2049,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":2050},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859424686321","1142639624",{"_45":2052,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859425538289",{"_45":2054,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":2005},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859423736049",{"_45":2056,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859425964273",{"_45":2058,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":2059},"gid://shopify/Metafield/60334471217393","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.0\"}",{"_45":2061,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":2062},"gid://shopify/Metafield/60334471184625","37",{"_1887":1888,"_45":2064,"_75":2065,"_1891":2004,"_834":2066,"_1894":2067,"_1896":2068,"_1898":2069,"_1905":2073,"_1913":63,"_1914":2075,"_1920":2078,"_1942":-5,"_1945":2087,"_1947":2088,"_1949":-5,"_1950":2089},"gid://shopify/Product/9404942680305","The October Film Haunt: A Novel","9781250333711","WINNER OF THE BRAM STOKER AWARD FOR BEST FIRST NOVELOne of the Best Horror Novels of the Year by Vulture * Geek Rage/ Strange Library * Cinema ChordsMacabre Daily's #1 Horror Novel of 2025Horror Movie meets the scope and emotion of Stephen King in this heart-pounding, magnetic tour de force novel, destined to become an instant classic, about a woman pulled into a cult horror film that is determined to have a sequel, by critically acclaimed author Michael Wehunt.Ten years ago, Jorie Stroud was the rising star of the October Film Haunt, a trio of horror enthusiasts who camped out at the filming locations of their favorite scary movies, sharing their love through their popular blog. But after a night in the graveyard from Proof of Demons-perhaps the most chilling cult film ever made, directed by the enigmatic Hélène Enriquez-everything unraveled.Now, Jorie has built an isolated life with her young son in Vermont. In the devastating wake of her viral, truth-stretching Proof of Demons blog entry-hysteria, internet backlash, and the death of a young woman-Jorie has put it all, along with her intense love for the horror genre, behind her.Until a videotape arrives in the mail. Jorie fears someone might be filming her. And the \"Rickies\"-Enriquez obsessives who would do anything for the reclusive director-begin to cross lines in disturbing ways. It seems Hélène Enriquez is making a new kind of sequel...and Jorie is her final girl.As the dangers grow even more unexpected and strange, Jorie must search for answers before the proof of the movie's title finds her and takes everything she loves.This riveting and layered horror novel unleashes supernatural terror in a world where truth can be manipulated, and nothing is as it seems. Beautiful and horrifying, with an unforgettable cast of characters, The October Film Haunt will shock and delight readers all the way to its breathless final page.\"So unique and steeped in 21st century paranoia and dread you won't be able to read this alone at night.\" - Paul Tremblay\"The horror in here is palpable, but the writing itself is just as scary: How can one pen have this many good lines in it?\" - Stephen Graham Jones","

WINNER OF THE BRAM STOKER AWARD FOR BEST FIRST NOVEL

One of the Best Horror Novels of the Year by Vulture * Geek Rage/ Strange Library * Cinema Chords

Macabre Daily's #1 Horror Novel of 2025

Horror Movie meets the scope and emotion of Stephen King in this heart-pounding, magnetic tour de force novel, destined to become an instant classic, about a woman pulled into a cult horror film that is determined to have a sequel, by critically acclaimed author Michael Wehunt.

Ten years ago, Jorie Stroud was the rising star of the October Film Haunt, a trio of horror enthusiasts who camped out at the filming locations of their favorite scary movies, sharing their love through their popular blog. But after a night in the graveyard from Proof of Demons-perhaps the most chilling cult film ever made, directed by the enigmatic Hélène Enriquez-everything unraveled.

Now, Jorie has built an isolated life with her young son in Vermont. In the devastating wake of her viral, truth-stretching Proof of Demons blog entry-hysteria, internet backlash, and the death of a young woman-Jorie has put it all, along with her intense love for the horror genre, behind her.

Until a videotape arrives in the mail. Jorie fears someone might be filming her. And the \"Rickies\"-Enriquez obsessives who would do anything for the reclusive director-begin to cross lines in disturbing ways. It seems Hélène Enriquez is making a new kind of sequel...and Jorie is her final girl.

As the dangers grow even more unexpected and strange, Jorie must search for answers before the proof of the movie's title finds her and takes everything she loves.

This riveting and layered horror novel unleashes supernatural terror in a world where truth can be manipulated, and nothing is as it seems. Beautiful and horrifying, with an unforgettable cast of characters, The October Film Haunt will shock and delight readers all the way to its breathless final page.

\"So unique and steeped in 21st century paranoia and dread you won't be able to read this alone at night.\" - Paul Tremblay

\"The horror in here is palpable, but the writing itself is just as scary: How can one pen have this many good lines in it?\" - Stephen Graham Jones

",{"_45":2070,"_58":2071,"_60":2072,"_54":2012,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47694679998705","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781250333711_p0.jpg?v=1789791507",882,{"_1907":2074},{"_1909":2015,"_1911":1912},{"_1907":2076,"_1918":2077},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":2079},[2080],{"_45":2081,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":-5,"_714":2082,"_1930":2083,"_1932":2084,"_1934":2085,"_1940":2066,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47560838938865",{"_45":2070,"_58":2071,"_1904":-5,"_60":2072,"_54":2012},{"_1909":2015,"_1911":1912},{"_75":2065,"_834":2066},[2086],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":2066},{"_1938":2004},[2090,-5,-5,2093,2095,-5,2097,2099,2102,2105,2108,-5,-5,2110,-5,2112,2114,2117],{"_45":2091,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":2092},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375779352817","[{\"contributorId\":15322646,\"fullName\":\"Michael Wehunt\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":2094,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375779549425",{"_45":2096,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375779188977",{"_45":2098,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":2041},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375779582193",{"_45":2100,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":2101},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74409056403697","[{\"id\":\"131389536T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

\\\"Wehunt is one of the most dynamic voices in horror... a cosmic fusion of William Faulkner's gothic with modern sensibilities.\\\" --Booklist (starred review)

\\\"The horror in here is palpable, and timely, and sticky, but the writing itself is just as scary: How can one pen have this many good lines in it?\\\" --Stephen Graham Jones, New York Times bestselling author of I Was a Teenage Slasher and Don't Fear the Reaper

\\\"Michael Wehunt's rabbit punch of a novel is as beautifully written as it is affecting.\\\" --Paul Tremblay, New York Times bestselling author of Horror Movie and A Head Full of Ghosts

\\\"This is an extraordinary book, carried by an unsettling baritone hum, not dissimilar to the whir of a VCR that should never have been plugged in to begin with.\\\" --Josh Malerman, New York Times bestselling author of Bird Box and Incidents Around the House

\\\"Haunting, clever, and flat-out scary. I plan to read it again to figure out how Wehunt pulled it off.\\\" --Richard Chizmar, New York Times bestselling author of Chasing the Boogeyman and Memorials

\\\"Will dig a hole in you, plant roots, and grow.\\\" --Nick Cutter, bestselling author of The Queen and The Troop

\\\"Intelligent, emotional, and very very scary. One of the best books I've read in years.\\\" --Adam Cesare, USA Today bestselling author of Influencer and Clown in a Cornfield

\\\"Feels like a cursed tape you're not sure you should've watched, but can't bring yourself to stop.\\\" --Nat Cassidy, author of When the Wolf Comes Home and Nestlings

\\\"Infused with atmospheric, seeping dread that slowly creeps down your spine, this is a captivating story not to be missed.\\\" --CG Drews, #1 New York Times Bestselling author of Don't Let The Forest In

\\\"Deftly pairs emotional heft with nightmare fuel against the eerie backdrop of a cult horror film.\\\" --Craig DiLouie, author of How to Make a Horror Movie and Survive

\\\"A masterpiece of miasma. Imagine The Truman Show helmed by Wes Craven.\\\" --Clay McLeod Chapman, author of Wake Up and Open Your Eyes

\\\"Each page sighs with the terrifying promise of dread, the soft whispers of legends and mythologies aching to be exposed.\\\" --Eric LaRocca, author of Things Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke

\\\"A smart, genre-savvy book that gets very, very weird.\\\" --Brian Evenson, author of Good Night, Sleep Tight and Songs for the Unravelling the World

\\\"A love letter to horror... I have never read anything quite like this novel, and I don't think I will again.\\\" --Kristi DeMeester, Georgia Author of the Year Finalist and author of Dark Sisters and Such a Pretty Smile

\\\"A masterful work by a horror writer whose talents I want the world to know and love--and fear.\\\" --Andy Davidson, author of The Hollow Kind

\\\"Smart, gripping, and utterly terrifying, this book will make you rethink your relationship with both the camera and social media.\\\" --Wendy N. Wagner, author of The Deer Kings

\\\"This is a terrifying novel. There are sequences and images that have invaded my sleep and my daydreams. Read, but beware.\\\" --Alison Rumfitt, author of Brainwyrms and Tell Me I'm Worthless

\\\"An eerie and savage work of meta-horror made all the more effective for the delicacy of its psychological portrayals.\\\" --Nathan Ballingrud, author of Crypt of the Moon Spider and The Strange

\\\"Wehunt blurs reality and fiction, confounds any expectations, and makes you feel like you're participating in a dark ritual with each turned page.\\\" --Vulture

\\\"Wehunt's chilling, spot-on imagery and descriptive prose are what really sell this ambitious concept...a layered slow-burn that speaks of obsession, fandom and the lethal itch to know the truth.\\\" --Fangoria

\\\"A chilling and cerebral descent into obsession, grief, and the viral power of belief.\\\" --Horror Junkies

\\\"A strong contender for the epic horror novel of the 2020s.\\\" --Geek Rage/Strange Library

\\\"A twisted nightmare fit for the 21st century...will delight hardcore horror fans with its heavy dread, innovative prose, and delightful dialogue.\\\" --Shelf Awareness

\\\"A love letter to horror films and creatives...damnably haunting and wicked as hell.\\\" --FanFiAddict

\\\"A metafictional reliquary--a haunted artifact masquerading as a novel, or perhaps the other way around. It is not a book to be read so much as inhabited. You do not finish it; you leave it. And when you do, the world outside is slightly less intact.\\\" --The Dark Forest

\\\"Simply excellent.\\\" --JamReads

\\\"Wehunt knows how to get under your skin.\\\" --Book Reporter

\\\"Wehunt has crafted something rare: a horror novel that frightens on multiple registers--viscerally, psychologically, and existentially.\\\" --The Bookish Elf

\\\"Terrifying perfection.\\\" --Macabre Daily

\\\"Downright chilling...[a] monumental novel.\\\" --Camera Macabre

\\\"Blending psychological, supernatural, and conspiracy horror into an engaging, unsettling trip through fandom and its adjacent obsession...as suspenseful as it is thought-provoking.\\\" --GeekDad

\"},{\"id\":\"127743838T\",\"type\":\"Award Note\",\"linkText\":\"Award Note\",\"typeId\":\"1036\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"2026 Bram Stoker Awards - Winner, Winner
\"},{\"id\":\"114664991T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"

\\\"Wehunt is one of the most dynamic voices in horror... a cosmic fusion of William Faulkner's gothic with modern sensibilities.\\\" -Booklist (starred review)

\\\"The horror in here is palpable, and timely, and sticky, but the writing itself is just as scary: How can one pen have this many good lines in it?\\\" -Stephen Graham Jones, New York Times bestselling author of I Was a Teenage Slasher and Don't Fear the Reaper

\\\"Michael Wehunt's rabbit punch of a novel is as beautifully written as it is affecting.\\\" -Paul Tremblay, New York Times bestselling author of Horror Movie and A Head Full of Ghosts

\\\"This is an extraordinary book, carried by an unsettling baritone hum, not dissimilar to the whir of a VCR that should never have been plugged in to begin with.\\\" -Josh Malerman, New York Times bestselling author of Bird Box and Incidents Around the House

\\\"Haunting, clever, and flat-out scary. I plan to read it again to figure out how Wehunt pulled it off.\\\" -Richard Chizmar, New York Times bestselling author of Chasing the Boogeyman and Memorials

\\\"Will dig a hole in you, plant roots, and grow.\\\" -Nick Cutter, bestselling author of The Queen and The Troop

\\\"Intelligent, emotional, and very very scary. One of the best books I've read in years.\\\" -Adam Cesare, USA Today bestselling author of Influencer and Clown in a Cornfield

\\\"Feels like a cursed tape you're not sure you should've watched, but can't bring yourself to stop.\\\" -Nat Cassidy, author of When the Wolf Comes Home and Nestlings

\\\"Infused with atmospheric, seeping dread that slowly creeps down your spine, this is a captivating story not to be missed.\\\" -CG Drews, #1 New York Times Bestselling author of Don't Let The Forest In

\\\"Deftly pairs emotional heft with nightmare fuel against the eerie backdrop of a cult horror film.\\\" -Craig DiLouie, author of How to Make a Horror Movie and Survive

\\\"A masterpiece of miasma. Imagine The Truman Show helmed by Wes Craven.\\\" -Clay McLeod Chapman, author of Wake Up and Open Your Eyes

\\\"Each page sighs with the terrifying promise of dread, the soft whispers of legends and mythologies aching to be exposed.\\\" -Eric LaRocca, author of Things Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke

\\\"A smart, genre-savvy book that gets very, very weird.\\\" -Brian Evenson, author of Good Night, Sleep Tight and Songs for the Unravelling the World

\\\"A love letter to horror... I have never read anything quite like this novel, and I don't think I will again.\\\" -Kristi DeMeester, Georgia Author of the Year Finalist and author of Dark Sisters and Such a Pretty Smile

\\\"A masterful work by a horror writer whose talents I want the world to know and love-and fear.\\\" -Andy Davidson, author of The Hollow Kind

\\\"Smart, gripping, and utterly terrifying, this book will make you rethink your relationship with both the camera and social media.\\\" -Wendy N. Wagner, author of The Deer Kings

\\\"This is a terrifying novel. There are sequences and images that have invaded my sleep and my daydreams. Read, but beware.\\\" -Alison Rumfitt, author of Brainwyrms and Tell Me I'm Worthless

\\\"An eerie and savage work of meta-horror made all the more effective for the delicacy of its psychological portrayals.\\\" -Nathan Ballingrud, author of Crypt of the Moon Spider and The Strange

\\\"Wehunt blurs reality and fiction, confounds any expectations, and makes you feel like you're participating in a dark ritual with each turned page.\\\" -Vulture

\\\"Wehunt's chilling, spot-on imagery and descriptive prose are what really sell this ambitious concept...a layered slow-burn that speaks of obsession, fandom and the lethal itch to know the truth.\\\" -Fangoria

\\\"A chilling and cerebral descent into obsession, grief, and the viral power of belief.\\\" -Horror Junkies

\\\"A strong contender for the epic horror novel of the 2020s.\\\" -Geek Rage/Strange Library

\\\"A twisted nightmare fit for the 21st century...will delight hardcore horror fans with its heavy dread, innovative prose, and delightful dialogue.\\\" -Shelf Awareness

\\\"A love letter to horror films and creatives...damnably haunting and wicked as hell.\\\" -FanFiAddict

\\\"A metafictional reliquary-a haunted artifact masquerading as a novel, or perhaps the other way around. It is not a book to be read so much as inhabited. You do not finish it; you leave it. And when you do, the world outside is slightly less intact.\\\" -The Dark Forest

\\\"Simply excellent.\\\" -JamReads

\\\"Wehunt knows how to get under your skin.\\\" -Book Reporter

\\\"Wehunt has crafted something rare: a horror novel that frightens on multiple registers-viscerally, psychologically, and existentially.\\\" -The Bookish Elf

\\\"Terrifying perfection.\\\" -Macabre Daily

\\\"Downright chilling...[a] monumental novel.\\\" -Camera Macabre

\\\"Blending psychological, supernatural, and conspiracy horror into an engaging, unsettling trip through fandom and its adjacent obsession...as suspenseful as it is thought-provoking.\\\" -GeekDad

\"},{\"id\":\"114964279T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Both a chilling tale and a thought-provoking examination of what it means to be a cult classic, The October Film Haunt is a wild and unexpected ride into the world of horror movies and the fans who take it too far.

\"},{\"id\":\"120600032T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

MICHAEL WEHUNT has been a finalist for multiple Shirley Jackson Awards and was shortlisted for the International Association for the Fantastic in the Arts' Crawford Award. In Spain, his stories have garnered nominations for the Premio Ignotus and Premio Amaltea, winning the latter. He haunts the woods outside Atlanta with his partner and their dog. Together, they hold the horrors at bay.

\"},{\"id\":\"114664992T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"112592876T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"MICHAEL WEHUNT has been a finalist for multiple Shirley Jackson Awards and was shortlisted for the International Association for the Fantastic in the Arts' Crawford Award. In Spain, his stories have garnered nominations for the Premio Ignotus and Premio Amaltea, winning the latter. He haunts the woods outside Atlanta with his partner and their dog. Together, they hold the horrors at bay.\"}]",{"_45":2103,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":2104},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375779844337","The-October-Film-Haunt/Michael-Wehunt",{"_45":2106,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":2107},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375779057905","1146657385",{"_45":2109,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375779516657",{"_45":2111,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":2066},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375778042097",{"_45":2113,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375779614961",{"_45":2115,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":2116},"gid://shopify/Metafield/83720033239281","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"3.8\"}",{"_45":2118,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":2119},"gid://shopify/Metafield/83720033206513","0",{"_1887":1888,"_45":2121,"_75":2122,"_1891":2004,"_834":2123,"_1894":2124,"_1896":2125,"_1898":2126,"_1905":2129,"_1913":63,"_1914":2132,"_1920":2135,"_1942":-5,"_1945":2144,"_1947":2145,"_1949":-5,"_1950":2146},"gid://shopify/Product/8871529578737","Dead Eleven: A Novel","9780593471944","\"An ominously slow burn...Keep the lights on for this one.\"—A PEOPLE MUST-READ FOR SUMMER \"Very creepy...you've been warned.\"—R.L. STINE\"Gripping.”—ANA REYES On a creepy island where everyone has a strange obsession with the year 1994, a newcomer arrives, hoping to learn the truth about her son’s death—but finds herself pulled deeper and deeper into the bizarrely insular community and their complicated rules… Clifford Island. When Willow Stone finds these words written on the floor of her deceased son’s bedroom, she’s perplexed. She’s never heard of it before, but soon learns it’s a tiny island off Wisconsin’s Door County peninsula, 200 miles from Willow’s home. Why would her son write this on his floor? Determined to find answers, Willow sets out for the island. After a few days on Clifford, Willow realizes: This place is not normal. Everyone seems to be stuck in a particular day in 1994: They wear outdated clothing, avoid modern technology, and, perhaps most mystifyingly, watch the OJ Simpson car chase every evening. When she asks questions, people are evasive, but she learns one thing: Close your curtains at night. High schooler Lily Becker has lived on Clifford her entire life, and she is sick of the island’s twisted mythology and adhering to the rules. She’s been to the mainland, and everyone is normal there, so why is Clifford so weird? Lily is determined to prove that the islanders’ beliefs are a sham. But are they? Five weeks after Willow arrives on the island, she disappears. Willow’s brother, Harper, comes to Clifford searching for his sister, and when he learns the truth—that this island is far more sinister than anyone could have imagined—he is determined to blow the whole thing open. If he can get out alive....","\"An ominously slow burn...Keep the lights on for this one.\"—A PEOPLE MUST-READ FOR SUMMER
\"Very creepy...you've been warned.\"—R.L. STINE
\"Gripping.”—ANA REYES

On a creepy island where everyone has a strange obsession with the year 1994, a newcomer arrives, hoping to learn the truth about her son’s death—but finds herself pulled deeper and deeper into the bizarrely insular community and their complicated rules…

Clifford Island. When Willow Stone finds these words written on the floor of her deceased son’s bedroom, she’s perplexed. She’s never heard of it before, but soon learns it’s a tiny island off Wisconsin’s Door County peninsula, 200 miles from Willow’s home. Why would her son write this on his floor? Determined to find answers, Willow sets out for the island.

After a few days on Clifford, Willow realizes: This place is not normal. Everyone seems to be stuck in a particular day in 1994: They wear outdated clothing, avoid modern technology, and, perhaps most mystifyingly, watch the OJ Simpson car chase every evening. When she asks questions, people are evasive, but she learns one thing: Close your curtains at night.

High schooler Lily Becker has lived on Clifford her entire life, and she is sick of the island’s twisted mythology and adhering to the rules. She’s been to the mainland, and everyone is normal there, so why is Clifford so weird? Lily is determined to prove that the islanders’ beliefs are a sham. But are they?

Five weeks after Willow arrives on the island, she disappears. Willow’s brother, Harper, comes to Clifford searching for his sister, and when he learns the truth—that this island is far more sinister than anyone could have imagined—he is determined to blow the whole thing open.

If he can get out alive....",{"_45":2127,"_58":2128,"_60":2011,"_54":2012,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47560086225137","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593471944_p0.jpg?v=1765117636",{"_1907":2130},{"_1909":2131,"_1911":1912},"18.0",{"_1907":2133,"_1918":2134},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":2136},[2137],{"_45":2138,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":-5,"_714":2139,"_1930":2140,"_1932":2141,"_1934":2142,"_1940":2123,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46272030933233",{"_45":2127,"_58":2128,"_1904":-5,"_60":2011,"_54":2012},{"_1909":2131,"_1911":1912},{"_75":2122,"_834":2123},[2143],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":2123},{"_1938":2004},[2147,-5,-5,2150,2152,-5,2154,2156,2159,2162,2165,-5,-5,2167,-5,2169,2171,2174],{"_45":2148,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":2149},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864789135601","[{\"contributorId\":28565405,\"fullName\":\"Jimmy Juliano\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":2151,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864789889265",{"_45":2153,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864788283633",{"_45":2155,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":2041},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864790085873",{"_45":2157,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":2158},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864791986417","[{\"id\":\"124405747T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"1

The Old Woman and the Corpse

Esther and Gloria had a routine.

Every day at 1:12 p.m., the elderly neighbors would shuffle to their mailboxes-Esther on one side of the gravel road, Gloria on the other-and they'd wave to each other. The widows owned the only two houses on a rural, one-mile stretch of road on Clifford Island. Their properties had been cut into the forest a half century ago, their homes engulfed by pine trees, with hidden driveways peeking through thin gaps in the sweet and earthy-smelling woods. Not many cars went that way; some days it was only the mail truck. The fog was a bit heavier at this particular spot, and despite the lack of island traffic, more deer seemed to dart out and get obliterated there than any other place on the island. The stench of rotting flesh lingered for days. Something to remind the women that death could sneak up at any moment.

They were a superstitious pair, after all.

The women's routine went like this: Esther walked down her driveway wearing blue slippers, gray cotton pants, and a red cardigan. She reached her mailbox and raised her right hand to Gloria, who would be wearing a faded white nightgown. Gloria waved back. The women checked for mail and then doddered back up their driveways.

It went like that every day, rain or shine, sleet or snow, for twenty-five years.

Many days there was no mail delivered. Christmas, the Fourth of July, Sundays, of course. But sometimes there was just no mail. No letters, no bills, no JCPenney catalog. The mail truck drove right by, or simply didn't come at all. The women checked their mailboxes anyway, always at 1:12 p.m. If it was colder outside-and it certainly got very cold this far north, especially in the clutches of a Wisconsin winter-Esther and Gloria bundled up in jackets and mittens. But Esther always wore the gray pants and cardigan underneath, and Gloria always wore the nightgown. It was tradition.

The two women lived alone for decades, but they were far from bored. Esther played cribbage at the small community center on Thursday nights. Both women sang in the church choir on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Gloria enjoyed tending to her garden; Esther had a chicken coop. They often exchanged pleasantries at the café downtown, usually commiserating about the runny eggs and burnt coffee. Esther and Gloria were friendly, but they weren't friends. Some islanders wondered why they weren't friends, as if being old and alone meant you had to be friends with your neighbor, who was also old and alone. They'd even get asked that question from time to time. Why don't you drive together to church? You live across the street. But both women felt that they couldn't be friends. They knew their bond ran deeper than friendship.

The 1:12 ceremony was their purpose. It started one afternoon, and then they found that they needed to do it every day. The routine was all they needed and all they wanted from each other, and both women would be damned if they'd be the one to break the streak. It gave a sense of structure to their lives, a sense of balance to their little corner of the universe. It made Esther and Gloria feel that the things they did mattered, that someone else depended on them. No one else had depended on them for a really long time.

Check time. Open door. Walk down driveway. Wave. Open mailbox. Walk up driveway.

Every day.

Twenty-five years.

But then, one unseasonably warm October afternoon, Gloria wasn't at her mailbox. The moment Esther stepped outside her front door, she knew something was wrong. The world felt different, and she couldn't explain it. Esther walked past her mailbox, across the road, and up Gloria's driveway. She hadn't been to Gloria's house in years, and she felt like she was trespassing. Her chest tightened, and her pace quickened. She knew she had to do this, and she wanted to get it over with quickly.

The front door was unlocked. Esther clasped the handle and gave the door a gentle push, thinking how strange it was to open a front door that wasn't her own. The weight, the squeak. It felt so utterly foreign to her.

\\\"Gloria?\\\" Esther called out. Nothing. She felt the dread spread throughout her belly. She had a feeling about what she was about to find, and she just hoped it wasn't gruesome and that it wouldn't cause her to heave her small lunch of an English muffin and cottage cheese onto Gloria's floor. Esther rounded the corner into the living room, and there it was: Gloria's body slumped in a brown recliner.

\\\"Oh, Gloria,\\\" Esther whispered.

Gloria was dead. Esther knew that immediately, and her first thought was relief-it was not a gruesome sight at all, and her lunch stayed put right where she'd left it. There was no putrid smell, no blood, and the body wasn't bent or twisted in any unholy directions. Gloria's right arm dangled off the armrest, and her mouth hung open. Esther had found her husband's dead body in much the same position many decades ago, and she had known immediately then, too. Gloria, like Esther's late husband, appeared to have died of natural causes. A heart attack, maybe a stroke. Or perhaps her body just finally gave up while taking a nap-Esther hoped that was the case. Something totally painless and without fear.

We all deserve to go that way, Esther thought.

Esther kept right on staring at Gloria's dead body, waiting for something to happen. She didn't know exactly what that something would be, but she waited all the same. The dead woman stayed right where she was, sunk into the recliner, properly dressed in that white nightgown-the one she wore to check the mail every day. Esther had never seen it this closely before. It had been patched up dozens of times. Little pieces of stitching jutted out here and there, and the bottom six inches had more wear and tear, no doubt the result of countless days trudging to the mailbox in snow or mud. Esther was surprised the nightgown had lasted this long.

She looked around the room. The furniture was dated and worn, just like her own. Just another solitary old bird like me, Esther thought. She caught her reflection in the rectangular, chunky Zenith TV that sat in the corner. It made her look older and tinier than she was, and for a moment she pondered the idea of mortality and wondered if her own date had already been circled on Death's calendar and she just didn't realize it yet. A large grandfather clock ticked loudly. Esther read the clockface: 1:19 p.m.

Reality crashed in. They weren't supposed to be here. Gloria wasn't supposed to be dead. The two women were supposed to be outside, puttering down their driveways in their daily uniforms, checking their mail. Actually, that was supposed to have happened seven minutes ago.

They were seven minutes late.

They were breaking their routine.

The old woman's body stiffened with panic. Esther didn't know what to do. All she knew was that their routine was all they had. Actually, there was no they anymore. It was she, and only she. It was the first time she'd been truly alone in, how long was it now, almost thirty years? The exact amount of time didn't matter. In that moment, the only thing that mattered anymore was the mail routine. Her purpose, their shared purpose, the one Esther shared with the dead person in the living room.

She had nothing else but the routine, so she had to act quickly.

The old woman gripped Gloria by the wrist and then dropped it immediately, recoiling at the body's coldness. It had caught her off guard. She had picked up a dead cat once before, and it felt nothing like this. Steeling herself, Esther reached forward and gripped the wrist again, this time dragging Gloria's corpse off the easy chair. The body fell limply to the shag carpet. Gloria's open eyes pointed blankly toward the ceiling, and Esther had a passing, terrible thought that those dead eyes might snap sideways and seize upon her-Oh, you thought I was dead, missy? I'll show you dead-but Gloria's body stayed very much lifeless, her eyes trained on absolutely nothing at all. Esther gripped Gloria by the right ankle and started pulling. It was slow, painful work. Gloria couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds, but Esther wasn't much bigger herself. She hauled the body inch by inch to the front door, and when she reached the foyer, Esther dropped Gloria's leg to the floor. The dead woman's foot thumped on the linoleum. Esther put her hands on her knees, her ancient lungs pounding, her pulse racing.

She couldn't drag her any farther. Esther needed another way.

She found a wheelbarrow next to the garage, steered it awkwardly to the front door, and, even though she was sure she'd never lifted anything so heavy in her entire life, heaved the frail body inside. As Esther guided the rickety wheelbarrow down the driveway, there were a few times where it almost rammed into a tree trunk or tipped over. She was certain if it tipped, that would be it. She'd used up all the energy she had, played her trump card, and the corpse would just remain on the gravel driveway until she could convince someone else to help her with her morbid task. But Esther's steering was sound, the wheelbarrow level and true, and she made it all the way to the end of the driveway right next to the white mailbox with the red flag, one of the sacred locations of the women's routine. Her arms were wobbly by this point, and she couldn't have made it much farther. She released the wooden handles and the wheelbarrow tipped over, Gloria's body sliding onto the road like a pile of dirt.

Esther gathered her strength, and she looked up and down the road. No cars in sight, and she didn't hear any in the distance, which wasn't an odd thing in the slightest. Anyone driving in her neck of the woods was always a surprise to her anyway. She looked down at her wrist to check the time, but her gold watch with the champagne dial-the one gifted to her by her late husband, seemingly a lifetime ago-wasn't there. It wasn't part of the mail-checking ensemble. Regardless, she knew she was woefully behind.

If I'm an hour late, will it still count? she thought. What about two hours? Three hours?

She looked across the road toward her own house, thinking it looked quite different from this angle, like she was looking at it through Gloria's eyes for the first time. But there was no time for nostalgia or taking a moment to truly appreciate the world from someone else's perspective. She needed something to tie and fasten the body, and she needed it quickly. Her heart pounding, she briskly walked back to her own place, retrieved her husband's old belts and some zip ties, and then went back to the corpse and got to work.

Did she wave with her right hand or her left hand? Esther wondered. She couldn't believe that she couldn't remember such a simple detail, and she blamed it on the adrenaline. Esther settled on Gloria reaching inside the mailbox with her right hand and waving with her left, so that's how she propped up the body. It took six belts and three zip ties, and in the end, it didn't look convincing at all. To make it all work, she had to shove half of Gloria's arm inside the mailbox, and her body then swung out awkwardly with the other arm above her head and zip-tied to the wooden post. It didn't resemble someone checking their mail. It looked exactly like what it was: a dead body clumsily tied to a mailbox.

Satisfied, Esther walked back to her house and went inside. She looked at her clock: 2:22 p.m. They'd missed their routine by more than an hour, but Esther decided that was okay. The fact that she was doing it at all was what mattered. She tried not to think about what would happen the next day or the day after that. She'd come up with something, she reasoned. Something to keep it all going, something to keep the trains running on time. For now, she had to hold up her end of the bargain.

Esther opened the front door and, trembling only a little, strolled as casually as she could down her driveway through the pinewoods. She got to her mailbox and raised her right hand to Gloria, who, of course, was dead and tethered to her own mailbox. Esther popped open the little black door and reached inside. No mail today. The old woman closed the door and turned to walk away, the ritual complete, all right with the world. But then she hesitated.

She looked back at the corpse. Her dead neighbor hadn't moved an inch, thankfully. But that wasn't what Esther was thinking about. She was thinking about that nightgown, about what would happen to it after all this madness.

It was old, sure. Just like her and Gloria.

But it had a few good years left in it.

Maybe more.

Especially if Esther fixed it up.

This might be Gloria's last time checking for mail, Esther thought, but that doesn't mean the nightgown can't still be a part of the routine.

I won't let anyone take that away from me.

Esther hustled up her driveway to grab a pair of scissors from her sewing kit.

There was one more thing that needed to be done.

#

Larry Chambers, a carpenter in town, spotted the body a few hours later. He didn’t usually drive out that way, but he had just gotten his 1991 Dodge Ram jumped, and he remembered reading that you should drive your car around for twenty minutes after a jump to juice up the battery. So, Larry decided to drive aimlessly around the island for a while, and that’s how he found himself in Gloria and Esther’s neck of the woods on an autumn afternoon.

From a distance, he thought it was a person stretching. He got a little closer, and he thought it was a scarecrow. Then Larry slammed on the brakes, and the beer bottles he'd drained that morning rolled and clanged together on the passenger-side floor of his truck. He adjusted his rearview mirror and looked at the body again, just to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him.

The man turned off his car and sat in silence for a few moments, his gaze not leaving what he had now determined to be a fresh corpse, strung up like a marionette.\"},{\"id\":\"97774479T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"1

The Old Woman and the Corpse

Esther and Gloria had a routine.

Every day at 1:12 p.m., the elderly neighbors would shuffle to their mailboxes-Esther on one side of the gravel road, Gloria on the other-and they'd wave to each other. The widows owned the only two houses on a rural, one-mile stretch of road on Clifford Island. Their properties had been cut into the forest a half century ago, their homes engulfed by pine trees, with hidden driveways peeking through thin gaps in the sweet and earthy-smelling woods. Not many cars went that way; some days it was only the mail truck. The fog was a bit heavier at this particular spot, and despite the lack of island traffic, more deer seemed to dart out and get obliterated there than any other place on the island. The stench of rotting flesh lingered for days. Something to remind the women that death could sneak up at any moment.

They were a superstitious pair, after all.

The women's routine went like this: Esther walked down her driveway wearing blue slippers, gray cotton pants, and a red cardigan. She reached her mailbox and raised her right hand to Gloria, who would be wearing a faded white nightgown. Gloria waved back. The women checked for mail and then doddered back up their driveways.

It went like that every day, rain or shine, sleet or snow, for twenty-five years.

Many days there was no mail delivered. Christmas, the Fourth of July, Sundays, of course. But sometimes there was just no mail. No letters, no bills, no JCPenney catalog. The mail truck drove right by, or simply didn't come at all. The women checked their mailboxes anyway, always at 1:12 p.m. If it was colder outside-and it certainly got very cold this far north, especially in the clutches of a Wisconsin winter-Esther and Gloria bundled up in jackets and mittens. But Esther always wore the gray pants and cardigan underneath, and Gloria always wore the nightgown. It was tradition.

The two women lived alone for decades, but they were far from bored. Esther played cribbage at the small community center on Thursday nights. Both women sang in the church choir on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Gloria enjoyed tending to her garden; Esther had a chicken coop. They often exchanged pleasantries at the café downtown, usually commiserating about the runny eggs and burnt coffee. Esther and Gloria were friendly, but they weren't friends. Some islanders wondered why they weren't friends, as if being old and alone meant you had to be friends with your neighbor, who was also old and alone. They'd even get asked that question from time to time. Why don't you drive together to church? You live across the street. But both women felt that they couldn't be friends. They knew their bond ran deeper than friendship.

The 1:12 ceremony was their purpose. It started one afternoon, and then they found that they needed to do it every day. The routine was all they needed and all they wanted from each other, and both women would be damned if they'd be the one to break the streak. It gave a sense of structure to their lives, a sense of balance to their little corner of the universe. It made Esther and Gloria feel that the things they did mattered, that someone else depended on them. No one else had depended on them for a really long time.

Check time. Open door. Walk down driveway. Wave. Open mailbox. Walk up driveway.

Every day.

Twenty-five years.

But then, one unseasonably warm October afternoon, Gloria wasn't at her mailbox. The moment Esther stepped outside her front door, she knew something was wrong. The world felt different, and she couldn't explain it. Esther walked past her mailbox, across the road, and up Gloria's driveway. She hadn't been to Gloria's house in years, and she felt like she was trespassing. Her chest tightened, and her pace quickened. She knew she had to do this, and she wanted to get it over with quickly.

The front door was unlocked. Esther clasped the handle and gave the door a gentle push, thinking how strange it was to open a front door that wasn't her own. The weight, the squeak. It felt so utterly foreign to her.

\\\"Gloria?\\\" Esther called out. Nothing. She felt the dread spread throughout her belly. She had a feeling about what she was about to find, and she just hoped it wasn't gruesome and that it wouldn't cause her to heave her small lunch of an English muffin and cottage cheese onto Gloria's floor. Esther rounded the corner into the living room, and there it was: Gloria's body slumped in a brown recliner.

\\\"Oh, Gloria,\\\" Esther whispered.

Gloria was dead. Esther knew that immediately, and her first thought was relief-it was not a gruesome sight at all, and her lunch stayed put right where she'd left it. There was no putrid smell, no blood, and the body wasn't bent or twisted in any unholy directions. Gloria's right arm dangled off the armrest, and her mouth hung open. Esther had found her husband's dead body in much the same position many decades ago, and she had known immediately then, too. Gloria, like Esther's late husband, appeared to have died of natural causes. A heart attack, maybe a stroke. Or perhaps her body just finally gave up while taking a nap-Esther hoped that was the case. Something totally painless and without fear.

We all deserve to go that way, Esther thought.

Esther kept right on staring at Gloria's dead body, waiting for something to happen. She didn't know exactly what that something would be, but she waited all the same. The dead woman stayed right where she was, sunk into the recliner, properly dressed in that white nightgown-the one she wore to check the mail every day. Esther had never seen it this closely before. It had been patched up dozens of times. Little pieces of stitching jutted out here and there, and the bottom six inches had more wear and tear, no doubt the result of countless days trudging to the mailbox in snow or mud. Esther was surprised the nightgown had lasted this long.

She looked around the room. The furniture was dated and worn, just like her own. Just another solitary old bird like me, Esther thought. She caught her reflection in the rectangular, chunky Zenith TV that sat in the corner. It made her look older and tinier than she was, and for a moment she pondered the idea of mortality and wondered if her own date had already been circled on Death's calendar and she just didn't realize it yet. A large grandfather clock ticked loudly. Esther read the clockface: 1:19 p.m.

Reality crashed in. They weren't supposed to be here. Gloria wasn't supposed to be dead. The two women were supposed to be outside, puttering down their driveways in their daily uniforms, checking their mail. Actually, that was supposed to have happened seven minutes ago.

They were seven minutes late.

They were breaking their routine.

The old woman's body stiffened with panic. Esther didn't know what to do. All she knew was that their routine was all they had. Actually, there was no they anymore. It was she, and only she. It was the first time she'd been truly alone in, how long was it now, almost thirty years? The exact amount of time didn't matter. In that moment, the only thing that mattered anymore was the mail routine. Her purpose, their shared purpose, the one Esther shared with the dead person in the living room.

She had nothing else but the routine, so she had to act quickly.

The old woman gripped Gloria by the wrist and then dropped it immediately, recoiling at the body's coldness. It had caught her off guard. She had picked up a dead cat once before, and it felt nothing like this. Steeling herself, Esther reached forward and gripped the wrist again, this time dragging Gloria's corpse off the easy chair. The body fell limply to the shag carpet. Gloria's open eyes pointed blankly toward the ceiling, and Esther had a passing, terrible thought that those dead eyes might snap sideways and seize upon her-Oh, you thought I was dead, missy? I'll show you dead-but Gloria's body stayed very much lifeless, her eyes trained on absolutely nothing at all. Esther gripped Gloria by the right ankle and started pulling. It was slow, painful work. Gloria couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds, but Esther wasn't much bigger herself. She hauled the body inch by inch to the front door, and when she reached the foyer, Esther dropped Gloria's leg to the floor. The dead woman's foot thumped on the linoleum. Esther put her hands on her knees, her ancient lungs pounding, her pulse racing.

She couldn't drag her any farther. Esther needed another way.

She found a wheelbarrow next to the garage, steered it awkwardly to the front door, and, even though she was sure she'd never lifted anything so heavy in her entire life, heaved the frail body inside. As Esther guided the rickety wheelbarrow down the driveway, there were a few times where it almost rammed into a tree trunk or tipped over. She was certain if it tipped, that would be it. She'd used up all the energy she had, played her trump card, and the corpse would just remain on the gravel driveway until she could convince someone else to help her with her morbid task. But Esther's steering was sound, the wheelbarrow level and true, and she made it all the way to the end of the driveway right next to the white mailbox with the red flag, one of the sacred locations of the women's routine. Her arms were wobbly by this point, and she couldn't have made it much farther. She released the wooden handles and the wheelbarrow tipped over, Gloria's body sliding onto the road like a pile of dirt.

Esther gathered her strength, and she looked up and down the road. No cars in sight, and she didn't hear any in the distance, which wasn't an odd thing in the slightest. Anyone driving in her neck of the woods was always a surprise to her anyway. She looked down at her wrist to check the time, but her gold watch with the champagne dial-the one gifted to her by her late husband, seemingly a lifetime ago-wasn't there. It wasn't part of the mail-checking ensemble. Regardless, she knew she was woefully behind.

If I'm an hour late, will it still count? she thought. What about two hours? Three hours?

She looked across the road toward her own house, thinking it looked quite different from this angle, like she was looking at it through Gloria's eyes for the first time. But there was no time for nostalgia or taking a moment to truly appreciate the world from someone else's perspective. She needed something to tie and fasten the body, and she needed it quickly. Her heart pounding, she briskly walked back to her own place, retrieved her husband's old belts and some zip ties, and then went back to the corpse and got to work.

Did she wave with her right hand or her left hand? Esther wondered. She couldn't believe that she couldn't remember such a simple detail, and she blamed it on the adrenaline. Esther settled on Gloria reaching inside the mailbox with her right hand and waving with her left, so that's how she propped up the body. It took six belts and three zip ties, and in the end, it didn't look convincing at all. To make it all work, she had to shove half of Gloria's arm inside the mailbox, and her body then swung out awkwardly with the other arm above her head and zip-tied to the wooden post. It didn't resemble someone checking their mail. It looked exactly like what it was: a dead body clumsily tied to a mailbox.

Satisfied, Esther walked back to her house and went inside. She looked at her clock: 2:22 p.m. They'd missed their routine by more than an hour, but Esther decided that was okay. The fact that she was doing it at all was what mattered. She tried not to think about what would happen the next day or the day after that. She'd come up with something, she reasoned. Something to keep it all going, something to keep the trains running on time. For now, she had to hold up her end of the bargain.

Esther opened the front door and, trembling only a little, strolled as casually as she could down her driveway through the pinewoods. She got to her mailbox and raised her right hand to Gloria, who, of course, was dead and tethered to her own mailbox. Esther popped open the little black door and reached inside. No mail today. The old woman closed the door and turned to walk away, the ritual complete, all right with the world. But then she hesitated.

She looked back at the corpse. Her dead neighbor hadn't moved an inch, thankfully. But that wasn't what Esther was thinking about. She was thinking about that nightgown, about what would happen to it after all this madness.

It was old, sure. Just like her and Gloria.

But it had a few good years left in it.

Maybe more.

Especially if Esther fixed it up.

This might be Gloria's last time checking for mail, Esther thought, but that doesn't mean the nightgown can't still be a part of the routine.

I won't let anyone take that away from me.

Esther hustled up her driveway to grab a pair of scissors from her sewing kit.

There was one more thing that needed to be done.

#

Larry Chambers, a carpenter in town, spotted the body a few hours later. He didn’t usually drive out that way, but he had just gotten his 1991 Dodge Ram jumped, and he remembered reading that you should drive your car around for twenty minutes after a jump to juice up the battery. So, Larry decided to drive aimlessly around the island for a while, and that’s how he found himself in Gloria and Esther’s neck of the woods on an autumn afternoon.

From a distance, he thought it was a person stretching. He got a little closer, and he thought it was a scarecrow. Then Larry slammed on the brakes, and the beer bottles he'd drained that morning rolled and clanged together on the passenger-side floor of his truck. He adjusted his rearview mirror and looked at the body again, just to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him.

The man turned off his car and sat in silence for a few moments, his gaze not leaving what he had now determined to be a fresh corpse, strung up like a marionette.\"},{\"id\":\"92343490T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"1

The Old Woman and the Corpse

Esther and Gloria had a routine.

Every day at 1:12 p.m., the elderly neighbors would shuffle to their mailboxes-Esther on one side of the gravel road, Gloria on the other-and they'd wave to each other. The widows owned the only two houses on a rural, one-mile stretch of road on Clifford Island. Their properties had been cut into the forest a half century ago, their homes engulfed by pine trees, with hidden driveways peeking through thin gaps in the sweet and earthy-smelling woods. Not many cars went that way; some days it was only the mail truck. The fog was a bit heavier at this particular spot, and despite the lack of island traffic, more deer seemed to dart out and get obliterated there than any other place on the island. The stench of rotting flesh lingered for days. Something to remind the women that death could sneak up at any moment.

They were a superstitious pair, after all.

The women's routine went like this: Esther walked down her driveway wearing blue slippers, gray cotton pants, and a red cardigan. She reached her mailbox and raised her right hand to Gloria, who would be wearing a faded white nightgown. Gloria waved back. The women checked for mail and then doddered back up their driveways.

It went like that every day, rain or shine, sleet or snow, for twenty-five years.

Many days there was no mail delivered. Christmas, the Fourth of July, Sundays, of course. But sometimes there was just no mail. No letters, no bills, no JCPenney catalog. The mail truck drove right by, or simply didn't come at all. The women checked their mailboxes anyway, always at 1:12 p.m. If it was colder outside-and it certainly got very cold this far north, especially in the clutches of a Wisconsin winter-Esther and Gloria bundled up in jackets and mittens. But Esther always wore the gray pants and cardigan underneath, and Gloria always wore the nightgown. It was tradition.

The two women lived alone for decades, but they were far from bored. Esther played cribbage at the small community center on Thursday nights. Both women sang in the church choir on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Gloria enjoyed tending to her garden; Esther had a chicken coop. They often exchanged pleasantries at the café downtown, usually commiserating about the runny eggs and burnt coffee. Esther and Gloria were friendly, but they weren't friends. Some islanders wondered why they weren't friends, as if being old and alone meant you had to be friends with your neighbor, who was also old and alone. They'd even get asked that question from time to time. Why don't you drive together to church? You live across the street. But both women felt that they couldn't be friends. They knew their bond ran deeper than friendship.

The 1:12 ceremony was their purpose. It started one afternoon, and then they found that they needed to do it every day. The routine was all they needed and all they wanted from each other, and both women would be damned if they'd be the one to break the streak. It gave a sense of structure to their lives, a sense of balance to their little corner of the universe. It made Esther and Gloria feel that the things they did mattered, that someone else depended on them. No one else had depended on them for a really long time.

Check time. Open door. Walk down driveway. Wave. Open mailbox. Walk up driveway.

Every day.

Twenty-five years.

But then, one unseasonably warm October afternoon, Gloria wasn't at her mailbox. The moment Esther stepped outside her front door, she knew something was wrong. The world felt different, and she couldn't explain it. Esther walked past her mailbox, across the road, and up Gloria's driveway. She hadn't been to Gloria's house in years, and she felt like she was trespassing. Her chest tightened, and her pace quickened. She knew she had to do this, and she wanted to get it over with quickly.

The front door was unlocked. Esther clasped the handle and gave the door a gentle push, thinking how strange it was to open a front door that wasn't her own. The weight, the squeak. It felt so utterly foreign to her.

\\\"Gloria?\\\" Esther called out. Nothing. She felt the dread spread throughout her belly. She had a feeling about what she was about to find, and she just hoped it wasn't gruesome and that it wouldn't cause her to heave her small lunch of an English muffin and cottage cheese onto Gloria's floor. Esther rounded the corner into the living room, and there it was: Gloria's body slumped in a brown recliner.

\\\"Oh, Gloria,\\\" Esther whispered.

Gloria was dead. Esther knew that immediately, and her first thought was relief-it was not a gruesome sight at all, and her lunch stayed put right where she'd left it. There was no putrid smell, no blood, and the body wasn't bent or twisted in any unholy directions. Gloria's right arm dangled off the armrest, and her mouth hung open. Esther had found her husband's dead body in much the same position many decades ago, and she had known immediately then, too. Gloria, like Esther's late husband, appeared to have died of natural causes. A heart attack, maybe a stroke. Or perhaps her body just finally gave up while taking a nap-Esther hoped that was the case. Something totally painless and without fear.

We all deserve to go that way, Esther thought.

Esther kept right on staring at Gloria's dead body, waiting for something to happen. She didn't know exactly what that something would be, but she waited all the same. The dead woman stayed right where she was, sunk into the recliner, properly dressed in that white nightgown-the one she wore to check the mail every day. Esther had never seen it this closely before. It had been patched up dozens of times. Little pieces of stitching jutted out here and there, and the bottom six inches had more wear and tear, no doubt the result of countless days trudging to the mailbox in snow or mud. Esther was surprised the nightgown had lasted this long.

She looked around the room. The furniture was dated and worn, just like her own. Just another solitary old bird like me, Esther thought. She caught her reflection in the rectangular, chunky Zenith TV that sat in the corner. It made her look older and tinier than she was, and for a moment she pondered the idea of mortality and wondered if her own date had already been circled on Death's calendar and she just didn't realize it yet. A large grandfather clock ticked loudly. Esther read the clockface: 1:19 p.m.

Reality crashed in. They weren't supposed to be here. Gloria wasn't supposed to be dead. The two women were supposed to be outside, puttering down their driveways in their daily uniforms, checking their mail. Actually, that was supposed to have happened seven minutes ago.

They were seven minutes late.

They were breaking their routine.

The old woman's body stiffened with panic. Esther didn't know what to do. All she knew was that their routine was all they had. Actually, there was no they anymore. It was she, and only she. It was the first time she'd been truly alone in, how long was it now, almost thirty years? The exact amount of time didn't matter. In that moment, the only thing that mattered anymore was the mail routine. Her purpose, their shared purpose, the one Esther shared with the dead person in the living room.

She had nothing else but the routine, so she had to act quickly.

The old woman gripped Gloria by the wrist and then dropped it immediately, recoiling at the body's coldness. It had caught her off guard. She had picked up a dead cat once before, and it felt nothing like this. Steeling herself, Esther reached forward and gripped the wrist again, this time dragging Gloria's corpse off the easy chair. The body fell limply to the shag carpet. Gloria's open eyes pointed blankly toward the ceiling, and Esther had a passing, terrible thought that those dead eyes might snap sideways and seize upon her-Oh, you thought I was dead, missy? I'll show you dead-but Gloria's body stayed very much lifeless, her eyes trained on absolutely nothing at all. Esther gripped Gloria by the right ankle and started pulling. It was slow, painful work. Gloria couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds, but Esther wasn't much bigger herself. She hauled the body inch by inch to the front door, and when she reached the foyer, Esther dropped Gloria's leg to the floor. The dead woman's foot thumped on the linoleum. Esther put her hands on her knees, her ancient lungs pounding, her pulse racing.

She couldn't drag her any farther. Esther needed another way.

She found a wheelbarrow next to the garage, steered it awkwardly to the front door, and, even though she was sure she'd never lifted anything so heavy in her entire life, heaved the frail body inside. As Esther guided the rickety wheelbarrow down the driveway, there were a few times where it almost rammed into a tree trunk or tipped over. She was certain if it tipped, that would be it. She'd used up all the energy she had, played her trump card, and the corpse would just remain on the gravel driveway until she could convince someone else to help her with her morbid task. But Esther's steering was sound, the wheelbarrow level and true, and she made it all the way to the end of the driveway right next to the white mailbox with the red flag, one of the sacred locations of the women's routine. Her arms were wobbly by this point, and she couldn't have made it much farther. She released the wooden handles and the wheelbarrow tipped over, Gloria's body sliding onto the road like a pile of dirt.

Esther gathered her strength, and she looked up and down the road. No cars in sight, and she didn't hear any in the distance, which wasn't an odd thing in the slightest. Anyone driving in her neck of the woods was always a surprise to her anyway. She looked down at her wrist to check the time, but her gold watch with the champagne dial-the one gifted to her by her late husband, seemingly a lifetime ago-wasn't there. It wasn't part of the mail-checking ensemble. Regardless, she knew she was woefully behind.

If I'm an hour late, will it still count? she thought. What about two hours? Three hours?

She looked across the road toward her own house, thinking it looked quite different from this angle, like she was looking at it through Gloria's eyes for the first time. But there was no time for nostalgia or taking a moment to truly appreciate the world from someone else's perspective. She needed something to tie and fasten the body, and she needed it quickly. Her heart pounding, she briskly walked back to her own place, retrieved her husband's old belts and some zip ties, and then went back to the corpse and got to work.

Did she wave with her right hand or her left hand? Esther wondered. She couldn't believe that she couldn't remember such a simple detail, and she blamed it on the adrenaline. Esther settled on Gloria reaching inside the mailbox with her right hand and waving with her left, so that's how she propped up the body. It took six belts and three zip ties, and in the end, it didn't look convincing at all. To make it all work, she had to shove half of Gloria's arm inside the mailbox, and her body then swung out awkwardly with the other arm above her head and zip-tied to the wooden post. It didn't resemble someone checking their mail. It looked exactly like what it was: a dead body clumsily tied to a mailbox.

Satisfied, Esther walked back to her house and went inside. She looked at her clock: 2:22 p.m. They'd missed their routine by more than an hour, but Esther decided that was okay. The fact that she was doing it at all was what mattered. She tried not to think about what would happen the next day or the day after that. She'd come up with something, she reasoned. Something to keep it all going, something to keep the trains running on time. For now, she had to hold up her end of the bargain.

Esther opened the front door and, trembling only a little, strolled as casually as she could down her driveway through the pinewoods. She got to her mailbox and raised her right hand to Gloria, who, of course, was dead and tethered to her own mailbox. Esther popped open the little black door and reached inside. No mail today. The old woman closed the door and turned to walk away, the ritual complete, all right with the world. But then she hesitated.

She looked back at the corpse. Her dead neighbor hadn't moved an inch, thankfully. But that wasn't what Esther was thinking about. She was thinking about that nightgown, about what would happen to it after all this madness.

It was old, sure. Just like her and Gloria.

But it had a few good years left in it.

Maybe more.

Especially if Esther fixed it up.

This might be Gloria's last time checking for mail, Esther thought, but that doesn't mean the nightgown can't still be a part of the routine.

I won't let anyone take that away from me.

Esther hustled up her driveway to grab a pair of scissors from her sewing kit.

There was one more thing that needed to be done.

#

Larry Chambers, a carpenter in town, spotted the body a few hours later. He didn’t usually drive out that way, but he had just gotten his 1991 Dodge Ram jumped, and he remembered reading that you should drive your car around for twenty minutes after a jump to juice up the battery. So, Larry decided to drive aimlessly around the island for a while, and that’s how he found himself in Gloria and Esther’s neck of the woods on an autumn afternoon.

From a distance, he thought it was a person stretching. He got a little closer, and he thought it was a scarecrow. Then Larry slammed on the brakes, and the beer bottles he'd drained that morning rolled and clanged together on the passenger-side floor of his truck. He adjusted his rearview mirror and looked at the body again, just to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him.

The man turned off his car and sat in silence for a few moments, his gaze not leaving what he had now determined to be a fresh corpse, strung up like a marionette.\"},{\"id\":\"90100712T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"1

The Old Woman and the Corpse

Esther and Gloria had a routine.

Every day at 1:12 p.m., the elderly neighbors would shuffle to their mailboxes-Esther on one side of the gravel road, Gloria on the other-and they'd wave to each other. The widows owned the only two houses on a rural, one-mile stretch of road on Clifford Island. Their properties had been cut into the forest a half century ago, their homes engulfed by pine trees, with hidden driveways peeking through thin gaps in the sweet and earthy-smelling woods. Not many cars went that way; some days it was only the mail truck. The fog was a bit heavier at this particular spot, and despite the lack of island traffic, more deer seemed to dart out and get obliterated there than any other place on the island. The stench of rotting flesh lingered for days. Something to remind the women that death could sneak up at any moment.

They were a superstitious pair, after all.

The women's routine went like this: Esther walked down her driveway wearing blue slippers, gray cotton pants, and a red cardigan. She reached her mailbox and raised her right hand to Gloria, who would be wearing a faded white nightgown. Gloria waved back. The women checked for mail and then doddered back up their driveways.

It went like that every day, rain or shine, sleet or snow, for twenty-five years.

Many days there was no mail delivered. Christmas, the Fourth of July, Sundays, of course. But sometimes there was just no mail. No letters, no bills, no JCPenney catalog. The mail truck drove right by, or simply didn't come at all. The women checked their mailboxes anyway, always at 1:12 p.m. If it was colder outside-and it certainly got very cold this far north, especially in the clutches of a Wisconsin winter-Esther and Gloria bundled up in jackets and mittens. But Esther always wore the gray pants and cardigan underneath, and Gloria always wore the nightgown. It was tradition.

The two women lived alone for decades, but they were far from bored. Esther played cribbage at the small community center on Thursday nights. Both women sang in the church choir on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Gloria enjoyed tending to her garden; Esther had a chicken coop. They often exchanged pleasantries at the café downtown, usually commiserating about the runny eggs and burnt coffee. Esther and Gloria were friendly, but they weren't friends. Some islanders wondered why they weren't friends, as if being old and alone meant you had to be friends with your neighbor, who was also old and alone. They'd even get asked that question from time to time. Why don't you drive together to church? You live across the street. But both women felt that they couldn't be friends. They knew their bond ran deeper than friendship.

The 1:12 ceremony was their purpose. It started one afternoon, and then they found that they needed to do it every day. The routine was all they needed and all they wanted from each other, and both women would be damned if they'd be the one to break the streak. It gave a sense of structure to their lives, a sense of balance to their little corner of the universe. It made Esther and Gloria feel that the things they did mattered, that someone else depended on them. No one else had depended on them for a really long time.

Check time. Open door. Walk down driveway. Wave. Open mailbox. Walk up driveway.

Every day.

Twenty-five years.

But then, one unseasonably warm October afternoon, Gloria wasn't at her mailbox. The moment Esther stepped outside her front door, she knew something was wrong. The world felt different, and she couldn't explain it. Esther walked past her mailbox, across the road, and up Gloria's driveway. She hadn't been to Gloria's house in years, and she felt like she was trespassing. Her chest tightened, and her pace quickened. She knew she had to do this, and she wanted to get it over with quickly.

The front door was unlocked. Esther clasped the handle and gave the door a gentle push, thinking how strange it was to open a front door that wasn't her own. The weight, the squeak. It felt so utterly foreign to her.

\\\"Gloria?\\\" Esther called out. Nothing. She felt the dread spread throughout her belly. She had a feeling about what she was about to find, and she just hoped it wasn't gruesome and that it wouldn't cause her to heave her small lunch of an English muffin and cottage cheese onto Gloria's floor. Esther rounded the corner into the living room, and there it was: Gloria's body slumped in a brown recliner.

\\\"Oh, Gloria,\\\" Esther whispered.

Gloria was dead. Esther knew that immediately, and her first thought was relief-it was not a gruesome sight at all, and her lunch stayed put right where she'd left it. There was no putrid smell, no blood, and the body wasn't bent or twisted in any unholy directions. Gloria's right arm dangled off the armrest, and her mouth hung open. Esther had found her husband's dead body in much the same position many decades ago, and she had known immediately then, too. Gloria, like Esther's late husband, appeared to have died of natural causes. A heart attack, maybe a stroke. Or perhaps her body just finally gave up while taking a nap-Esther hoped that was the case. Something totally painless and without fear.

We all deserve to go that way, Esther thought.

Esther kept right on staring at Gloria's dead body, waiting for something to happen. She didn't know exactly what that something would be, but she waited all the same. The dead woman stayed right where she was, sunk into the recliner, properly dressed in that white nightgown-the one she wore to check the mail every day. Esther had never seen it this closely before. It had been patched up dozens of times. Little pieces of stitching jutted out here and there, and the bottom six inches had more wear and tear, no doubt the result of countless days trudging to the mailbox in snow or mud. Esther was surprised the nightgown had lasted this long.

She looked around the room. The furniture was dated and worn, just like her own. Just another solitary old bird like me, Esther thought. She caught her reflection in the rectangular, chunky Zenith TV that sat in the corner. It made her look older and tinier than she was, and for a moment she pondered the idea of mortality and wondered if her own date had already been circled on Death's calendar and she just didn't realize it yet. A large grandfather clock ticked loudly. Esther read the clockface: 1:19 p.m.

Reality crashed in. They weren't supposed to be here. Gloria wasn't supposed to be dead. The two women were supposed to be outside, puttering down their driveways in their daily uniforms, checking their mail. Actually, that was supposed to have happened seven minutes ago.

They were seven minutes late.

They were breaking their routine.

The old woman's body stiffened with panic. Esther didn't know what to do. All she knew was that their routine was all they had. Actually, there was no they anymore. It was she, and only she. It was the first time she'd been truly alone in, how long was it now, almost thirty years? The exact amount of time didn't matter. In that moment, the only thing that mattered anymore was the mail routine. Her purpose, their shared purpose, the one Esther shared with the dead person in the living room.

She had nothing else but the routine, so she had to act quickly.

The old woman gripped Gloria by the wrist and then dropped it immediately, recoiling at the body's coldness. It had caught her off guard. She had picked up a dead cat once before, and it felt nothing like this. Steeling herself, Esther reached forward and gripped the wrist again, this time dragging Gloria's corpse off the easy chair. The body fell limply to the shag carpet. Gloria's open eyes pointed blankly toward the ceiling, and Esther had a passing, terrible thought that those dead eyes might snap sideways and seize upon her-Oh, you thought I was dead, missy? I'll show you dead-but Gloria's body stayed very much lifeless, her eyes trained on absolutely nothing at all. Esther gripped Gloria by the right ankle and started pulling. It was slow, painful work. Gloria couldn't have weighed more than ninety pounds, but Esther wasn't much bigger herself. She hauled the body inch by inch to the front door, and when she reached the foyer, Esther dropped Gloria's leg to the floor. The dead woman's foot thumped on the linoleum. Esther put her hands on her knees, her ancient lungs pounding, her pulse racing.

She couldn't drag her any farther. Esther needed another way.

She found a wheelbarrow next to the garage, steered it awkwardly to the front door, and, even though she was sure she'd never lifted anything so heavy in her entire life, heaved the frail body inside. As Esther guided the rickety wheelbarrow down the driveway, there were a few times where it almost rammed into a tree trunk or tipped over. She was certain if it tipped, that would be it. She'd used up all the energy she had, played her trump card, and the corpse would just remain on the gravel driveway until she could convince someone else to help her with her morbid task. But Esther's steering was sound, the wheelbarrow level and true, and she made it all the way to the end of the driveway right next to the white mailbox with the red flag, one of the sacred locations of the women's routine. Her arms were wobbly by this point, and she couldn't have made it much farther. She released the wooden handles and the wheelbarrow tipped over, Gloria's body sliding onto the road like a pile of dirt.

Esther gathered her strength, and she looked up and down the road. No cars in sight, and she didn't hear any in the distance, which wasn't an odd thing in the slightest. Anyone driving in her neck of the woods was always a surprise to her anyway. She looked down at her wrist to check the time, but her gold watch with the champagne dial-the one gifted to her by her late husband, seemingly a lifetime ago-wasn't there. It wasn't part of the mail-checking ensemble. Regardless, she knew she was woefully behind.

If I'm an hour late, will it still count? she thought. What about two hours? Three hours?

She looked across the road toward her own house, thinking it looked quite different from this angle, like she was looking at it through Gloria's eyes for the first time. But there was no time for nostalgia or taking a moment to truly appreciate the world from someone else's perspective. She needed something to tie and fasten the body, and she needed it quickly. Her heart pounding, she briskly walked back to her own place, retrieved her husband's old belts and some zip ties, and then went back to the corpse and got to work.

Did she wave with her right hand or her left hand? Esther wondered. She couldn't believe that she couldn't remember such a simple detail, and she blamed it on the adrenaline. Esther settled on Gloria reaching inside the mailbox with her right hand and waving with her left, so that's how she propped up the body. It took six belts and three zip ties, and in the end, it didn't look convincing at all. To make it all work, she had to shove half of Gloria's arm inside the mailbox, and her body then swung out awkwardly with the other arm above her head and zip-tied to the wooden post. It didn't resemble someone checking their mail. It looked exactly like what it was: a dead body clumsily tied to a mailbox.

Satisfied, Esther walked back to her house and went inside. She looked at her clock: 2:22 p.m. They'd missed their routine by more than an hour, but Esther decided that was okay. The fact that she was doing it at all was what mattered. She tried not to think about what would happen the next day or the day after that. She'd come up with something, she reasoned. Something to keep it all going, something to keep the trains running on time. For now, she had to hold up her end of the bargain.

Esther opened the front door and, trembling only a little, strolled as casually as she could down her driveway through the pinewoods. She got to her mailbox and raised her right hand to Gloria, who, of course, was dead and tethered to her own mailbox. Esther popped open the little black door and reached inside. No mail today. The old woman closed the door and turned to walk away, the ritual complete, all right with the world. But then she hesitated.

She looked back at the corpse. Her dead neighbor hadn't moved an inch, thankfully. But that wasn't what Esther was thinking about. She was thinking about that nightgown, about what would happen to it after all this madness.

It was old, sure. Just like her and Gloria.

But it had a few good years left in it.

Maybe more.

Especially if Esther fixed it up.

This might be Gloria's last time checking for mail, Esther thought, but that doesn't mean the nightgown can't still be a part of the routine.

I won't let anyone take that away from me.

Esther hustled up her driveway to grab a pair of scissors from her sewing kit.

There was one more thing that needed to be done.

#

Larry Chambers, a carpenter in town, spotted the body a few hours later. He didn’t usually drive out that way, but he had just gotten his 1991 Dodge Ram jumped, and he remembered reading that you should drive your car around for twenty minutes after a jump to juice up the battery. So, Larry decided to drive aimlessly around the island for a while, and that’s how he found himself in Gloria and Esther’s neck of the woods on an autumn afternoon.

From a distance, he thought it was a person stretching. He got a little closer, and he thought it was a scarecrow. Then Larry slammed on the brakes, and the beer bottles he'd drained that morning rolled and clanged together on the passenger-side floor of his truck. He adjusted his rearview mirror and looked at the body again, just to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him.

The man turned off his car and sat in silence for a few moments, his gaze not leaving what he had now determined to be a fresh corpse, strung up like a marionette.\"},{\"id\":\"124405748T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"\\\"[A] breathtaking debut thriller... Juliano draws memorable characters and places them in an indelible setting, using artful prose and judicious dashes of dark humor to leave a major impression. It’s a scary-good debut.\\\" —Publishers Weekly (STARRED REVIEW)

\\\"A remarkable debut and hopefully announces the arrival of a fresh new voice in horror.” —Locus

“A creepy, fast-paced blast from the past…Juliano comes as a new voice in horror, perfect for fans of Stephen King, Grady Hendrix, and Paul Tremblay.” —Booklist

\\\"An ominously slow burn set on a creepy fictional island that appears stuck in the past. When a woman vanishes, residents and visitors dig into the strange local mythology. Keep the lights on for this one.” —People

\\\"Dead Eleven is a surprisingly considerate meditation on grief, nostalgia, and the human urge to control the unknown and unavoidable. Clifford Island and its inhabitants are a solid metaphor for blind faith, and the great and terrible things that people will do when they believe fervently in a cause. The book also contains one of the best descriptions of a horror novel antagonist I’ve ever had the chilling pleasure of encountering. It’s a solidly scary debut that has already been optioned for film and should translate to that medium magnificently.\\\" —Criminal Element

\\\"Very creepy. Dreadfully creepy. Chillingly creepy. Horrifically creepy. You've been warned.\\\"
—R.L. Stine, New York Times bestselling author of Goosebumps and Fear Street

“Dead Eleven brought me right back to the nineties with its VHS tapes, Pogs and Trapper Keepers, balancing nostalgia and terror to explore the dangers of living in the past. If you liked Netflix's Stranger Things and Dark, don't miss Jimmy Juliano's gripping horror debut.”
—Ana Reyes, New York Times bestselling author of The House in the Pines

“Dead Eleven is a strikingly original treasure chest of horror, suspense and nostalgia. I’ve never read anything like it. Jimmy Juliano is a first-rate storyteller. I was spellbound from the opening page.” —Richard Chizmar, New York Times bestselling author of Chasing The Boogeyman

“A captivating mystery – not unlike the story’s island – which draws you in and may never let you go. Jimmy Juliano proves how effortlessly he can create a deeply unsettling mood. Steeped in 90s nostalgia, this story instilled in me a claustrophobic dread. This small time-locked community seems equal parts idyllic and abhorrent which made me yearn to learn its secrets. Like a chilling lake breeze on a rocky beach, this book will send a shiver down your spine as it beckons you to follow it into the darkness.” —David Cummings, Creator of The NoSleep Podcast

“An unforgettable collage of mystery, suspense and mounting dread. With his debut novel, Jimmy Juliano cranks the amp on creepy chills up to 11.” —Steve Hockensmith, New York Times bestselling author of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: Dawn of the Dreadfuls

“Nothing this full of dread, paranoia, and grief should be half as much fun as Jimmy Juliano’s Dead Eleven. A compelling island horror tale that drags you inexorably into its mystery. Put this at the top of your wishlist.” —Christopher Golden, New York Times bestselling author of Road of Bones and All Hallows

\\\"I could tell you that Jimmy Juliano ripped a hole in my head and dumped in a gallon of nightmare juice, but that would be underselling all this book's got to offer. Dead Eleven is a work of uncommon craft, mood, and above all, heart. If an author doesn't make you care about their characters, a reader won't care what becomes of them. And man, this book will make you care.\\\"
—Nick Cutter, nationally bestselling author of The Troop

“Places hold memories—and some places keep horrible secrets. Jimmy Juliano has woven together nostalgia, longing and atmospheric dread into a keep-you-up-all-night debut. Are you ready for the secrets of Clifford Island? Just be sure to close the curtains and whatever you do, don’t look out the windows.” —Jennifer McMahon, New York Times bestselling author of The Children on the Hill\"},{\"id\":\"132232701T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

After arriving on the mysterious Clifford Island, Willow Stone learns that everyone is stuck living the same day in 1994. Soon, Willow finds herself trapped among the bizzare community in this chilling story.

\"},{\"id\":\"88869014T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Jimmy Juliano brings on those 90’s feelings alongside tension filled with thrills and horror. Don’t be fooled by this VHS retro cover (love it). Within this book … “there be monsters.”

\"},{\"id\":\"124405749T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Jimmy Juliano is a writer and high school educator. Several of his stories have gone viral on the Reddit “NoSleep” forum, and his debut novel, Dead Eleven, is currently in development at A+E Studios. He lives outside Chicago with his wife, daughter, and miniature Goldendoodle.

\"},{\"id\":\"97780521T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Jimmy Juliano is a writer and high school educator. Several of his stories have gone viral on the Reddit “NoSleep” forum, and his debut novel, Dead Eleven, is currently in development at A+E Studios. He lives outside Chicago with his wife, daughter, and miniature Goldendoodle.\"},{\"id\":\"92342131T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Jimmy Juliano is a writer and high school educator. Several of his stories have gone viral on the Reddit “NoSleep” forum, and his debut novel, Dead Eleven, is currently in development at A+E Studios. He lives outside Chicago with his wife, daughter, and miniature Goldendoodle.\"},{\"id\":\"105204593T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Jimmy Juliano is a writer and high school educator. Several of his stories have gone viral on the Reddit \\\"NoSleep\\\" forum, and his debut novel, Dead Eleven, is currently in development at A+E Studios. He lives outside Chicago with his wife, daughter, and miniature Goldendoodle.\"},{\"id\":\"86771086T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Jimmy Juliano is a writer and high school educator. Several of his stories have gone viral on the Reddit “NoSleep” forum, and his debut novel, Dead Eleven, is currently in development at A+E Studios. He lives outside Chicago with his wife, daughter, and miniature Goldendoodle.\"}]",{"_45":2160,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":2161},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864791462129","Dead-Eleven/Jimmy-Juliano",{"_45":2163,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":2164},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864787628273","1142537254",{"_45":2166,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864789692657",{"_45":2168,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":2123},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864784744689",{"_45":2170,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864790315249",{"_45":2172,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":2173},"gid://shopify/Metafield/60322854633713","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.5\"}",{"_45":2175,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":2176},"gid://shopify/Metafield/60322854600945","4",{"_1887":1888,"_45":2178,"_75":2179,"_1891":2004,"_834":2180,"_1894":2181,"_1896":2182,"_1898":2183,"_1905":2187,"_1913":63,"_1914":2189,"_1920":2192,"_1942":-5,"_1945":2201,"_1947":2202,"_1949":-5,"_1950":2203},"gid://shopify/Product/8871593443569","Burn the Negative","9780593544686","\"A spine-tingling, rip-roaring yarn that hearkens back to the thrills and chills of the best ’80s slasher horror. Hand this to readers who liked The Final Girl Support Group by Grady Hendrix, My Heart Is a Chainsaw by Stephen Graham Jones, or My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite.\" — Library JournalArriving in L.A. to visit the set of a new streaming horror series, journalist Laura Warren witnesses a man jumping from a bridge, landing right behind her car. Here we go, she thinks. It’s started. Because the series she’s reporting on is a remake of a ’90s horror flick. A cursed ’90s horror flick, which she starred in as a child—and has been running from her whole life. In The Guesthouse, Laura played the little girl with the terrifying gift to tell people how the Needle Man would kill them. When eight of the cast and crew died in ways that eerily mirrored the movie’s on-screen deaths, the film became a cult classic—and ruined her life. Leaving it behind, Laura changed her name and her accent, dyed her hair, and moved across the Atlantic. But some scripts don’t want to stay buried. Now, as the body count rises again, Laura finds herself on the run with her aspiring actress sister and a jaded psychic, hoping to end the curse once and for all—and to stay out of the Needle Man’s lethal reach.","\"A spine-tingling, rip-roaring yarn that hearkens back to the thrills and chills of the best ’80s slasher horror. Hand this to readers who liked The Final Girl Support Group by Grady Hendrix, My Heart Is a Chainsaw by Stephen Graham Jones, or My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite.\" — Library Journal

Arriving in L.A. to visit the set of a new streaming horror series, journalist Laura Warren witnesses a man jumping from a bridge, landing right behind her car. Here we go, she thinks. It’s started. Because the series she’s reporting on is a remake of a ’90s horror flick. A cursed ’90s horror flick, which she starred in as a child—and has been running from her whole life.

In The Guesthouse, Laura played the little girl with the terrifying gift to tell people how the Needle Man would kill them. When eight of the cast and crew died in ways that eerily mirrored the movie’s on-screen deaths, the film became a cult classic—and ruined her life. Leaving it behind, Laura changed her name and her accent, dyed her hair, and moved across the Atlantic. But some scripts don’t want to stay buried.

Now, as the body count rises again, Laura finds herself on the run with her aspiring actress sister and a jaded psychic, hoping to end the curse once and for all—and to stay out of the Needle Man’s lethal reach.",{"_45":2184,"_58":2185,"_60":2186,"_54":2012,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47561339764977","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593544686_p0.jpg?v=1765119164",878,{"_1907":2188},{"_1909":2131,"_1911":1912},{"_1907":2190,"_1918":2191},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":2193},[2194],{"_45":2195,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":-5,"_714":2196,"_1930":2197,"_1932":2198,"_1934":2199,"_1940":2180,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46272113115377",{"_45":2184,"_58":2185,"_1904":-5,"_60":2186,"_54":2012},{"_1909":2131,"_1911":1912},{"_75":2179,"_834":2180},[2200],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":2180},{"_1938":2004},[2204,-5,-5,2207,2209,-5,2211,2213,2216,2219,2222,-5,-5,2224,-5,2226,2228,2230],{"_45":2205,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":2206},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868083237105","[{\"contributorId\":23671987,\"fullName\":\"Josh Winning\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":2208,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868083630321",{"_45":2210,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868082745585",{"_45":2212,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":2041},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868083728625",{"_45":2214,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":2215},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868084842737","[{\"id\":\"125014560T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"ONE

By the time Laura Warren realized she was fucked, she was already halfway across the Atlantic Ocean.

The plane was full and she'd popped a sleeping pill thirty minutes ago, washed it down with a plastic cup of red wine. It dulled the drone of the engine and made the shapes of her fellow passengers pleasantly hazy. She could almost pretend they weren't there.

Travel was one of the few remaining perks of being a journalist. Her job had taken her all over the world: Tokyo, New York, Sofia. That last, an article about the city's booming film industry, earned her a lethal-looking award two years ago that ended up buried in the cupboard she called an office, along with a small forest's worth of Zeppelin magazine back issues. Awards weren't her thing. She just wanted to write words that mattered.

Los Angeles, though.

That made her want to take more sleeping pills.

The digital flight chart on the seat back in front of her showed a plane edging closer to California no matter how badly Laura willed it to turn around, and the pill wasn't working fast enough to numb the anxiety that razored her lungs. She wished the steward would circle back with the wine. He could leave the bottle if he liked.

Her neighbor grunted in his sleep, his knee pressing into hers.

Laura grimaced and shifted over. She wasn't a nervous traveler, had never been freaked out by the altitude or baby food, but she found planes to be a lot. The lack of space made her feel enormous. Like she was taking up more room than anybody else. More air.

She had caught the look from her neighbor when he sat down. Annoyance that his ability to manspread would be inhibited all the way from London to L.A. She could tell him to go to hell, of course. That she wanted to be there as little as he did.

Instead, she made a joke about how cozy the next eleven hours would be and, when he merely nodded, swallowed her frustration and opened her first mini-pack of pretzels.

Thirty-seven years old and she still filled every awkward silence with a joke.

Taking a breath, she resolved to keep her mind occupied until she passed out. She tapped the iPad propped on the tray table, opening the press release she'd started to read but neglected to finish in the lead-up to the trip. Everything was always so last-minute these days, and press documents gave her a headache. Their robotic enthusiasm was exhausting.

Begrudgingly, she scanned the first couple of pages, then scrolled to the \\\"About the Production\\\" section on page three. She read the first line-

Streaming mini-series It Feeds is a modern reinterpretation of '90s horror movie The Guesthouse.

-and every nerve in her body snapped.

Hair prickled on the back of her neck as if charged with electricity.

With numb hands, she dragged the iPad closer, convinced she was seeing things. She willed the sentence to change, to rearrange itself, but no matter how many times she read it, the words remained the same.

The Guesthouse.

THE GUESTHOUSE.

The goddamn motherfucking Guesthouse.

Her body suddenly felt distant, a concept rather than a physical object, as her mind went into overdrive. It buzzed with a single question like a wasp trapped in a glass.

How the hell did Mike find out about her past?

It was the only explanation for why her editor at Zeppelin magazine had signed her up for the gig. She'd refused more than a dozen times, but she might as well have been screaming into a hurricane. Mike was adamant that she take the job. He said again and again that she was the perfect writer for it.

Laura hadn't understood. It was just a routine visit to the set of It Feeds, a generic-sounding horror series and the kind of gig Laura had long outgrown after nearly two decades of journalism. Any graduate with a Dictaphone and a notepad could interview the cast, watch some filming, and write a \\\"making of\\\" to run prior to the series' debut.

But Mike had been immovable.

He'd wanted Laura for this assignment, practically put her on the plane himself, and she couldn't say no. She had already reassigned five articles to freelancers in the past two months, all of which she was supposed to write herself, and Mike wasn't happy. He'd begun questioning her dedication to Zeppelin. Even though he didn't state it outright, Laura knew the L.A. gig was a test. A chance for her to prove she wasn't getting picky about what she wrote. She was reliable. Enthusiastic. L.A., baby! Sign me up!

Of course, their past was an added complication. Even though Laura had dated Mike for only eleven months, had broken up with him by the time he became her boss, things were still weird between them. The professional line was forever blurred.

They both knew she was the reason it fell apart. Mike would've had to be an idiot not to notice the night terrors and the blackouts, or the nights Laura couldn't sleep at all. She lost count of the times he found her huddled on the sofa, wrapped in a throw blanket with Heathers or Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael playing on the TV. And every time he brought it up, often over breakfast the next morning, giving her that half smile that said, I care, please talk to me, nocturnal creature, she found a way to shut him down. Keep that part of herself locked tight.

Now, somehow, he knew exactly what she'd kept from him. The splinter in their relationship that she'd refused to dig out was laid bare.

Wine burned the back of Laura's throat.

Did he know The Guesthouse was the reason for the nightmares?

No, Mike would have to be a psychopath to make that connection and still send her to L.A.

But how the hell had he figured it out? She'd spent the past thirty years eradicating any trace of her former life. She'd changed her name. Lost the American accent, developed a safely unspecific British one. She'd put on weight and her hair was wavy now, shoulder-length brown. She never wore yellow.

She looked nothing like the kid from the movie anymore.

Polly Tremaine, child actor, was as good as dead.

Yet here she was on a plane to L.A. with no choice but to see the job through.

\\\"Shit,\\\" she whispered. \\\"Shit shit shit.\\\"

She wished she hadn't booked the window seat. She wanted to get out. Move around the aisle. Escape the words on the tablet. But the guy next to her was already asleep and, besides, she couldn't feel her legs. Whether it was the pill or the shock, she couldn't tell.

She reached for her phone, then remembered she was on a plane. She reached for her wine, but only a trickle remained. The steward was a few rows ahead, a bottle in each hand, taking his sweet time as he poured and flirted with passengers. Laura couldn't wait. She hit the call button above her head and chewed her bottom lip as the steward came over.

\\\"Hey, hi, fill her up?\\\" Laura said, holding out her cup.

\\\"Oh, I was just getting to this row.\\\" He nailed sounding simultaneously friendly and annoyed.

Laura didn't lower the hand. It trembled. \\\"Sorry, I'm sort of a nervous flier.\\\" She tried for twitchy contrition. \\\"Our little secret?\\\"

The steward must've seen the anxiety written on her face, because he softened. He filled her cup to the brim and winked. \\\"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me.\\\"

Laura managed a weak smile, waited for him to leave, then drained half the drink. The burn was immediate. She wasn't a drink-all-night journalist, rarely went to flashy events unless she was interviewing somebody, so the wine seared her throat like gasoline, then quickly smoothed the edges of her mind. She took a breath and her gaze found the press release again.

All she saw was that first line.

Streaming mini-series It Feeds is a modern reinterpretation of '90s horror movie The Guesthouse.

She should have seen it coming. Hollywood was all about rebooting. Remaking. Regurgitating. It was only a matter of time before somebody rediscovered that particular movie curio and gave it a fresh coat of paint.

She remembered the smell of dust burning as it hit the lighting equipment, the soft rustle of the paper fortune-teller in her hands. A single piece of paper folded into four conical points that you opened and closed with your fingers to predict the future.

She rarely permitted her mind to go there, pretended the memories had long since disintegrated like wind-parched leaves, but they were just waiting. Biding their time.

Sipping more wine, she attempted to build a mental wall, but the memories came regardless.

She was seven years old when she filmed The Guesthouse at Universal Studios. She was born Polly Tremaine and raised in L.A., and the first half decade of her life played out like a showbiz kid cliché. She was just six months old when her mom took her to an audition for Sparkleshine washing detergent. Everybody said Polly was the prettiest baby. The Sparkleshine people agreed. Within a month, Polly's chubby face and gap-toothed grin was on every carton of Sparkleshine. It was on every highway billboard, TV commercial, and cut-out-'n'-keep coupon. She was a household item a whole year before she took her first step.

The jobs kept coming after that. In L.A., success was a virus. As soon as one person caught your bug, everybody wanted it. Polly worked nonstop. Guest spot in a McDonald's commercial, a role in a Bon Jovi music video, two years as the sweet blond kid in the TV sitcom All My Daughters.

By the time she landed The Guesthouse, Polly had grown accustomed to smiling and nodding along with her mother. She agreed with everything the casting directors said, because it was what her mother wanted. She bit her tongue and pretended to listen, hypersensitive to her mother's heavy, watchful gaze.

One day, she dreamed, her mom would look at her the way the moms in the commercials did. The fake moms who smiled and brushed the bangs out of her eyes. The ones who laughed and pinched her cheeks and hugged her so tightly she held on even after the director yelled cut. She didn't want them to let go. She needed the closeness. The contact. The smiles.

Because nothing Polly did ever made her mother smile.

Polly had been living the Hollywood dream.

The only problem was that the dream wasn't hers.

\\\"Nervous flier, hey?\\\" the guy beside her asked. He had woken up and was looking at her, his eyes shaded by a baseball cap. Laura set her wine on the tray, confused for a second.

\\\"Oh, that? The steward was too slow.\\\"

He laughed. Even his laugh sounded American. \\\"I like your style. Cute accent, too. London, right?\\\"

Oh God no.

He stretched and flexed his arms, which were thick with muscle. \\\"Sorry about earlier, air travel makes me grouchy. So, what do you have planned for L.A.?\\\"

\\\"Just work.\\\"

\\\"Oh yeah? What sort of business are you in?\\\"

Laura tried not to engage. Tried to suggest with a look that just because she had the ability to speak didn't mean she wanted to speak to him. She noticed that the seat on his other side was empty. The third member of their row must be in the bathroom.

\\\"I'm a journalist,\\\" she said.

The guy's eyebrows disappeared into his ball cap. \\\"No shit. What kind?\\\"

\\\"Entertainment. TV shows, movies-\\\"

\\\"You know any famous people?\\\" His gaze was too bright. \\\"Do you know Emilia Clarke? I'm so into her.\\\"

Christ.

\\\"Oh yeah, we're best pals,\\\" Laura said, reaching for her wine.

\\\"Seriously? You've met her? Man, that British accent is such a turn-\\\"

Laura knocked the wine over. Red liquid splashed up her neighbor's thigh and into his lap, soaking into the stonewashed denim. Laura feigned surprise.

\\\"Oh God, I'm so sorry,\\\" she said, trying to hide her satisfaction as he yelled and bucked in his seat, held in place by the belt. \\\"Here, let me get some napkins.\\\"

She slipped her iPad into the footwell, pushed up the tray, and forced her way past him, half knocking his legs into the aisle as she went.

\\\"I'll be right back, promise.\\\"

You overfriendly douchebag.

In the bathroom, she closed the folding door and hit the lock.

The mirror showed her frazzled reflection. Heart-shaped face, mouth turned down at the corners, brown hair falling in uncombed curls to the shoulders of her khaki jacket. The only thing she liked about her appearance nowadays was her eyes, bottle green and too big for her face, which she felt made her look interested. Observant.

Now that she was alone in the cramped airplane bathroom, the reality of the situation solidified around her. It became a roaring in her ears.

She was on her way to L.A.

\\\"Jesus,\\\" she whispered, seeing fear and anger on her own face.

When she was seven and got the Guesthouse gig, she was so anxious that she threw up on her dress. Her baby sister laughed like it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen, because Amy had a sick sense of humor, even when she was four. Her mom made her strip and scrubbed her angrily in the tub.

The unease filled her body like TV static.

They wanted her to play Tammy Manners. The star of the movie. The little girl who told people how they'd die.

If she'd known then how things would pan out, how the rest of her life would continue to pivot on that one moment, how her parents would uproot the family from L.A. and flee to London when she was eight years old, she'd have fought harder to ditch the Guesthouse gig.

But she couldn't have known. Nobody could have.

They called it \\\"the most haunted film in Hollywood history.\\\"

So many people involved in The Guesthouse were dead or behind bars. Their lives ruined beyond repair. The last, in 1998, was Christopher Rosenthal, her onetime director. He was forty-six, found hanged in his home. No note. No history of mental illness. Just a noose and a staircase.

The Guesthouse: a synonym for fucked-up.

Somehow, Laura had evaded the tragedies that befell her '90s colleagues. She was the eye of the storm. The heart of the knot. She'd made a life for herself away from the spotlight and the speculation. Nobody aside from her family knew about her past and she intended to keep it that way. There was no alternative.

Hunching over the sink, Laura turned on the faucet and ran cold water over her wrists. She scooped it into her face, and the shock of it made her gasp. The cold brought her out of the past, back into her body.

She was going to be okay.

The past was in the past.

Not screaming toward her at five-hundred miles per hour.

She frowned as her reflection juddered. The mirror was moving. The bathroom shook, looking as flimsy as a movie set, and the floor vibrated under her boots. The lights switched off and on, causing her pupils to dilate.

\\\"Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing a little turbulence,\\\" a voice said as a seatbelt sign pinged on above the mirror. \\\"Please return to your seats and make sure your seatbelts are securely fastened.\\\"

Laura ignored the voice. She grabbed a handful of paper towels and blotted her face as the bathroom trembled. The turbulence was oddly soothing. Maybe the plane would nose-dive before they reached LA.

You should be so lucky.

After a second, she lowered the towels and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She almost screamed.

A shape stood behind her.

A figure in a black coat, its face bandaged beneath a black hat, clawed fingers raised to her shoulder, the blades glinting in the overhead lights.

A wheezing breath caressed her cheek.

With a cry, Laura spun on the spot, driving her elbow into the towel dispenser, then crashing against the back wall. She turned twice more, her heart racing, then finally stopped, grabbing hold of the sink, panting and feeling ridiculous.

She was alone.

Of course she was alone.

She was jumping at her own shadow.

\\\"Get a grip,\\\" she told her reflection. She stood braced against the sink for a moment longer, wishing her heart would stop jack-knifing in her chest, but it knew what she was thinking, no matter how hard she tried not to think it.

One way or another, this trip is going to kill me.\"},{\"id\":\"91158645T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"ONE

By the time Laura Warren realized she was fucked, she was already halfway across the Atlantic Ocean.

The plane was full and she'd popped a sleeping pill thirty minutes ago, washed it down with a plastic cup of red wine. It dulled the drone of the engine and made the shapes of her fellow passengers pleasantly hazy. She could almost pretend they weren't there.

Travel was one of the few remaining perks of being a journalist. Her job had taken her all over the world: Tokyo, New York, Sofia. That last, an article about the city's booming film industry, earned her a lethal-looking award two years ago that ended up buried in the cupboard she called an office, along with a small forest's worth of Zeppelin magazine back issues. Awards weren't her thing. She just wanted to write words that mattered.

Los Angeles, though.

That made her want to take more sleeping pills.

The digital flight chart on the seat back in front of her showed a plane edging closer to California no matter how badly Laura willed it to turn around, and the pill wasn't working fast enough to numb the anxiety that razored her lungs. She wished the steward would circle back with the wine. He could leave the bottle if he liked.

Her neighbor grunted in his sleep, his knee pressing into hers.

Laura grimaced and shifted over. She wasn't a nervous traveler, had never been freaked out by the altitude or baby food, but she found planes to be a lot. The lack of space made her feel enormous. Like she was taking up more room than anybody else. More air.

She had caught the look from her neighbor when he sat down. Annoyance that his ability to manspread would be inhibited all the way from London to L.A. She could tell him to go to hell, of course. That she wanted to be there as little as he did.

Instead, she made a joke about how cozy the next eleven hours would be and, when he merely nodded, swallowed her frustration and opened her first mini-pack of pretzels.

Thirty-seven years old and she still filled every awkward silence with a joke.

Taking a breath, she resolved to keep her mind occupied until she passed out. She tapped the iPad propped on the tray table, opening the press release she'd started to read but neglected to finish in the lead-up to the trip. Everything was always so last-minute these days, and press documents gave her a headache. Their robotic enthusiasm was exhausting.

Begrudgingly, she scanned the first couple of pages, then scrolled to the \\\"About the Production\\\" section on page three. She read the first line-

Streaming mini-series It Feeds is a modern reinterpretation of '90s horror movie The Guesthouse.

-and every nerve in her body snapped.

Hair prickled on the back of her neck as if charged with electricity.

With numb hands, she dragged the iPad closer, convinced she was seeing things. She willed the sentence to change, to rearrange itself, but no matter how many times she read it, the words remained the same.

The Guesthouse.

THE GUESTHOUSE.

The goddamn motherfucking Guesthouse.

Her body suddenly felt distant, a concept rather than a physical object, as her mind went into overdrive. It buzzed with a single question like a wasp trapped in a glass.

How the hell did Mike find out about her past?

It was the only explanation for why her editor at Zeppelin magazine had signed her up for the gig. She'd refused more than a dozen times, but she might as well have been screaming into a hurricane. Mike was adamant that she take the job. He said again and again that she was the perfect writer for it.

Laura hadn't understood. It was just a routine visit to the set of It Feeds, a generic-sounding horror series and the kind of gig Laura had long outgrown after nearly two decades of journalism. Any graduate with a Dictaphone and a notepad could interview the cast, watch some filming, and write a \\\"making of\\\" to run prior to the series' debut.

But Mike had been immovable.

He'd wanted Laura for this assignment, practically put her on the plane himself, and she couldn't say no. She had already reassigned five articles to freelancers in the past two months, all of which she was supposed to write herself, and Mike wasn't happy. He'd begun questioning her dedication to Zeppelin. Even though he didn't state it outright, Laura knew the L.A. gig was a test. A chance for her to prove she wasn't getting picky about what she wrote. She was reliable. Enthusiastic. L.A., baby! Sign me up!

Of course, their past was an added complication. Even though Laura had dated Mike for only eleven months, had broken up with him by the time he became her boss, things were still weird between them. The professional line was forever blurred.

They both knew she was the reason it fell apart. Mike would've had to be an idiot not to notice the night terrors and the blackouts, or the nights Laura couldn't sleep at all. She lost count of the times he found her huddled on the sofa, wrapped in a throw blanket with Heathers or Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael playing on the TV. And every time he brought it up, often over breakfast the next morning, giving her that half smile that said, I care, please talk to me, nocturnal creature, she found a way to shut him down. Keep that part of herself locked tight.

Now, somehow, he knew exactly what she'd kept from him. The splinter in their relationship that she'd refused to dig out was laid bare.

Wine burned the back of Laura's throat.

Did he know The Guesthouse was the reason for the nightmares?

No, Mike would have to be a psychopath to make that connection and still send her to L.A.

But how the hell had he figured it out? She'd spent the past thirty years eradicating any trace of her former life. She'd changed her name. Lost the American accent, developed a safely unspecific British one. She'd put on weight and her hair was wavy now, shoulder-length brown. She never wore yellow.

She looked nothing like the kid from the movie anymore.

Polly Tremaine, child actor, was as good as dead.

Yet here she was on a plane to L.A. with no choice but to see the job through.

\\\"Shit,\\\" she whispered. \\\"Shit shit shit.\\\"

She wished she hadn't booked the window seat. She wanted to get out. Move around the aisle. Escape the words on the tablet. But the guy next to her was already asleep and, besides, she couldn't feel her legs. Whether it was the pill or the shock, she couldn't tell.

She reached for her phone, then remembered she was on a plane. She reached for her wine, but only a trickle remained. The steward was a few rows ahead, a bottle in each hand, taking his sweet time as he poured and flirted with passengers. Laura couldn't wait. She hit the call button above her head and chewed her bottom lip as the steward came over.

\\\"Hey, hi, fill her up?\\\" Laura said, holding out her cup.

\\\"Oh, I was just getting to this row.\\\" He nailed sounding simultaneously friendly and annoyed.

Laura didn't lower the hand. It trembled. \\\"Sorry, I'm sort of a nervous flier.\\\" She tried for twitchy contrition. \\\"Our little secret?\\\"

The steward must've seen the anxiety written on her face, because he softened. He filled her cup to the brim and winked. \\\"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me.\\\"

Laura managed a weak smile, waited for him to leave, then drained half the drink. The burn was immediate. She wasn't a drink-all-night journalist, rarely went to flashy events unless she was interviewing somebody, so the wine seared her throat like gasoline, then quickly smoothed the edges of her mind. She took a breath and her gaze found the press release again.

All she saw was that first line.

Streaming mini-series It Feeds is a modern reinterpretation of '90s horror movie The Guesthouse.

She should have seen it coming. Hollywood was all about rebooting. Remaking. Regurgitating. It was only a matter of time before somebody rediscovered that particular movie curio and gave it a fresh coat of paint.

She remembered the smell of dust burning as it hit the lighting equipment, the soft rustle of the paper fortune-teller in her hands. A single piece of paper folded into four conical points that you opened and closed with your fingers to predict the future.

She rarely permitted her mind to go there, pretended the memories had long since disintegrated like wind-parched leaves, but they were just waiting. Biding their time.

Sipping more wine, she attempted to build a mental wall, but the memories came regardless.

She was seven years old when she filmed The Guesthouse at Universal Studios. She was born Polly Tremaine and raised in L.A., and the first half decade of her life played out like a showbiz kid cliché. She was just six months old when her mom took her to an audition for Sparkleshine washing detergent. Everybody said Polly was the prettiest baby. The Sparkleshine people agreed. Within a month, Polly's chubby face and gap-toothed grin was on every carton of Sparkleshine. It was on every highway billboard, TV commercial, and cut-out-'n'-keep coupon. She was a household item a whole year before she took her first step.

The jobs kept coming after that. In L.A., success was a virus. As soon as one person caught your bug, everybody wanted it. Polly worked nonstop. Guest spot in a McDonald's commercial, a role in a Bon Jovi music video, two years as the sweet blond kid in the TV sitcom All My Daughters.

By the time she landed The Guesthouse, Polly had grown accustomed to smiling and nodding along with her mother. She agreed with everything the casting directors said, because it was what her mother wanted. She bit her tongue and pretended to listen, hypersensitive to her mother's heavy, watchful gaze.

One day, she dreamed, her mom would look at her the way the moms in the commercials did. The fake moms who smiled and brushed the bangs out of her eyes. The ones who laughed and pinched her cheeks and hugged her so tightly she held on even after the director yelled cut. She didn't want them to let go. She needed the closeness. The contact. The smiles.

Because nothing Polly did ever made her mother smile.

Polly had been living the Hollywood dream.

The only problem was that the dream wasn't hers.

\\\"Nervous flier, hey?\\\" the guy beside her asked. He had woken up and was looking at her, his eyes shaded by a baseball cap. Laura set her wine on the tray, confused for a second.

\\\"Oh, that? The steward was too slow.\\\"

He laughed. Even his laugh sounded American. \\\"I like your style. Cute accent, too. London, right?\\\"

Oh God no.

He stretched and flexed his arms, which were thick with muscle. \\\"Sorry about earlier, air travel makes me grouchy. So, what do you have planned for L.A.?\\\"

\\\"Just work.\\\"

\\\"Oh yeah? What sort of business are you in?\\\"

Laura tried not to engage. Tried to suggest with a look that just because she had the ability to speak didn't mean she wanted to speak to him. She noticed that the seat on his other side was empty. The third member of their row must be in the bathroom.

\\\"I'm a journalist,\\\" she said.

The guy's eyebrows disappeared into his ball cap. \\\"No shit. What kind?\\\"

\\\"Entertainment. TV shows, movies-\\\"

\\\"You know any famous people?\\\" His gaze was too bright. \\\"Do you know Emilia Clarke? I'm so into her.\\\"

Christ.

\\\"Oh yeah, we're best pals,\\\" Laura said, reaching for her wine.

\\\"Seriously? You've met her? Man, that British accent is such a turn-\\\"

Laura knocked the wine over. Red liquid splashed up her neighbor's thigh and into his lap, soaking into the stonewashed denim. Laura feigned surprise.

\\\"Oh God, I'm so sorry,\\\" she said, trying to hide her satisfaction as he yelled and bucked in his seat, held in place by the belt. \\\"Here, let me get some napkins.\\\"

She slipped her iPad into the footwell, pushed up the tray, and forced her way past him, half knocking his legs into the aisle as she went.

\\\"I'll be right back, promise.\\\"

You overfriendly douchebag.

In the bathroom, she closed the folding door and hit the lock.

The mirror showed her frazzled reflection. Heart-shaped face, mouth turned down at the corners, brown hair falling in uncombed curls to the shoulders of her khaki jacket. The only thing she liked about her appearance nowadays was her eyes, bottle green and too big for her face, which she felt made her look interested. Observant.

Now that she was alone in the cramped airplane bathroom, the reality of the situation solidified around her. It became a roaring in her ears.

She was on her way to L.A.

\\\"Jesus,\\\" she whispered, seeing fear and anger on her own face.

When she was seven and got the Guesthouse gig, she was so anxious that she threw up on her dress. Her baby sister laughed like it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen, because Amy had a sick sense of humor, even when she was four. Her mom made her strip and scrubbed her angrily in the tub.

The unease filled her body like TV static.

They wanted her to play Tammy Manners. The star of the movie. The little girl who told people how they'd die.

If she'd known then how things would pan out, how the rest of her life would continue to pivot on that one moment, how her parents would uproot the family from L.A. and flee to London when she was eight years old, she'd have fought harder to ditch the Guesthouse gig.

But she couldn't have known. Nobody could have.

They called it \\\"the most haunted film in Hollywood history.\\\"

So many people involved in The Guesthouse were dead or behind bars. Their lives ruined beyond repair. The last, in 1998, was Christopher Rosenthal, her onetime director. He was forty-six, found hanged in his home. No note. No history of mental illness. Just a noose and a staircase.

The Guesthouse: a synonym for fucked-up.

Somehow, Laura had evaded the tragedies that befell her '90s colleagues. She was the eye of the storm. The heart of the knot. She'd made a life for herself away from the spotlight and the speculation. Nobody aside from her family knew about her past and she intended to keep it that way. There was no alternative.

Hunching over the sink, Laura turned on the faucet and ran cold water over her wrists. She scooped it into her face, and the shock of it made her gasp. The cold brought her out of the past, back into her body.

She was going to be okay.

The past was in the past.

Not screaming toward her at five-hundred miles per hour.

She frowned as her reflection juddered. The mirror was moving. The bathroom shook, looking as flimsy as a movie set, and the floor vibrated under her boots. The lights switched off and on, causing her pupils to dilate.

\\\"Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing a little turbulence,\\\" a voice said as a seatbelt sign pinged on above the mirror. \\\"Please return to your seats and make sure your seatbelts are securely fastened.\\\"

Laura ignored the voice. She grabbed a handful of paper towels and blotted her face as the bathroom trembled. The turbulence was oddly soothing. Maybe the plane would nose-dive before they reached LA.

You should be so lucky.

After a second, she lowered the towels and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She almost screamed.

A shape stood behind her.

A figure in a black coat, its face bandaged beneath a black hat, clawed fingers raised to her shoulder, the blades glinting in the overhead lights.

A wheezing breath caressed her cheek.

With a cry, Laura spun on the spot, driving her elbow into the towel dispenser, then crashing against the back wall. She turned twice more, her heart racing, then finally stopped, grabbing hold of the sink, panting and feeling ridiculous.

She was alone.

Of course she was alone.

She was jumping at her own shadow.

\\\"Get a grip,\\\" she told her reflection. She stood braced against the sink for a moment longer, wishing her heart would stop jack-knifing in her chest, but it knew what she was thinking, no matter how hard she tried not to think it.

One way or another, this trip is going to kill me.\"},{\"id\":\"90476285T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"ONE

By the time Laura Warren realized she was fucked, she was already halfway across the Atlantic Ocean.

The plane was full and she'd popped a sleeping pill thirty minutes ago, washed it down with a plastic cup of red wine. It dulled the drone of the engine and made the shapes of her fellow passengers pleasantly hazy. She could almost pretend they weren't there.

Travel was one of the few remaining perks of being a journalist. Her job had taken her all over the world: Tokyo, New York, Sofia. That last, an article about the city's booming film industry, earned her a lethal-looking award two years ago that ended up buried in the cupboard she called an office, along with a small forest's worth of Zeppelin magazine back issues. Awards weren't her thing. She just wanted to write words that mattered.

Los Angeles, though.

That made her want to take more sleeping pills.

The digital flight chart on the seat back in front of her showed a plane edging closer to California no matter how badly Laura willed it to turn around, and the pill wasn't working fast enough to numb the anxiety that razored her lungs. She wished the steward would circle back with the wine. He could leave the bottle if he liked.

Her neighbor grunted in his sleep, his knee pressing into hers.

Laura grimaced and shifted over. She wasn't a nervous traveler, had never been freaked out by the altitude or baby food, but she found planes to be a lot. The lack of space made her feel enormous. Like she was taking up more room than anybody else. More air.

She had caught the look from her neighbor when he sat down. Annoyance that his ability to manspread would be inhibited all the way from London to L.A. She could tell him to go to hell, of course. That she wanted to be there as little as he did.

Instead, she made a joke about how cozy the next eleven hours would be and, when he merely nodded, swallowed her frustration and opened her first mini-pack of pretzels.

Thirty-seven years old and she still filled every awkward silence with a joke.

Taking a breath, she resolved to keep her mind occupied until she passed out. She tapped the iPad propped on the tray table, opening the press release she'd started to read but neglected to finish in the lead-up to the trip. Everything was always so last-minute these days, and press documents gave her a headache. Their robotic enthusiasm was exhausting.

Begrudgingly, she scanned the first couple of pages, then scrolled to the \\\"About the Production\\\" section on page three. She read the first line-

Streaming mini-series It Feeds is a modern reinterpretation of '90s horror movie The Guesthouse.

-and every nerve in her body snapped.

Hair prickled on the back of her neck as if charged with electricity.

With numb hands, she dragged the iPad closer, convinced she was seeing things. She willed the sentence to change, to rearrange itself, but no matter how many times she read it, the words remained the same.

The Guesthouse.

THE GUESTHOUSE.

The goddamn motherfucking Guesthouse.

Her body suddenly felt distant, a concept rather than a physical object, as her mind went into overdrive. It buzzed with a single question like a wasp trapped in a glass.

How the hell did Mike find out about her past?

It was the only explanation for why her editor at Zeppelin magazine had signed her up for the gig. She'd refused more than a dozen times, but she might as well have been screaming into a hurricane. Mike was adamant that she take the job. He said again and again that she was the perfect writer for it.

Laura hadn't understood. It was just a routine visit to the set of It Feeds, a generic-sounding horror series and the kind of gig Laura had long outgrown after nearly two decades of journalism. Any graduate with a Dictaphone and a notepad could interview the cast, watch some filming, and write a \\\"making of\\\" to run prior to the series' debut.

But Mike had been immovable.

He'd wanted Laura for this assignment, practically put her on the plane himself, and she couldn't say no. She had already reassigned five articles to freelancers in the past two months, all of which she was supposed to write herself, and Mike wasn't happy. He'd begun questioning her dedication to Zeppelin. Even though he didn't state it outright, Laura knew the L.A. gig was a test. A chance for her to prove she wasn't getting picky about what she wrote. She was reliable. Enthusiastic. L.A., baby! Sign me up!

Of course, their past was an added complication. Even though Laura had dated Mike for only eleven months, had broken up with him by the time he became her boss, things were still weird between them. The professional line was forever blurred.

They both knew she was the reason it fell apart. Mike would've had to be an idiot not to notice the night terrors and the blackouts, or the nights Laura couldn't sleep at all. She lost count of the times he found her huddled on the sofa, wrapped in a throw blanket with Heathers or Welcome Home, Roxy Carmichael playing on the TV. And every time he brought it up, often over breakfast the next morning, giving her that half smile that said, I care, please talk to me, nocturnal creature, she found a way to shut him down. Keep that part of herself locked tight.

Now, somehow, he knew exactly what she'd kept from him. The splinter in their relationship that she'd refused to dig out was laid bare.

Wine burned the back of Laura's throat.

Did he know The Guesthouse was the reason for the nightmares?

No, Mike would have to be a psychopath to make that connection and still send her to L.A.

But how the hell had he figured it out? She'd spent the past thirty years eradicating any trace of her former life. She'd changed her name. Lost the American accent, developed a safely unspecific British one. She'd put on weight and her hair was wavy now, shoulder-length brown. She never wore yellow.

She looked nothing like the kid from the movie anymore.

Polly Tremaine, child actor, was as good as dead.

Yet here she was on a plane to L.A. with no choice but to see the job through.

\\\"Shit,\\\" she whispered. \\\"Shit shit shit.\\\"

She wished she hadn't booked the window seat. She wanted to get out. Move around the aisle. Escape the words on the tablet. But the guy next to her was already asleep and, besides, she couldn't feel her legs. Whether it was the pill or the shock, she couldn't tell.

She reached for her phone, then remembered she was on a plane. She reached for her wine, but only a trickle remained. The steward was a few rows ahead, a bottle in each hand, taking his sweet time as he poured and flirted with passengers. Laura couldn't wait. She hit the call button above her head and chewed her bottom lip as the steward came over.

\\\"Hey, hi, fill her up?\\\" Laura said, holding out her cup.

\\\"Oh, I was just getting to this row.\\\" He nailed sounding simultaneously friendly and annoyed.

Laura didn't lower the hand. It trembled. \\\"Sorry, I'm sort of a nervous flier.\\\" She tried for twitchy contrition. \\\"Our little secret?\\\"

The steward must've seen the anxiety written on her face, because he softened. He filled her cup to the brim and winked. \\\"Don't worry, your secret's safe with me.\\\"

Laura managed a weak smile, waited for him to leave, then drained half the drink. The burn was immediate. She wasn't a drink-all-night journalist, rarely went to flashy events unless she was interviewing somebody, so the wine seared her throat like gasoline, then quickly smoothed the edges of her mind. She took a breath and her gaze found the press release again.

All she saw was that first line.

Streaming mini-series It Feeds is a modern reinterpretation of '90s horror movie The Guesthouse.

She should have seen it coming. Hollywood was all about rebooting. Remaking. Regurgitating. It was only a matter of time before somebody rediscovered that particular movie curio and gave it a fresh coat of paint.

She remembered the smell of dust burning as it hit the lighting equipment, the soft rustle of the paper fortune-teller in her hands. A single piece of paper folded into four conical points that you opened and closed with your fingers to predict the future.

She rarely permitted her mind to go there, pretended the memories had long since disintegrated like wind-parched leaves, but they were just waiting. Biding their time.

Sipping more wine, she attempted to build a mental wall, but the memories came regardless.

She was seven years old when she filmed The Guesthouse at Universal Studios. She was born Polly Tremaine and raised in L.A., and the first half decade of her life played out like a showbiz kid cliché. She was just six months old when her mom took her to an audition for Sparkleshine washing detergent. Everybody said Polly was the prettiest baby. The Sparkleshine people agreed. Within a month, Polly's chubby face and gap-toothed grin was on every carton of Sparkleshine. It was on every highway billboard, TV commercial, and cut-out-'n'-keep coupon. She was a household item a whole year before she took her first step.

The jobs kept coming after that. In L.A., success was a virus. As soon as one person caught your bug, everybody wanted it. Polly worked nonstop. Guest spot in a McDonald's commercial, a role in a Bon Jovi music video, two years as the sweet blond kid in the TV sitcom All My Daughters.

By the time she landed The Guesthouse, Polly had grown accustomed to smiling and nodding along with her mother. She agreed with everything the casting directors said, because it was what her mother wanted. She bit her tongue and pretended to listen, hypersensitive to her mother's heavy, watchful gaze.

One day, she dreamed, her mom would look at her the way the moms in the commercials did. The fake moms who smiled and brushed the bangs out of her eyes. The ones who laughed and pinched her cheeks and hugged her so tightly she held on even after the director yelled cut. She didn't want them to let go. She needed the closeness. The contact. The smiles.

Because nothing Polly did ever made her mother smile.

Polly had been living the Hollywood dream.

The only problem was that the dream wasn't hers.

\\\"Nervous flier, hey?\\\" the guy beside her asked. He had woken up and was looking at her, his eyes shaded by a baseball cap. Laura set her wine on the tray, confused for a second.

\\\"Oh, that? The steward was too slow.\\\"

He laughed. Even his laugh sounded American. \\\"I like your style. Cute accent, too. London, right?\\\"

Oh God no.

He stretched and flexed his arms, which were thick with muscle. \\\"Sorry about earlier, air travel makes me grouchy. So, what do you have planned for L.A.?\\\"

\\\"Just work.\\\"

\\\"Oh yeah? What sort of business are you in?\\\"

Laura tried not to engage. Tried to suggest with a look that just because she had the ability to speak didn't mean she wanted to speak to him. She noticed that the seat on his other side was empty. The third member of their row must be in the bathroom.

\\\"I'm a journalist,\\\" she said.

The guy's eyebrows disappeared into his ball cap. \\\"No shit. What kind?\\\"

\\\"Entertainment. TV shows, movies-\\\"

\\\"You know any famous people?\\\" His gaze was too bright. \\\"Do you know Emilia Clarke? I'm so into her.\\\"

Christ.

\\\"Oh yeah, we're best pals,\\\" Laura said, reaching for her wine.

\\\"Seriously? You've met her? Man, that British accent is such a turn-\\\"

Laura knocked the wine over. Red liquid splashed up her neighbor's thigh and into his lap, soaking into the stonewashed denim. Laura feigned surprise.

\\\"Oh God, I'm so sorry,\\\" she said, trying to hide her satisfaction as he yelled and bucked in his seat, held in place by the belt. \\\"Here, let me get some napkins.\\\"

She slipped her iPad into the footwell, pushed up the tray, and forced her way past him, half knocking his legs into the aisle as she went.

\\\"I'll be right back, promise.\\\"

You overfriendly douchebag.

In the bathroom, she closed the folding door and hit the lock.

The mirror showed her frazzled reflection. Heart-shaped face, mouth turned down at the corners, brown hair falling in uncombed curls to the shoulders of her khaki jacket. The only thing she liked about her appearance nowadays was her eyes, bottle green and too big for her face, which she felt made her look interested. Observant.

Now that she was alone in the cramped airplane bathroom, the reality of the situation solidified around her. It became a roaring in her ears.

She was on her way to L.A.

\\\"Jesus,\\\" she whispered, seeing fear and anger on her own face.

When she was seven and got the Guesthouse gig, she was so anxious that she threw up on her dress. Her baby'sister laughed like it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen, because Amy had a sick sense of humor, even when she was four. Her mom made her strip and scrubbed her angrily in the tub.

The unease filled her body like TV static.

They wanted her to play Tammy Manners. The star of the movie. The little girl who told people how they'd die.

If she'd known then how things would pan out, how the rest of her life would continue to pivot on that one moment, how her parents would uproot the family from L.A. and flee to London when she was eight years old, she'd have fought harder to ditch the Guesthouse gig.

But she couldn't have known. Nobody could have.

They called it \\\"the most haunted film in Hollywood history.\\\"

So many people involved in The Guesthouse were dead or behind bars. Their lives ruined beyond repair. The last, in 1998, was Christopher Rosenthal, her onetime director. He was forty-six, found hanged in his home. No note. No history of mental illness. Just a noose and a staircase.

The Guesthouse: a synonym for fucked-up.

Somehow, Laura had evaded the tragedies that befell her '90s colleagues. She was the eye of the storm. The heart of the knot. She'd made a life for herself away from the spotlight and the speculation. Nobody aside from her family knew about her past and she intended to keep it that way. There was no alternative.

Hunching over the sink, Laura turned on the faucet and ran cold water over her wrists. She scooped it into her face, and the shock of it made her gasp. The cold brought her out of the past, back into her body.

She was going to be okay.

The past was in the past.

Not screaming toward her at five-hundred miles per hour.

She frowned as her reflection juddered. The mirror was moving. The bathroom shook, looking as flimsy as a movie set, and the floor vibrated under her boots. The lights switched off and on, causing her pupils to dilate.

\\\"Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing a little turbulence,\\\" a voice said as a seatbelt sign pinged on above the mirror. \\\"Please return to your seats and make sure your seatbelts are securely fastened.\\\"

Laura ignored the voice. She grabbed a handful of paper towels and blotted her face as the bathroom trembled. The turbulence was oddly soothing. Maybe the plane would nose-dive before they reached LA.

You should be so lucky.

After a second, she lowered the towels and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She almost screamed.

A shape stood behind her.

A figure in a black coat, its face bandaged beneath a black hat, clawed fingers raised to her shoulder, the blades glinting in the overhead lights.

A wheezing breath caressed her cheek.

With a cry, Laura spun on the spot, driving her elbow into the towel dispenser, then crashing against the back wall. She turned twice more, her heart racing, then finally stopped, grabbing hold of the sink, panting and feeling ridiculous.

She was alone.

Of course she was alone.

She was jumping at her own shadow.

\\\"Get a grip,\\\" she told her reflection. She stood braced against the sink for a moment longer, wishing her heart would stop jack-knifing in her chest, but it knew what she was thinking, no matter how hard she tried not to think it.

One way or another, this trip is going to kill me.\"},{\"id\":\"125014563T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"\\\"In “Scream 4,” Gale Weathers asks, 'How meta can you get?' This is Winning’s excellent answer: A child star from a cursed cult classic film grows up to become a journalist writing about a remake of the very movie she starred in, as real bodies pile up. The best slashers are the ones where, for all your Randy Meeks-ing, you can’t quite figure out who the killer is. This is one of those.\\\" —New York Times

\\\"Burn the Negative is a creepy, twisty, compulsively readable haunted house of a book built from horror movies and our obsessive response to them. You'll root for Laura and fear the Needle Man. Be sure to make the popcorn and dim the lights.\\\"
—Paul Tremblay, author of A Head Full of Ghosts

\\\"Wow! No one can make us feel so much childhood nostalgia and then so much terror as Josh Winning! Absolutely loved it. This one's a killer.\\\" —CJ Leede, Bram Stoker Award-nominated author of Maeve Fly

\\\"Smart, fast-paced, and devilishly clever.\\\" —Shaun Hamill, author of A Cosmology of Monsters

\\\"A spine-tingling, rip-roaring yarn that hearkens back to the thrills and chills of the best ’80s slasher horror. Hand this to readers who liked The Final Girl Support Group by Grady Hendrix, My Heart Is a Chainsaw by Stephen Graham Jones, or My Sister, the Serial Killer by Oyinkan Braithwaite.\\\" —Library Journal

\\\"Prepare to be caught in the Needle Man’s grip—you won’t be able to tear yourself away.\\\" —Kat Ellis, author of Harrow Lake

\\\"Josh Winning has won my heart with this Hollywood horror-noir, which plays out like A Nightmare On Sunset Boulevard.\\\" —Clay McLeod Chapman, author of The Remaking

\\\"A fun supernatural thriller with Poltergeist 'cursed movie' vibes . . . I love how [Josh] Winning presents multiple suspects and generates a page-turning energy perfect for summer reading.\\\" —Sadie Hartman, author of 101 Horror Books to Read Before You're Murdered, via Instagram

“[A]n unnerving, spooky tale that combines mystery with bits of horror along the lines of Stephen King and Peter Straub… Burn the Negative would make a terrific film. The plot is cinematic and the script is pretty much already written.” —South Florida Sun Sentinel

\\\"A relentless supernatural page-ripper that doubled as pure catnip for the horror connoisseur in me.\\\" —David Yoon, author of City of Orange

\\\"Burn the Negative knocked me sideways. It is both fresh and familiar—a dark, satirical, and unflinching observation of the movie industry and childhood celebrity, with a monster that will make even your nightmares wake up screaming.\\\" —Rio Youers, author of No Second Chances

\\\"This book had me hooked from line one! Slasher? Final Girl? Haunted hotel? Cursed movie within a movie within a book? Is it possible to seamlessly fold everything a horror fan loves into one story? Josh Winning not only says it is, but in Burn the Negative, he pulls it off flawlessly.\\\" —J.H. Markert, author of The Nightmare Man

\\\"Satisfyingly creepy! A fantastic supernatural thriller that harkens back to horror's glory days.\\\" —J.D. Barker, author of A Caller's Game

\\\"The mystery is a compelling one, the details unsettling from the jump… A pulpy exploration of the monsters we make and a love letter to cult-classic frights.\\\" —Kirkus Reviews

\\\"If you love horror books about horror (like a terrifying nesting doll), you need to go forth and pick up a copy of Burn the Negative.... I loved absolutely everything about this book.\\\" —Book Riot

\\\"Burn the Negative treads the line deliciously between supernatural and psychological horror, and Winning's story whips along at breakneck pace towards a shocking payoff.\\\" —Ally Wilkes, author of All the White Spaces

\\\"I was gripped and chilled by Burn the Negative. There was the impulse to binge just one more chapter before closing the covers, combined with layered characterization, sensitivity, and Winning's respect for and love of pop-culture and what it gives, and takes away.\\\" —Deirdre Sullivan, author of Perfectly Preventable Deaths

\\\"Smart, spooky and steeped in horror movie lore, Burn the Negative will have you turning the pages so fast you’ll leave scorch marks.\\\" —Matt Glasby, author of The Book of Horror

\\\"An all-consuming obsession…a perfect mash-up of Night Film and Harrow Lake.\\\" —Dawn Kurtagich, author of The Creeper Man

\\\"This book is great. Fans of horror thrillers will be engrossed in this page-turning, twisty novel\\\" —Red Carpet Crash

\\\"Like the classic horror cinema it gleefully riffs on, Winning’s latest [Burn the Negative] crackles with both dread and dazzle… Winning keeps readers guessing… while throwing out crafty winks and nods to well-known horror films and their makers, and driving his tale to a cinematically spectacular finale with several surprising plot twists. Horror fans should grab the popcorn for this bloody and entertaining romp.\\\" —Publishers Weekly\"},{\"id\":\"89116720T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

For fans of Riley Sager, Grady Hendrix, movie buffs and Jimmy Juliano’s Dead Eleven plus some 90s nostalgia, we present to you Burn the Negative. Josh Winning wears his stabbed, bleeding heart on his sleeve with characters like Needle Man; a main character trying to understand her reality; and a nod to “final girls” both in films and novels. It's the perfect read for any Horror fan, and the ending won’t disappoint... in terms of Horror novel endings, that is.

\"},{\"id\":\"125014565T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Josh Winning is the author of the critically acclaimed The Shadow Glass. He is a senior film writer at Radio Times, has written for Total Film for over a decade, and is the cohost of movie podcast Torn Stubs. During his years as a film journalist, he has been on set with Kermit the Frog (and Miss Piggy), devoured breakfast with zombies on The Walking Dead, and sat on the Iron Throne on the Dublin set of Game of Thrones. Winning lives in London with his cat Penny and dreams of one day convincing Sigourney Weaver to yell “Goddammit!” at him.

\"},{\"id\":\"91156553T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Josh Winning is the author of the critically acclaimed The Shadow Glass. He is a senior film writer at Radio Times, has written for Total Film for over a decade, and is the cohost of movie podcast Torn Stubs. During his years as a film journalist, he has been on set with Kermit the Frog (and Miss Piggy), devoured breakfast with zombies on The Walking Dead, and sat on the Iron Throne on the Dublin set of Game of Thrones. Winning lives in London with his cat Penny and dreams of one day convincing Sigourney Weaver to yell “Goddammit!” at him.\"},{\"id\":\"101633955T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Josh Winning is the author of the critically acclaimed The Shadow Glass. He is a senior film writer at Radio Times, has written for Total Film for over a decade, and is the cohost of movie podcast Torn Stubs. During his years as a film journalist, he has been on set with Kermit the Frog (and Miss Piggy), devoured breakfast with zombies on The Walking Dead, and sat on the Iron Throne on the Dublin set of Game of Thrones. Winning lives in London with his cat Penny and dreams of one day convincing Sigourney Weaver to yell \\\"Goddammit!\\\" at him.\"},{\"id\":\"86655562T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Josh Winning is the author of the critically acclaimed The Shadow Glass. He is a senior film writer at Radio Times, has written for Total Film for over a decade, and is the cohost of movie podcast Torn Stubs. During his years as a film journalist, he has been on set with Kermit the Frog (and Miss Piggy), devoured breakfast with zombies on The Walking Dead, and sat on the Iron Throne on the Dublin set of Game of Thrones. Josh lives in London with his cat Penny and dreams of one day convincing Sigourney Weaver to yell “Goddammit!” at him.\"}]",{"_45":2217,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":2218},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868084482289","Burn-the-Negative/Josh-Winning",{"_45":2220,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":2221},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868082385137","1142495540",{"_45":2223,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868083564785",{"_45":2225,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":2180},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868080517361",{"_45":2227,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868083859697",{"_45":2229,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":2059},"gid://shopify/Metafield/68698927661297",{"_45":2231,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":2000},"gid://shopify/Metafield/68698927628529",{"_30":78,"_79":14,"_58":2233},"https://www.barnesandnoble.com/blog/the-best-analog-horror-stories-to-read-right-now","The Best Analog Horror Stories",{"_37":2236,"_30":1030,"_1020":2237,"_75":2564},"dc1c7b0d40c1",{"_1023":2238,"_1032":223,"_1409":1410,"_1411":1412,"_105":-5,"_58":2562},[2239,2308,2379,2440,2504],{"_1887":1888,"_45":2240,"_75":2241,"_1891":2242,"_834":2243,"_1894":2244,"_1896":2245,"_1898":2246,"_1905":2250,"_1913":63,"_1914":2253,"_1920":2256,"_1942":2265,"_1945":2267,"_1947":2268,"_1949":2269,"_1950":2271},"gid://shopify/Product/9460832436465","Falling Like Leaves (B&N Exclusive Edition)","BN Exclusive","9798347121151","This Barnes & Noble Exclusive Edition includes shimmering foil on the cover and stunning four-color designed edges!A New York Times bestseller!Gilmore Girls meets Jenny Han in this “delightfully autumnal small-town romance” (Kirkus Reviews, starred review) about a city girl stuck in a quaint small town who must confront her future and her old flame while the town prepares for an annual fall festival.Ellis has a plan: spend her senior fall prepping her application for Columbia, get into their journalism program, and set the foundation for a respectable career. So when her parents announce that not only are they separating, but Ellis has to move with her mom from New York City to Bramble Falls, Connecticut, to live with her aunt and cousin, it couldn’t come at a worse time.From past summers spent in Connecticut, Ellis knows Bramble Falls is idyllic and charming. But it also seems to be full of distractions. There’s local barista Cooper Barnett, Ellis’s one-time best friend and first kiss who now wants nothing to do with Ellis. And then there’s the Falling Leaves Festival, a local autumnal celebration run by Ellis’s aunt where people from all over come to see Bramble Falls’s beautiful foliage. The house is stuffed with decorations, and every conversation seems to center around the festival.Dragged to every oh-so-charming event from apple picking to pumpkin carving, Ellis can’t stop bumping into Cooper...or falling for the quaint town and its quirky residents. As her return to Manhattan gets repeatedly delayed, Ellis finds herself caught between two very different places—and the futures they represent.","

This Barnes & Noble Exclusive Edition includes shimmering foil on the cover and stunning four-color designed edges!

A New York Times bestseller!

Gilmore Girls meets Jenny Han in this “delightfully autumnal small-town romance” (Kirkus Reviews, starred review) about a city girl stuck in a quaint small town who must confront her future and her old flame while the town prepares for an annual fall festival.

Ellis has a plan: spend her senior fall prepping her application for Columbia, get into their journalism program, and set the foundation for a respectable career. So when her parents announce that not only are they separating, but Ellis has to move with her mom from New York City to Bramble Falls, Connecticut, to live with her aunt and cousin, it couldn’t come at a worse time.

From past summers spent in Connecticut, Ellis knows Bramble Falls is idyllic and charming. But it also seems to be full of distractions. There’s local barista Cooper Barnett, Ellis’s one-time best friend and first kiss who now wants nothing to do with Ellis. And then there’s the Falling Leaves Festival, a local autumnal celebration run by Ellis’s aunt where people from all over come to see Bramble Falls’s beautiful foliage. The house is stuffed with decorations, and every conversation seems to center around the festival.

Dragged to every oh-so-charming event from apple picking to pumpkin carving, Ellis can’t stop bumping into Cooper...or falling for the quaint town and its quirky residents. As her return to Manhattan gets repeatedly delayed, Ellis finds herself caught between two very different places—and the futures they represent.

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Caviar is disgusting, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

Still, I roll the eggs around in my mouth as if they’re a fine wine, just like Dad told me to do before he abandoned me in the corner to go talk to one of the many white-haired men at this event. If I weren’t at the Street Media Corporation annual gala, I would spit it out in a heartbeat. But I can’t embarrass Dad by being the Girl Next to the Fake Plant Spitting Expensive Food into Her Napkin. So I let them sit in my mouth, hoping they’ll just dissolve so I don’t have to force them down.

A small band plays in the front of the sparkling room full of expensive dresses and tuxedos. Four couples make use of the hotel ballroom’s dance floor while the rest of the attendees either stand around mingling or sit at the tables adorned in white luxury linens and orchid centerpieces. Tonight’s gala is both a celebration of the company’s profitable past year and a networking event with potential investors. Everyone who’s anyone in New York City is here, dancing and laughing and meeting wealthy new faces.

And I am simply an intern lucky enough to have an important dad.

“Ah, you’ve found the rare delicacy,” Mr. Street says, startling me as he appears at my side. He nods at the caviar spoon in my hand. There’s no way I’m insulting the host of the party—not to mention the CEO and founder of the news conglomerate—so I swallow the melting eggs and shoot him a grin. Or what I hope looks like a grin.

“I have. They’re delicious,” I lie, holding back a gag.

“I hear you should press them against your soft palate to truly experience the buttery flavor and unique texture.” Mr. Street shakes his head. “Personally, I’ve never understood the appeal, but to each their own.”

You’ve got to be kidding.

I could have been standing here exchanging quippy lines about how repulsive these eggs are, and how everyone in the room is surely faking their enjoyment of them, but instead I’m one of the fakers.

I deflate at the missed networking opportunity.

“How has your internship been so far, Ms. Mitchell?” Mr. Street asks, the light from the crystal chandeliers reflecting off his kind brown eyes and balding head.

“It’s been great,” I tell him. “I’m learning so much.”

This is only half true. It’s hard to learn from lower-level journalists and content creators when I’ve grown up the daughter of Brad Mitchell, president of Street Media. I was five years old when Dad first taught me all about journalistic integrity and source anonymity. And although this is my first summer at the company in an official capacity, I’ve shadowed him the last two summers, learning the company ropes, interviewing techniques, how to write a compelling article, and how to recognize and filter bias. Dad says journalism is in my blood and that one day, when he retires, I’ll take his place. All I need is solid experience and the right contacts.

In other words, the Streets.

“That’s fantastic.” Mr. Street takes a sip from his champagne flute. “Have you worked on any assignments you’ve particularly loved?”

The highlight of my whole summer has been tagging along with a reporter covering the Model Icon Fashion Show, but I know better than to say that.

“I’ve really enjoyed dipping my toes into foreign affairs. Covering the European Parliament election and the situation in Ukraine has been really eye-opening.”

“Oh yes, your dad did mention your interest in overseas matters. Did you know I started out as a foreign-affairs reporter?”

I did know that, of course, because a good journalist does her homework.

“Oh wow. I had no idea,” I say, leaning in and feigning interest. “Do you have any good stories from those days? Or any wisdom to impart?”

“Now, Ellis,” I hear from behind me as my dad joins us, placing his hand on my shoulder, “you cannot monopolize Edward’s time tonight. As the host, he has too much schmoozing to do.”

Mr. Street chuckles. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid that is true, but perhaps we can all get lunch together next week.”

“I would love that,” I say.

“Check my calendar with Anita and get it set up, Brad. I have a feeling your daughter is going to do big things. Her passion simply emanates from her.” Mr. Street beams at me. “Go get yourself more caviar before it’s all gone, Ms. Mitchell.”

He heads toward a group of bigwigs in a heated debate, and Dad turns to me, his Work Smile shifting to his Dad Smile, a difference that is probably imperceptible to anyone else. His eyes linger on my shirt and his smile slips away.

“Is that one of your… creations?” he asks, disappointment dripping from each word.

I tug self-consciously at the fitted halter top that I made out of a thrifted oxford. The addition of one of Mom’s decorative cameo brooches and the floor-length silk Carolina Herrera skirt push it comfortably into black-tie territory, but Dad seems to think otherwise.

“It is…,” I confirm, now regretting not wearing something simpler.

“Well, it seems you made a good impression, regardless.”

I shrug. “I didn’t really say much of anything.”

“Did you bring up foreign affairs like we talked about?”

I nod. “I did.”

Dad winks at me. “Good going, kid. I’ll get lunch set up on Monday.” He points subtly to a curvy blond woman in her mid-thirties wearing a gorgeous gold dress. “Why don’t you go introduce yourself to Catherine Howe? She’s an executive producer at WorldNet Studios.”

Dad flashes his Work Smile at a group of old men across the room before leaving me standing alone in the corner again.

My phone buzzes in my clutch purse, and even though I shouldn’t, I take it out to check the message.

Foodie Fernie: hurry and finish up at that snooze fest. Party at my place! Jordan’s here ;)

I put my phone back into my purse and sigh. I’d love to ditch this stuffy gala and hang out with friends for a change. I’d love to show off my outfit to people who would actually care how cute I look tonight. But if I’m going to get into Columbia and then get a job at Street Media, I have to put in the work. I don’t have time for parties or boys or, lately, even my best friend.

So, I push my shoulders back, ignore my screaming feet, and head over to introduce myself to Catherine Howe.

Soft sunlight filters through my bedroom window as I lie on my stomach in bed, staring at the daunting Columbia application on my laptop. Outside, the soundtrack of the city plays on repeat—horns honking, a construction crew shouting, sirens blaring, pigeons cooing. Anxiety balloons in the space between my ribs as I enter my contact information—which is further than I got last time I opened the application.

Maybe I’m more nervous about college than I thought.

I click on the next section of the application and immediately bury my face in my plush white comforter. I don’t know why this is so stressful. I want this.

I lift my head back up, and my gaze falls on the other tab I have open: the FIT home page. Last year I took fashion merchandising as one of my electives at school, and my teacher suggested I look into the Fashion Institute of Technology, claiming I have a real aptitude for fashion. Of course, that’s not part of my life plan. Dad and I agree that journalism is a much more practical career path, and I’ve been working toward Columbia my whole life. But it won’t hurt to check out the FIT application—just to see what it entails.

I’m definitely not procrastinating on the Columbia application.

The website loads, and I click on the admissions page, a sense of calm washing over me, probably because it doesn’t represent my entire future or the pressure that comes with it.

I’m reading through the essay prompt—Tell us why you’re interested in fashion, including your experience and inspiration—when there’s a knock at my door.

“Come in!” I click on the portfolio requirements as Dad opens the door, his eyes tired and his posture slumped—a completely different person than he was last night at the gala. He trudges over to the bed and sits.

“What’s up?” I ask him. “Are you okay?”

“Your mom—” He stops as his gaze catches on my computer screen, and he narrows his eyes. My stomach plummets. “What are you looking at there? I thought we discussed this.”

“We did.” I close my laptop. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re very talented at designing clothes, Ellis, but we agreed that’s just a way to show Columbia that you have diversified interests.”

“I know. I was just looking. I figured it couldn’t hurt to apply to FIT as a backup school, though. Everyone applies to safety schools.”

“Uh-huh…” Dad nods slowly. Skeptically. “Well, keep your eye on the ball. Don’t let your hobbies distract you from what’s important. You have to be tenacious and focused if you’re going to be successful.”

“I know, Dad. I already started filling out the Columbia application. Don’t worry.”

Even if it was just my name and address.

“Good. Anyway, I came in here to tell you that your mom and I need to talk to you.” He stands and rubs the back of his neck. “She’s waiting for us in the living room.”

I draw my eyebrows together. Something is off. “Okay…”

I leave my computer on my bed and follow Dad to the living room, where Mom is sitting stiffly on the gray leather couch, wringing her hands and staring at the floor, her strawberry-blond hair pulled back in a messy bun. The dark circles under her eyes match Dad’s. Warning bells go off in my head.

She looks up when I sit on the sofa next to her. “Good morning, honey.”

“Morning…” I glance at Dad, who’s staring at the wall behind me. “What’s going on?”

“Well,” Mom begins, “we wanted to talk to you about something. I’m sure you’ve noticed that things between your dad and me have been…”

“Rough?” I supply.

“Exactly. Things have been rough lately. There’s no easy way to say this, but… we’ve decided to take some time apart.”

Panic seeps into my chest. “Are you getting a divorce?”

“No,” Dad says quickly.

Mom shoots him a glare, then settles her eyes on me. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

I shake my head. “Okay, well, I know you two have been fighting a lot, but can’t you work it out?”

“No, we can’t. Not this time,” Mom says. “But your aunt Naomi has some extra space at her house, and I think some time apart will be best for all of us.”

I look at Dad, hoping he’ll object. Hoping he’ll have some other solution. He always has a solution to everything.

But he only continues to stare at the wall, his jaw twitching.

“Dad? Say something. Do something.”

“There’s nothing to do, Ellis. The decision’s been made,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. Stubble shadows his face, and his hair looks as though he’s run his hand through it a hundred times. He looks defeated.

“It’ll be tough for the family not to be together, but we’ll get through it,” Mom says, offering a weak smile.

“How long will you be gone?” I ask.

Mom’s eyes widen a bit, some realization dawning on her. “Oh. Well, you’re coming with me to Bramble Falls.”

“What?” I stop breathing. “No, I’m not. School starts this week,” I remind her.

“You’ll go to school in Bramble Falls for a little while,” she says. “We’ll be back by Thanksgiving.”

“Absolutely not. I’m not starting at a new school. Dad, tell her.”

Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “Like I said, the decision’s been made, Ellis. You heard your mother.”

I stand, now hovering over Mom, who sits with her lips pressed tightly together, avoiding looking at me. “I’m not going to freaking Connecticut. You can’t make me leave my home and my friends and my school during my senior year! What about my commitments? I mean, I’m volunteering at the nursing home, and I’m still doing my internship at Street Media after school three days a week. And I’m finally the editor of the school newspaper this year! I’m sorry, but no. I can’t leave. Being here is imperative to my getting into Columbia. Why can’t I just stay with Dad?”

Mom finally looks at me, her face hard and unreadable. “This isn’t up for debate.” She stands. “We’re leaving first thing tomorrow morning, so you better go pack.”

“What? I don’t even get to say goodbye to Fern or give my jobs any notice? I’m supposed to have lunch with Mr. Street this week. Please, Mom, don’t do this.”

My heart thuds wildly and unshed tears blur my vision. I can’t believe this is happening.

“Staying isn’t an option,” she says, her eyes glassing over. “I’m sorry.”

I turn my back to her. “Dad, please,” I beg, walking over to him, blinking rapidly in my refusal to cry.

Dad pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head. “It’s only temporary, Ellis. Your internship will be waiting for you, okay? I’m sure Mr. Street would love to have lunch when you get back.”

I pull out of his arms, shaking my head in disbelief. How can he just let this happen?

I clench my teeth as my eyes dart between my parents. “I hate you both for doing this.”

“Ellis—”

My bare feet pound against the hardwood floor with each step toward my bedroom, cutting off whatever empty argument my mom was about to offer. I slam my door behind me and walk over to my window, where, finally, I let my tears zigzag freely down my cheeks.

Outside, the sun washes over the city. People go about their Saturday morning as if the whole world didn’t just flip upside down and catch fire. As if my whole life weren’t just upended. As if my whole future weren’t just crushed.

Until I started high school, my parents and I used to visit my aunt Naomi and my cousin Sloane every summer. So I already know what I’m walking into.

I already know there’s nothing for me in Bramble Falls, Connecticut.
\"},{\"id\":\"122996090T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Chapter One Chapter One
Caviar is disgusting, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

Still, I roll the eggs around in my mouth as if they’re a fine wine, just like Dad told me to do before he abandoned me in the corner to go talk to one of the many white-haired men at this event. If I weren’t at the Street Media Corporation annual gala, I would spit it out in a heartbeat. But I can’t embarrass Dad by being the Girl Next to the Fake Plant Spitting Expensive Food into Her Napkin. So I let them sit in my mouth, hoping they’ll just dissolve so I don’t have to force them down.

A small band plays in the front of the sparkling room full of expensive dresses and tuxedos. Four couples make use of the hotel ballroom’s dance floor while the rest of the attendees either stand around mingling or sit at the tables adorned in white luxury linens and orchid centerpieces. Tonight’s gala is both a celebration of the company’s profitable past year and a networking event with potential investors. Everyone who’s anyone in New York City is here, dancing and laughing and meeting wealthy new faces.

And I am simply an intern lucky enough to have an important dad.

“Ah, you’ve found the rare delicacy,” Mr. Street says, startling me as he appears at my side. He nods at the caviar spoon in my hand. There’s no way I’m insulting the host of the party—not to mention the CEO and founder of the news conglomerate—so I swallow the melting eggs and shoot him a grin. Or what I hope looks like a grin.

“I have. They’re delicious,” I lie, holding back a gag.

“I hear you should press them against your soft palate to truly experience the buttery flavor and unique texture.” Mr. Street shakes his head. “Personally, I’ve never understood the appeal, but to each their own.”

You’ve got to be kidding.

I could have been standing here exchanging quippy lines about how repulsive these eggs are, and how everyone in the room is surely faking their enjoyment of them, but instead I’m one of the fakers.

I deflate at the missed networking opportunity.

“How has your internship been so far, Ms. Mitchell?” Mr. Street asks, the light from the crystal chandeliers reflecting off his kind brown eyes and balding head.

“It’s been great,” I tell him. “I’m learning so much.”

This is only half true. It’s hard to learn from lower-level journalists and content creators when I’ve grown up the daughter of Brad Mitchell, president of Street Media. I was five years old when Dad first taught me all about journalistic integrity and source anonymity. And although this is my first summer at the company in an official capacity, I’ve shadowed him the last two summers, learning the company ropes, interviewing techniques, how to write a compelling article, and how to recognize and filter bias. Dad says journalism is in my blood and that one day, when he retires, I’ll take his place. All I need is solid experience and the right contacts.

In other words, the Streets.

“That’s fantastic.” Mr. Street takes a sip from his champagne flute. “Have you worked on any assignments you’ve particularly loved?”

The highlight of my whole summer has been tagging along with a reporter covering the Model Icon Fashion Show, but I know better than to say that.

“I’ve really enjoyed dipping my toes into foreign affairs. Covering the European Parliament election and the situation in Ukraine has been really eye-opening.”

“Oh yes, your dad did mention your interest in overseas matters. Did you know I started out as a foreign-affairs reporter?”

I did know that, of course, because a good journalist does her homework.

“Oh wow. I had no idea,” I say, leaning in and feigning interest. “Do you have any good stories from those days? Or any wisdom to impart?”

“Now, Ellis,” I hear from behind me as my dad joins us, placing his hand on my shoulder, “you cannot monopolize Edward’s time tonight. As the host, he has too much schmoozing to do.”

Mr. Street chuckles. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid that is true, but perhaps we can all get lunch together next week.”

“I would love that,” I say.

“Check my calendar with Anita and get it set up, Brad. I have a feeling your daughter is going to do big things. Her passion simply emanates from her.” Mr. Street beams at me. “Go get yourself more caviar before it’s all gone, Ms. Mitchell.”

He heads toward a group of bigwigs in a heated debate, and Dad turns to me, his Work Smile shifting to his Dad Smile, a difference that is probably imperceptible to anyone else. His eyes linger on my shirt and his smile slips away.

“Is that one of your… creations?” he asks, disappointment dripping from each word.

I tug self-consciously at the fitted halter top that I made out of a thrifted oxford. The addition of one of Mom’s decorative cameo brooches and the floor-length silk Carolina Herrera skirt push it comfortably into black-tie territory, but Dad seems to think otherwise.

“It is…,” I confirm, now regretting not wearing something simpler.

“Well, it seems you made a good impression, regardless.”

I shrug. “I didn’t really say much of anything.”

“Did you bring up foreign affairs like we talked about?”

I nod. “I did.”

Dad winks at me. “Good going, kid. I’ll get lunch set up on Monday.” He points subtly to a curvy blond woman in her mid-thirties wearing a gorgeous gold dress. “Why don’t you go introduce yourself to Catherine Howe? She’s an executive producer at WorldNet Studios.”

Dad flashes his Work Smile at a group of old men across the room before leaving me standing alone in the corner again.

My phone buzzes in my clutch purse, and even though I shouldn’t, I take it out to check the message.

Foodie Fernie: hurry and finish up at that snooze fest. Party at my place! Jordan’s here ;)

I put my phone back into my purse and sigh. I’d love to ditch this stuffy gala and hang out with friends for a change. I’d love to show off my outfit to people who would actually care how cute I look tonight. But if I’m going to get into Columbia and then get a job at Street Media, I have to put in the work. I don’t have time for parties or boys or, lately, even my best friend.

So, I push my shoulders back, ignore my screaming feet, and head over to introduce myself to Catherine Howe.

Soft sunlight filters through my bedroom window as I lie on my stomach in bed, staring at the daunting Columbia application on my laptop. Outside, the soundtrack of the city plays on repeat—horns honking, a construction crew shouting, sirens blaring, pigeons cooing. Anxiety balloons in the space between my ribs as I enter my contact information—which is further than I got last time I opened the application.

Maybe I’m more nervous about college than I thought.

I click on the next section of the application and immediately bury my face in my plush white comforter. I don’t know why this is so stressful. I want this.

I lift my head back up, and my gaze falls on the other tab I have open: the FIT home page. Last year I took fashion merchandising as one of my electives at school, and my teacher suggested I look into the Fashion Institute of Technology, claiming I have a real aptitude for fashion. Of course, that’s not part of my life plan. Dad and I agree that journalism is a much more practical career path, and I’ve been working toward Columbia my whole life. But it won’t hurt to check out the FIT application—just to see what it entails.

I’m definitely not procrastinating on the Columbia application.

The website loads, and I click on the admissions page, a sense of calm washing over me, probably because it doesn’t represent my entire future or the pressure that comes with it.

I’m reading through the essay prompt—Tell us why you’re interested in fashion, including your experience and inspiration—when there’s a knock at my door.

“Come in!” I click on the portfolio requirements as Dad opens the door, his eyes tired and his posture slumped—a completely different person than he was last night at the gala. He trudges over to the bed and sits.

“What’s up?” I ask him. “Are you okay?”

“Your mom—” He stops as his gaze catches on my computer screen, and he narrows his eyes. My stomach plummets. “What are you looking at there? I thought we discussed this.”

“We did.” I close my laptop. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re very talented at designing clothes, Ellis, but we agreed that’s just a way to show Columbia that you have diversified interests.”

“I know. I was just looking. I figured it couldn’t hurt to apply to FIT as a backup school, though. Everyone applies to safety schools.”

“Uh-huh…” Dad nods slowly. Skeptically. “Well, keep your eye on the ball. Don’t let your hobbies distract you from what’s important. You have to be tenacious and focused if you’re going to be successful.”

“I know, Dad. I already started filling out the Columbia application. Don’t worry.”

Even if it was just my name and address.

“Good. Anyway, I came in here to tell you that your mom and I need to talk to you.” He stands and rubs the back of his neck. “She’s waiting for us in the living room.”

I draw my eyebrows together. Something is off. “Okay…”

I leave my computer on my bed and follow Dad to the living room, where Mom is sitting stiffly on the gray leather couch, wringing her hands and staring at the floor, her strawberry-blond hair pulled back in a messy bun. The dark circles under her eyes match Dad’s. Warning bells go off in my head.

She looks up when I sit on the sofa next to her. “Good morning, honey.”

“Morning…” I glance at Dad, who’s staring at the wall behind me. “What’s going on?”

“Well,” Mom begins, “we wanted to talk to you about something. I’m sure you’ve noticed that things between your dad and me have been…”

“Rough?” I supply.

“Exactly. Things have been rough lately. There’s no easy way to say this, but… we’ve decided to take some time apart.”

Panic seeps into my chest. “Are you getting a divorce?”

“No,” Dad says quickly.

Mom shoots him a glare, then settles her eyes on me. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

I shake my head. “Okay, well, I know you two have been fighting a lot, but can’t you work it out?”

“No, we can’t. Not this time,” Mom says. “But your aunt Naomi has some extra space at her house, and I think some time apart will be best for all of us.”

I look at Dad, hoping he’ll object. Hoping he’ll have some other solution. He always has a solution to everything.

But he only continues to stare at the wall, his jaw twitching.

“Dad? Say something. Do something.”

“There’s nothing to do, Ellis. The decision’s been made,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. Stubble shadows his face, and his hair looks as though he’s run his hand through it a hundred times. He looks defeated.

“It’ll be tough for the family not to be together, but we’ll get through it,” Mom says, offering a weak smile.

“How long will you be gone?” I ask.

Mom’s eyes widen a bit, some realization dawning on her. “Oh. Well, you’re coming with me to Bramble Falls.”

“What?” I stop breathing. “No, I’m not. School starts this week,” I remind her.

“You’ll go to school in Bramble Falls for a little while,” she says. “We’ll be back by Thanksgiving.”

“Absolutely not. I’m not starting at a new school. Dad, tell her.”

Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “Like I said, the decision’s been made, Ellis. You heard your mother.”

I stand, now hovering over Mom, who sits with her lips pressed tightly together, avoiding looking at me. “I’m not going to freaking Connecticut. You can’t make me leave my home and my friends and my school during my senior year! What about my commitments? I mean, I’m volunteering at the nursing home, and I’m still doing my internship at Street Media after school three days a week. And I’m finally the editor of the school newspaper this year! I’m sorry, but no. I can’t leave. Being here is imperative to my getting into Columbia. Why can’t I just stay with Dad?”

Mom finally looks at me, her face hard and unreadable. “This isn’t up for debate.” She stands. “We’re leaving first thing tomorrow morning, so you better go pack.”

“What? I don’t even get to say goodbye to Fern or give my jobs any notice? I’m supposed to have lunch with Mr. Street this week. Please, Mom, don’t do this.”

My heart thuds wildly and unshed tears blur my vision. I can’t believe this is happening.

“Staying isn’t an option,” she says, her eyes glassing over. “I’m sorry.”

I turn my back to her. “Dad, please,” I beg, walking over to him, blinking rapidly in my refusal to cry.

Dad pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head. “It’s only temporary, Ellis. Your internship will be waiting for you, okay? I’m sure Mr. Street would love to have lunch when you get back.”

I pull out of his arms, shaking my head in disbelief. How can he just let this happen?

I clench my teeth as my eyes dart between my parents. “I hate you both for doing this.”

“Ellis—”

My bare feet pound against the hardwood floor with each step toward my bedroom, cutting off whatever empty argument my mom was about to offer. I slam my door behind me and walk over to my window, where, finally, I let my tears zigzag freely down my cheeks.

Outside, the sun washes over the city. People go about their Saturday morning as if the whole world didn’t just flip upside down and catch fire. As if my whole life weren’t just upended. As if my whole future weren’t just crushed.

Until I started high school, my parents and I used to visit my aunt Naomi and my cousin Sloane every summer. So I already know what I’m walking into.

I already know there’s nothing for me in Bramble Falls, Connecticut.
\"},{\"id\":\"122996094T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Chapter One Chapter One
Caviar is disgusting, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

Still, I roll the eggs around in my mouth as if they’re a fine wine, just like Dad told me to do before he abandoned me in the corner to go talk to one of the many white-haired men at this event. If I weren’t at the Street Media Corporation annual gala, I would spit it out in a heartbeat. But I can’t embarrass Dad by being the Girl Next to the Fake Plant Spitting Expensive Food into Her Napkin. So I let them sit in my mouth, hoping they’ll just dissolve so I don’t have to force them down.

A small band plays in the front of the sparkling room full of expensive dresses and tuxedos. Four couples make use of the hotel ballroom’s dance floor while the rest of the attendees either stand around mingling or sit at the tables adorned in white luxury linens and orchid centerpieces. Tonight’s gala is both a celebration of the company’s profitable past year and a networking event with potential investors. Everyone who’s anyone in New York City is here, dancing and laughing and meeting wealthy new faces.

And I am simply an intern lucky enough to have an important dad.

“Ah, you’ve found the rare delicacy,” Mr. Street says, startling me as he appears at my side. He nods at the caviar spoon in my hand. There’s no way I’m insulting the host of the party—not to mention the CEO and founder of the news conglomerate—so I swallow the melting eggs and shoot him a grin. Or what I hope looks like a grin.

“I have. They’re delicious,” I lie, holding back a gag.

“I hear you should press them against your soft palate to truly experience the buttery flavor and unique texture.” Mr. Street shakes his head. “Personally, I’ve never understood the appeal, but to each their own.”

You’ve got to be kidding.

I could have been standing here exchanging quippy lines about how repulsive these eggs are, and how everyone in the room is surely faking their enjoyment of them, but instead I’m one of the fakers.

I deflate at the missed networking opportunity.

“How has your internship been so far, Ms. Mitchell?” Mr. Street asks, the light from the crystal chandeliers reflecting off his kind brown eyes and balding head.

“It’s been great,” I tell him. “I’m learning so much.”

This is only half true. It’s hard to learn from lower-level journalists and content creators when I’ve grown up the daughter of Brad Mitchell, president of Street Media. I was five years old when Dad first taught me all about journalistic integrity and source anonymity. And although this is my first summer at the company in an official capacity, I’ve shadowed him the last two summers, learning the company ropes, interviewing techniques, how to write a compelling article, and how to recognize and filter bias. Dad says journalism is in my blood and that one day, when he retires, I’ll take his place. All I need is solid experience and the right contacts.

In other words, the Streets.

“That’s fantastic.” Mr. Street takes a sip from his champagne flute. “Have you worked on any assignments you’ve particularly loved?”

The highlight of my whole summer has been tagging along with a reporter covering the Model Icon Fashion Show, but I know better than to say that.

“I’ve really enjoyed dipping my toes into foreign affairs. Covering the European Parliament election and the situation in Ukraine has been really eye-opening.”

“Oh yes, your dad did mention your interest in overseas matters. Did you know I started out as a foreign-affairs reporter?”

I did know that, of course, because a good journalist does her homework.

“Oh wow. I had no idea,” I say, leaning in and feigning interest. “Do you have any good stories from those days? Or any wisdom to impart?”

“Now, Ellis,” I hear from behind me as my dad joins us, placing his hand on my shoulder, “you cannot monopolize Edward’s time tonight. As the host, he has too much schmoozing to do.”

Mr. Street chuckles. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid that is true, but perhaps we can all get lunch together next week.”

“I would love that,” I say.

“Check my calendar with Anita and get it set up, Brad. I have a feeling your daughter is going to do big things. Her passion simply emanates from her.” Mr. Street beams at me. “Go get yourself more caviar before it’s all gone, Ms. Mitchell.”

He heads toward a group of bigwigs in a heated debate, and Dad turns to me, his Work Smile shifting to his Dad Smile, a difference that is probably imperceptible to anyone else. His eyes linger on my shirt and his smile slips away.

“Is that one of your... creations?” he asks, disappointment dripping from each word.

I tug self-consciously at the fitted halter top that I made out of a thrifted oxford. The addition of one of Mom’s decorative cameo brooches and the floor-length silk Carolina Herrera skirt push it comfortably into black-tie territory, but Dad seems to think otherwise.

“It is...,” I confirm, now regretting not wearing something simpler.

“Well, it seems you made a good impression, regardless.”

I shrug. “I didn’t really say much of anything.”

“Did you bring up foreign affairs like we talked about?”

I nod. “I did.”

Dad winks at me. “Good going, kid. I’ll get lunch set up on Monday.” He points subtly to a curvy blond woman in her mid-thirties wearing a gorgeous gold dress. “Why don’t you go introduce yourself to Catherine Howe? She’s an executive producer at WorldNet Studios.”

Dad flashes his Work Smile at a group of old men across the room before leaving me standing alone in the corner again.

My phone buzzes in my clutch purse, and even though I shouldn’t, I take it out to check the message.

Foodie Fernie: hurry and finish up at that snooze fest. Party at my place! Jordan’s here ;)

I put my phone back into my purse and sigh. I’d love to ditch this stuffy gala and hang out with friends for a change. I’d love to show off my outfit to people who would actually care how cute I look tonight. But if I’m going to get into Columbia and then get a job at Street Media, I have to put in the work. I don’t have time for parties or boys or, lately, even my best friend.

So, I push my shoulders back, ignore my screaming feet, and head over to introduce myself to Catherine Howe.

Soft sunlight filters through my bedroom window as I lie on my stomach in bed, staring at the daunting Columbia application on my laptop. Outside, the soundtrack of the city plays on repeat—horns honking, a construction crew shouting, sirens blaring, pigeons cooing. Anxiety balloons in the space between my ribs as I enter my contact information—which is further than I got last time I opened the application.

Maybe I’m more nervous about college than I thought.

I click on the next section of the application and immediately bury my face in my plush white comforter. I don’t know why this is so stressful. I want this.

I lift my head back up, and my gaze falls on the other tab I have open: the FIT home page. Last year I took fashion merchandising as one of my electives at school, and my teacher suggested I look into the Fashion Institute of Technology, claiming I have a real aptitude for fashion. Of course, that’s not part of my life plan. Dad and I agree that journalism is a much more practical career path, and I’ve been working toward Columbia my whole life. But it won’t hurt to check out the FIT application—just to see what it entails.

I’m definitely not procrastinating on the Columbia application.

The website loads, and I click on the admissions page, a sense of calm washing over me, probably because it doesn’t represent my entire future or the pressure that comes with it.

I’m reading through the essay prompt—Tell us why you’re interested in fashion, including your experience and inspiration—when there’s a knock at my door.

“Come in!” I click on the portfolio requirements as Dad opens the door, his eyes tired and his posture slumped—a completely different person than he was last night at the gala. He trudges over to the bed and sits.

“What’s up?” I ask him. “Are you okay?”

“Your mom—” He stops as his gaze catches on my computer screen, and he narrows his eyes. My stomach plummets. “What are you looking at there? I thought we discussed this.”

“We did.” I close my laptop. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re very talented at designing clothes, Ellis, but we agreed that’s just a way to show Columbia that you have diversified interests.”

“I know. I was just looking. I figured it couldn’t hurt to apply to FIT as a backup school, though. Everyone applies to safety schools.”

“Uh-huh...” Dad nods slowly. Skeptically. “Well, keep your eye on the ball. Don’t let your hobbies distract you from what’s important. You have to be tenacious and focused if you’re going to be successful.”

“I know, Dad. I already started filling out the Columbia application. Don’t worry.”

Even if it was just my name and address.

“Good. Anyway, I came in here to tell you that your mom and I need to talk to you.” He stands and rubs the back of his neck. “She’s waiting for us in the living room.”

I draw my eyebrows together. Something is off. “Okay...”

I leave my computer on my bed and follow Dad to the living room, where Mom is sitting stiffly on the gray leather couch, wringing her hands and staring at the floor, her strawberry-blond hair pulled back in a messy bun. The dark circles under her eyes match Dad’s. Warning bells go off in my head.

She looks up when I sit on the sofa next to her. “Good morning, honey.”

“Morning...” I glance at Dad, who’s staring at the wall behind me. “What’s going on?”

“Well,” Mom begins, “we wanted to talk to you about something. I’m sure you’ve noticed that things between your dad and me have been...”

“Rough?” I supply.

“Exactly. Things have been rough lately. There’s no easy way to say this, but... we’ve decided to take some time apart.”

Panic seeps into my chest. “Are you getting a divorce?”

“No,” Dad says quickly.

Mom shoots him a glare, then settles her eyes on me. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

I shake my head. “Okay, well, I know you two have been fighting a lot, but can’t you work it out?”

“No, we can’t. Not this time,” Mom says. “But your aunt Naomi has some extra space at her house, and I think some time apart will be best for all of us.”

I look at Dad, hoping he’ll object. Hoping he’ll have some other solution. He always has a solution to everything.

But he only continues to stare at the wall, his jaw twitching.

“Dad? Say something. Do something.”

“There’s nothing to do, Ellis. The decision’s been made,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. Stubble shadows his face, and his hair looks as though he’s run his hand through it a hundred times. He looks defeated.

“It’ll be tough for the family not to be together, but we’ll get through it,” Mom says, offering a weak smile.

“How long will you be gone?” I ask.

Mom’s eyes widen a bit, some realization dawning on her. “Oh. Well, you’re coming with me to Bramble Falls.”

“What?” I stop breathing. “No, I’m not. School starts this week,” I remind her.

“You’ll go to school in Bramble Falls for a little while,” she says. “We’ll be back by Thanksgiving.”

“Absolutely not. I’m not starting at a new school. Dad, tell her.”

Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “Like I said, the decision’s been made, Ellis. You heard your mother.”

I stand, now hovering over Mom, who sits with her lips pressed tightly together, avoiding looking at me. “I’m not going to freaking Connecticut. You can’t make me leave my home and my friends and my school during my senior year! What about my commitments? I mean, I’m volunteering at the nursing home, and I’m still doing my internship at Street Media after school three days a week. And I’m finally the editor of the school newspaper this year! I’m sorry, but no. I can’t leave. Being here is imperative to my getting into Columbia. Why can’t I just stay with Dad?”

Mom finally looks at me, her face hard and unreadable. “This isn’t up for debate.” She stands. “We’re leaving first thing tomorrow morning, so you better go pack.”

“What? I don’t even get to say goodbye to Fern or give my jobs any notice? I’m supposed to have lunch with Mr. Street this week. Please, Mom, don’t do this.”

My heart thuds wildly and unshed tears blur my vision. I can’t believe this is happening.

“Staying isn’t an option,” she says, her eyes glassing over. “I’m sorry.”

I turn my back to her. “Dad, please,” I beg, walking over to him, blinking rapidly in my refusal to cry.

Dad pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head. “It’s only temporary, Ellis. Your internship will be waiting for you, okay? I’m sure Mr. Street would love to have lunch when you get back.”

I pull out of his arms, shaking my head in disbelief. How can he just let this happen?

I clench my teeth as my eyes dart between my parents. “I hate you both for doing this.”

“Ellis—”

My bare feet pound against the hardwood floor with each step toward my bedroom, cutting off whatever empty argument my mom was about to offer. I slam my door behind me and walk over to my window, where, finally, I let my tears zigzag freely down my cheeks.

Outside, the sun washes over the city. People go about their Saturday morning as if the whole world didn’t just flip upside down and catch fire. As if my whole life weren’t just upended. As if my whole future weren’t just crushed.

Until I started high school, my parents and I used to visit my aunt Naomi and my cousin Sloane every summer. So I already know what I’m walking into.

I already know there’s nothing for me in Bramble Falls, Connecticut.
\"},{\"id\":\"122996092T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Chapter One Chapter One
Caviar is disgusting, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

Still, I roll the eggs around in my mouth as if they’re a fine wine, just like Dad told me to do before he abandoned me in the corner to go talk to one of the many white-haired men at this event. If I weren’t at the Street Media Corporation annual gala, I would spit it out in a heartbeat. But I can’t embarrass Dad by being the Girl Next to the Fake Plant Spitting Expensive Food into Her Napkin. So I let them sit in my mouth, hoping they’ll just dissolve so I don’t have to force them down.

A small band plays in the front of the sparkling room full of expensive dresses and tuxedos. Four couples make use of the hotel ballroom’s dance floor while the rest of the attendees either stand around mingling or sit at the tables adorned in white luxury linens and orchid centerpieces. Tonight’s gala is both a celebration of the company’s profitable past year and a networking event with potential investors. Everyone who’s anyone in New York City is here, dancing and laughing and meeting wealthy new faces.

And I am simply an intern lucky enough to have an important dad.

“Ah, you’ve found the rare delicacy,” Mr. Street says, startling me as he appears at my side. He nods at the caviar spoon in my hand. There’s no way I’m insulting the host of the party—not to mention the CEO and founder of the news conglomerate—so I swallow the melting eggs and shoot him a grin. Or what I hope looks like a grin.

“I have. They’re delicious,” I lie, holding back a gag.

“I hear you should press them against your soft palate to truly experience the buttery flavor and unique texture.” Mr. Street shakes his head. “Personally, I’ve never understood the appeal, but to each their own.”

You’ve got to be kidding.

I could have been standing here exchanging quippy lines about how repulsive these eggs are, and how everyone in the room is surely faking their enjoyment of them, but instead I’m one of the fakers.

I deflate at the missed networking opportunity.

“How has your internship been so far, Ms. Mitchell?” Mr. Street asks, the light from the crystal chandeliers reflecting off his kind brown eyes and balding head.

“It’s been great,” I tell him. “I’m learning so much.”

This is only half true. It’s hard to learn from lower-level journalists and content creators when I’ve grown up the daughter of Brad Mitchell, president of Street Media. I was five years old when Dad first taught me all about journalistic integrity and source anonymity. And although this is my first summer at the company in an official capacity, I’ve shadowed him the last two summers, learning the company ropes, interviewing techniques, how to write a compelling article, and how to recognize and filter bias. Dad says journalism is in my blood and that one day, when he retires, I’ll take his place. All I need is solid experience and the right contacts.

In other words, the Streets.

“That’s fantastic.” Mr. Street takes a sip from his champagne flute. “Have you worked on any assignments you’ve particularly loved?”

The highlight of my whole summer has been tagging along with a reporter covering the Model Icon Fashion Show, but I know better than to say that.

“I’ve really enjoyed dipping my toes into foreign affairs. Covering the European Parliament election and the situation in Ukraine has been really eye-opening.”

“Oh yes, your dad did mention your interest in overseas matters. Did you know I started out as a foreign-affairs reporter?”

I did know that, of course, because a good journalist does her homework.

“Oh wow. I had no idea,” I say, leaning in and feigning interest. “Do you have any good stories from those days? Or any wisdom to impart?”

“Now, Ellis,” I hear from behind me as my dad joins us, placing his hand on my shoulder, “you cannot monopolize Edward’s time tonight. As the host, he has too much schmoozing to do.”

Mr. Street chuckles. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid that is true, but perhaps we can all get lunch together next week.”

“I would love that,” I say.

“Check my calendar with Anita and get it set up, Brad. I have a feeling your daughter is going to do big things. Her passion simply emanates from her.” Mr. Street beams at me. “Go get yourself more caviar before it’s all gone, Ms. Mitchell.”

He heads toward a group of bigwigs in a heated debate, and Dad turns to me, his Work Smile shifting to his Dad Smile, a difference that is probably imperceptible to anyone else. His eyes linger on my shirt and his smile slips away.

“Is that one of your... creations?” he asks, disappointment dripping from each word.

I tug self-consciously at the fitted halter top that I made out of a thrifted oxford. The addition of one of Mom’s decorative cameo brooches and the floor-length silk Carolina Herrera skirt push it comfortably into black-tie territory, but Dad seems to think otherwise.

“It is...,” I confirm, now regretting not wearing something simpler.

“Well, it seems you made a good impression, regardless.”

I shrug. “I didn’t really say much of anything.”

“Did you bring up foreign affairs like we talked about?”

I nod. “I did.”

Dad winks at me. “Good going, kid. I’ll get lunch set up on Monday.” He points subtly to a curvy blond woman in her mid-thirties wearing a gorgeous gold dress. “Why don’t you go introduce yourself to Catherine Howe? She’s an executive producer at WorldNet Studios.”

Dad flashes his Work Smile at a group of old men across the room before leaving me standing alone in the corner again.

My phone buzzes in my clutch purse, and even though I shouldn’t, I take it out to check the message.

Foodie Fernie: hurry and finish up at that snooze fest. Party at my place! Jordan’s here ;)

I put my phone back into my purse and sigh. I’d love to ditch this stuffy gala and hang out with friends for a change. I’d love to show off my outfit to people who would actually care how cute I look tonight. But if I’m going to get into Columbia and then get a job at Street Media, I have to put in the work. I don’t have time for parties or boys or, lately, even my best friend.

So, I push my shoulders back, ignore my screaming feet, and head over to introduce myself to Catherine Howe.

Soft sunlight filters through my bedroom window as I lie on my stomach in bed, staring at the daunting Columbia application on my laptop. Outside, the soundtrack of the city plays on repeat—horns honking, a construction crew shouting, sirens blaring, pigeons cooing. Anxiety balloons in the space between my ribs as I enter my contact information—which is further than I got last time I opened the application.

Maybe I’m more nervous about college than I thought.

I click on the next section of the application and immediately bury my face in my plush white comforter. I don’t know why this is so stressful. I want this.

I lift my head back up, and my gaze falls on the other tab I have open: the FIT home page. Last year I took fashion merchandising as one of my electives at school, and my teacher suggested I look into the Fashion Institute of Technology, claiming I have a real aptitude for fashion. Of course, that’s not part of my life plan. Dad and I agree that journalism is a much more practical career path, and I’ve been working toward Columbia my whole life. But it won’t hurt to check out the FIT application—just to see what it entails.

I’m definitely not procrastinating on the Columbia application.

The website loads, and I click on the admissions page, a sense of calm washing over me, probably because it doesn’t represent my entire future or the pressure that comes with it.

I’m reading through the essay prompt—Tell us why you’re interested in fashion, including your experience and inspiration—when there’s a knock at my door.

“Come in!” I click on the portfolio requirements as Dad opens the door, his eyes tired and his posture slumped—a completely different person than he was last night at the gala. He trudges over to the bed and sits.

“What’s up?” I ask him. “Are you okay?”

“Your mom—” He stops as his gaze catches on my computer screen, and he narrows his eyes. My stomach plummets. “What are you looking at there? I thought we discussed this.”

“We did.” I close my laptop. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re very talented at designing clothes, Ellis, but we agreed that’s just a way to show Columbia that you have diversified interests.”

“I know. I was just looking. I figured it couldn’t hurt to apply to FIT as a backup school, though. Everyone applies to safety schools.”

“Uh-huh...” Dad nods slowly. Skeptically. “Well, keep your eye on the ball. Don’t let your hobbies distract you from what’s important. You have to be tenacious and focused if you’re going to be successful.”

“I know, Dad. I already started filling out the Columbia application. Don’t worry.”

Even if it was just my name and address.

“Good. Anyway, I came in here to tell you that your mom and I need to talk to you.” He stands and rubs the back of his neck. “She’s waiting for us in the living room.”

I draw my eyebrows together. Something is off. “Okay...”

I leave my computer on my bed and follow Dad to the living room, where Mom is sitting stiffly on the gray leather couch, wringing her hands and staring at the floor, her strawberry-blond hair pulled back in a messy bun. The dark circles under her eyes match Dad’s. Warning bells go off in my head.

She looks up when I sit on the sofa next to her. “Good morning, honey.”

“Morning...” I glance at Dad, who’s staring at the wall behind me. “What’s going on?”

“Well,” Mom begins, “we wanted to talk to you about something. I’m sure you’ve noticed that things between your dad and me have been...”

“Rough?” I supply.

“Exactly. Things have been rough lately. There’s no easy way to say this, but... we’ve decided to take some time apart.”

Panic seeps into my chest. “Are you getting a divorce?”

“No,” Dad says quickly.

Mom shoots him a glare, then settles her eyes on me. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

I shake my head. “Okay, well, I know you two have been fighting a lot, but can’t you work it out?”

“No, we can’t. Not this time,” Mom says. “But your aunt Naomi has some extra space at her house, and I think some time apart will be best for all of us.”

I look at Dad, hoping he’ll object. Hoping he’ll have some other solution. He always has a solution to everything.

But he only continues to stare at the wall, his jaw twitching.

“Dad? Say something. Do something.”

“There’s nothing to do, Ellis. The decision’s been made,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. Stubble shadows his face, and his hair looks as though he’s run his hand through it a hundred times. He looks defeated.

“It’ll be tough for the family not to be together, but we’ll get through it,” Mom says, offering a weak smile.

“How long will you be gone?” I ask.

Mom’s eyes widen a bit, some realization dawning on her. “Oh. Well, you’re coming with me to Bramble Falls.”

“What?” I stop breathing. “No, I’m not. School starts this week,” I remind her.

“You’ll go to school in Bramble Falls for a little while,” she says. “We’ll be back by Thanksgiving.”

“Absolutely not. I’m not starting at a new school. Dad, tell her.”

Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. “Like I said, the decision’s been made, Ellis. You heard your mother.”

I stand, now hovering over Mom, who sits with her lips pressed tightly together, avoiding looking at me. “I’m not going to freaking Connecticut. You can’t make me leave my home and my friends and my school during my senior year! What about my commitments? I mean, I’m volunteering at the nursing home, and I’m still doing my internship at Street Media after school three days a week. And I’m finally the editor of the school newspaper this year! I’m sorry, but no. I can’t leave. Being here is imperative to my getting into Columbia. Why can’t I just stay with Dad?”

Mom finally looks at me, her face hard and unreadable. “This isn’t up for debate.” She stands. “We’re leaving first thing tomorrow morning, so you better go pack.”

“What? I don’t even get to say goodbye to Fern or give my jobs any notice? I’m supposed to have lunch with Mr. Street this week. Please, Mom, don’t do this.”

My heart thuds wildly and unshed tears blur my vision. I can’t believe this is happening.

“Staying isn’t an option,” she says, her eyes glassing over. “I’m sorry.”

I turn my back to her. “Dad, please,” I beg, walking over to him, blinking rapidly in my refusal to cry.

Dad pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head. “It’s only temporary, Ellis. Your internship will be waiting for you, okay? I’m sure Mr. Street would love to have lunch when you get back.”

I pull out of his arms, shaking my head in disbelief. How can he just let this happen?

I clench my teeth as my eyes dart between my parents. “I hate you both for doing this.”

“Ellis—”

My bare feet pound against the hardwood floor with each step toward my bedroom, cutting off whatever empty argument my mom was about to offer. I slam my door behind me and walk over to my window, where, finally, I let my tears zigzag freely down my cheeks.

Outside, the sun washes over the city. People go about their Saturday morning as if the whole world didn’t just flip upside down and catch fire. As if my whole life weren’t just upended. As if my whole future weren’t just crushed.

Until I started high school, my parents and I used to visit my aunt Naomi and my cousin Sloane every summer. So I already know what I’m walking into.

I already know there’s nothing for me in Bramble Falls, Connecticut.
\"},{\"id\":\"129875280T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Ellis and her mom move from NYC to the charming Connecticut town of Bramble Falls, where small-town romance swirls like autumn leaves falling into place.

\"},{\"id\":\"122996101T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Misty Wilson is the New York Times bestselling author of the Bramble Falls series and Play Like a Girl, her award-winning debut middle grade graphic memoir. Misty is a teacher, registered nurse, and a voracious reader. She loves binge-watching television series and adores rom-coms. She lives in Northeast Ohio with her husband and their two daughters.

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This Barnes & Noble Exclusive Edition includes colored endpapers and a deleted scene.

#1 New York Times bestselling author Richard Osman's globe-trotting series \"We Solve Murders\" returns with the thrilling new mystery, We Chase Shadows.

Back together.
Back on the case.
And back to solving murders . . .

At sunrise, high in the Italian hills, a body is found on the steps of a beautiful private villa. On the body is a threatening note, signed by a mystery man.

Back at We Solve Murders HQ, Amy, Rosie, and Steve leap at the chance to take on their first proper case. So what if their new client seems to have his own reasons for avoiding the police? All they need to do is uncover who left the note, and then find them. Simple.

But once they start digging, the suspects keep piling up: there’s Sweden’s most-wanted criminal, a canny ex-wife and a fierce business rival – yet the murderer keeps evading them. And as the trio chase a villain through the shadows, danger travels closer to home . . .

Between Italy and Palm Springs, via Barcelona and Steve’s village pub, can the team catch an elusive killer who knows EXACTLY where to hide?

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Another killer, another case for our favorite mismatched detective trio. From the author of The Thursday Murder Club comes the next book in the delightful We Solve Murders series.

\"},{\"id\":\"124181500T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Richard Osman is an author and television presenter. His novels, The Thursday Murder Club, The Man Who Died Twice, The Bullet That Missed, The Last Devil to Die, and We Solve Murders were number one international bestsellers as well as New York Times bestsellers. He lives in London with his wife, Ingrid, and their cats Liesl and Lottie. The movie adaptation for The Thursday Murder Club released in 2025, produced by Amblin Entertainment.

\"}]",{"_45":2360,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":2361},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76920506056945","We-Chase-Shadows/Richard-Osman",{"_45":2363,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":2364},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76920504811761","1149558715",{"_45":2366,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76920505729265",{"_45":2368,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":2336},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76920506351857",{"_45":2370,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":2311},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76920503697649",{"_45":2372,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76920505827569",{"_45":2374,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":2375},"gid://shopify/Metafield/92830413258993","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.3\"}",{"_45":2377,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":2378},"gid://shopify/Metafield/83526539837681","27",{"_1887":1888,"_45":2380,"_75":2381,"_1891":2004,"_834":2382,"_1894":2383,"_1896":2384,"_1898":2385,"_1905":2388,"_1913":63,"_1914":2391,"_1920":2394,"_1942":2404,"_1945":2406,"_1947":2407,"_1949":-5,"_1950":2408},"gid://shopify/Product/8871832027377","People Watching: A Fall Romance","9780593871881","NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER * In this sexy and emotional romance from the acclaimed author of Out of the Woods and Out on a Limb, a small-town woman's journey to spread her wings intertwines with the arrival of an adventurous newcomer who brings out the best in her.Prudence Welch has found solace in her introverted life in Baysville, a charming tourist town in Northern Ontario. Despite once dreaming of a life beyond its borders, she now finds contentment in her routines: working at her father's gas station, writing poetry, and caring for her mother, who was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's disease shortly after Prue's nineteenth birthday. But as her mother's condition worsens and her father's concerns about her own future intensify, Prue feels her world slipping further out of control.Enter Milo Kablukov, an enigmatic wanderer whose beat-up van covered with ill-advised bumper stickers rolls into town just when Prue needs a change. It's all too easy to let go with him, and Prue can't help but strike up an unlikely friendship with Milo, which leads to a wild and sexy agreement between them.Milo, a man of many adventures and countless stories, is not one to settle down. However, his brother's urgent need for help has brought him to Baysville, and now the intriguing Prue has given him more reason to stay-especially once they start spending more time together, their chemistry intensifying, and casual-sex lessons begin at Prue's request.But as their temporary arrangement blossoms into something deeper, Prue and Milo discover that getting out of their comfort zones is one thing . . . taking that leap together is something else entirely.","NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER * In this sexy and emotional romance from the acclaimed author of Out of the Woods and Out on a Limb, a small-town woman's journey to spread her wings intertwines with the arrival of an adventurous newcomer who brings out the best in her.

Prudence Welch has found solace in her introverted life in Baysville, a charming tourist town in Northern Ontario. Despite once dreaming of a life beyond its borders, she now finds contentment in her routines: working at her father's gas station, writing poetry, and caring for her mother, who was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer's disease shortly after Prue's nineteenth birthday. But as her mother's condition worsens and her father's concerns about her own future intensify, Prue feels her world slipping further out of control.

Enter Milo Kablukov, an enigmatic wanderer whose beat-up van covered with ill-advised bumper stickers rolls into town just when Prue needs a change. It's all too easy to let go with him, and Prue can't help but strike up an unlikely friendship with Milo, which leads to a wild and sexy agreement between them.

Milo, a man of many adventures and countless stories, is not one to settle down. However, his brother's urgent need for help has brought him to Baysville, and now the intriguing Prue has given him more reason to stay-especially once they start spending more time together, their chemistry intensifying, and casual-sex lessons begin at Prue's request.

But as their temporary arrangement blossoms into something deeper, Prue and Milo discover that getting out of their comfort zones is one thing . . . taking that leap together is something else entirely.",{"_45":2386,"_58":2387,"_60":2186,"_54":2012,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47563456643313","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593871881_p0.jpg?v=1768967758",{"_1907":2389},{"_1909":2390,"_1911":1912},"16.0",{"_1907":2392,"_1918":2393},{"_1909":2015,"_1911":1912},{"_1909":2015,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":2395},[2396],{"_45":2397,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":2398,"_714":2399,"_1930":2400,"_1932":2401,"_1934":2402,"_1940":2382,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46272399769841",{"_1909":2015,"_1911":1912},{"_45":2386,"_58":2387,"_1904":-5,"_60":2186,"_54":2012},{"_1909":2390,"_1911":1912},{"_75":2381,"_834":2382},[2403],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":2405},"[\"BADGE - $3 OFF (p7877)\",\"B|$3 Off|#DD2A27|#701F15 (p7847)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"Retail Price fixing (p261)\"]",{"_1938":2382},{"_1938":2004},[2409,-5,-5,2412,2414,-5,2416,2418,2421,2424,2427,-5,2429,2431,-5,2433,2435,2437],{"_45":2410,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":2411},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879728263409","[{\"contributorId\":29355959,\"fullName\":\"Hannah Bonam-Young\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":2413,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879730458865",{"_45":2415,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879727706353",{"_45":2417,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":2041},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879730655473",{"_45":2419,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":2420},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879732261105","[{\"id\":\"127114454T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"One

Milo

\\\"Please, Bertha, baby, I am begging you,\\\" I say, tightening my hands around the shuddering steering wheel. There's not another living soul in sight. No one to witness our inevitable crash and burn if Bertha decides to call it quits and send us rolling backward down the hill. On this Muskoka backroad it's just me, Bertha, the black tar pavement under us, the gray storm clouds above us, the granite outcropping bordering either side of the road, and, as always, the bobblehead Jesus on my dash.

\\\"I swear to everything good and holy that if you make it over this hill, I'll never ask you for anything ever again.\\\" She sputters, and I grit my teeth waiting for the backward roll. \\\"If we make it to town,\\\" I plead, each syllable equal parts pathetic and desperate, \\\"I'll fill you up with premium fuel and let you rest for a week.\\\" The tires jolt, forcing my hands on the wheel to fight for control. \\\"Okay, okay! Two weeks. I promise.\\\"

My beloved van's speedometer is broken, as is most of her, but the temperature gauge isn't, unfortunately. The needle is fluctuating between you're beyond f***ed and are you on fire yet?

\\\"C'mon, old girl, don't quit on me now. Not yet. Don't you want to go home again?\\\" Though I cannot help but think that my death would probably save me from this familial obligation. Maybe Bertha is taking care of me, just as she has for the past decade, and death is the lesser of these two evils.

The sound of metal grinding against metal, an irritating high-pitched squealing, is her answer. Then, the choking of an engine, like the mechanical equivalent of a smoker's cough, which is never a good sign. I prepare my final words, taking a deep breath as the car slows to a stop a few feet shy of the top of the hill.

Well, this is it, I think to myself. I wonder what my obituary will read, if anyone bothers to write one. If it was up to me it would say: Milo Kablukov, 28, was a nomadic slut, childhood sheep farmer, and wannabe artist with a heart of gold and a penis that launched a thousand ships.

Just as I'm about to say my final goodbyes to this mortal plane, Bertha kicks back to life, taking us over the edge of the hilltop and onto flattened road. I open my eyes, having closed them while bracing for disaster.

\\\"Whew, baby!\\\" I shake my limbs free of tension as I adjust position in my seat and toss back my hair. \\\"You little tease,\\\" I say, petting the dashboard. I make a turn onto a backroad toward the train station with a flat palm on the wheel and slow my speed to give Bertha a rest. \\\"You really had my heart racing that time, gorgeous,\\\" I tell her, releasing the last of my tension in a languid breath.

Other than my younger sister, Nadia, Bertha has been the only consistent woman in my life since I got the f*** out of my hometown of Dorset, Ontario, the day after my eighteenth birthday. The town slogan, if it were up to me, would be: Dorset: Where the sheep outnumber the people.

I won't be returning there any time soon. My brother, my summoner, has set up home a few towns over. Somewhere just as boring, no doubt, but far enough away from Sonia and Andrei Kablukov-good old Mom and Pop-that my brother would even dare to ask Nadia and me to come to his rescue.

I pull up in front of the small white building that is technically a train station but looks more like an old cottage. \\\"There she is!\\\" I shout as I wheel the passenger window all the way down. \\\"Nadia motherf***in' Kablukov in the flesh!\\\"

My sister, who perpetually chews gum on one side of her mouth, smirks as she rolls her eyes. \\\"You're late.\\\" She leans into the window, tapping the inside of the passenger door. \\\"Hi, Bertha baby, you're looking as shitty as ever.\\\"

\\\"You look older again,\\\" I point out, scowling at her. \\\"You should really stop doing that.\\\"

\\\"Aging?\\\" she clarifies.

I nod.

\\\"Charming . . .\\\" She assesses me, or at least what she can see of me from the window, with a curious, wry grin.

I look her over too, in the habitual, almost subconscious way I always have. Searching for the scrapes, burns, and bruises, and hoping to find none. Nadia has always been equal parts stubborn and prideful, discontent to be the youngest of us three siblings. Which meant she got hurt trying to do things above her paygrade a lot.

At four, she tried to make her own breakfast, and I helped ice the burn from her run-in with the frying pan. At nine, she climbed up to the roof to fix the TV antenna, and I fixed the eaves trough she broke on her way down and bandaged up her ankle. At twelve, she tried to teach herself to drive Dad's tractor, and I mended the broken fence and her hand from the splinter she'd gotten trying to repair it herself. Then, there were all the many nights that she'd sneak into my room when Mom and Dad were screaming at each other, and I'd let her pretend it was for my sake, not hers.

Now, instead of looking for scraped-up limbs, I look at her eyes. I try and judge how much weight they're holding. I attempt to measure the dark circles underneath as if they were rings on a tree stump, as if age and sleepless nights could be measured in the same way.

Nadia's hair is back to its original black color and rests just above her jaw in a straight, sharp line. She's gained some weight back, which I'm relieved to notice, but not enough. She was way, way too thin for a while there. She joked that she was too busy to eat all the while finding the time to smoke her way through a pack of cigarettes a day.

I'm not judging-all three of us siblings have our vices, our own unhealthy way of surviving our f***ed-up childhood-I just hated seeing her look weak when she is far, far from it.

So maybe it's her hair, or the extra few pounds she's gained back, or the fewer rings under her eyes, or the less jittery way that she stands on the curb allowing me the chance to look her over-but she does look older. It settles me and somehow makes me uneasy at the same time. She's doing better, but I didn't know that until now. And when was the last time I had asked my little sister how life was treating her?

I need to be better at asking.

\\\"You look great, зайка.\\\" Зайка, or bunny in Russian, is what Nik, our older brother, started calling Nadia from birth. She had these huge, chubby cheeks as a baby that reminded him of his favorite animal at the time; the ones he'd sneak food to that lived under my parents' barn. \\\"You just look different, that's all.\\\"

\\\"Well . . . You were gone a long time. Again,\\\" she replies, quirking an arched brow.

I unbuckle the seatbelt, but don't turn off the engine before getting out of the driver's seat. Truthfully, I don't know if I could get Bertha to start back up again and there's no way I could afford to get a tow truck.

\\\"Get over here,\\\" I request, opening my arms wide for her as I approach. Nadia, stiff as a board, welcomes my hug in a literal sense by stepping toward me, but keeps her arms firmly at her sides. \\\"I missed you,\\\" I say over the top of her head. She mumbles something that sounds like uh-huh into my chest. I squeeze tighter before releasing her.

I reach toward the ground for one of her oversized khaki duffel bags. \\\"What's in here?\\\" I say, throwing it over my shoulder before reaching for the other one. \\\"This has to be at least fifty pounds.\\\" I pick up the second bag. \\\"Each!\\\"

\\\"That, dear brother, is everything I own. Minus the lamp that came with my apartment, which is somehow controlled by the upstairs tenant. Or, at least, I hope that's who is turning it on and off all day.\\\"

I walk toward the back of the van, and she follows closely. \\\"Toronto sounds . . . fun.\\\"

\\\"For sure.\\\" I catch her smiling softly at the back doors of the van as I struggle to open the right rear door. Much like my own skin, Bertha's outer shell is covered in memories, mistakes, and inspirational scribblings. \\\"I see you're still collecting these . . .\\\" She taps on a bumper sticker, one of many, then underlines the words with her finger. \\\"My other ride is your mother,\\\" she reads, firing an entirely unconvincing disapproving stare my way. \\\"Real classy.\\\"

I smile widely at her in response, flashing all my teeth as I manage to pry open the door with a grunt of effort. \\\"I have the father version of that one too,\\\" I say, gesturing to the hundreds of other stickers decorating the entire surface of the doors. I toss her bags into the hollow back of the van, alongside my own luggage. \\\"I believe in equality, after all.\\\"

\\\"Do you? Or are you simply an equal opportunist?\\\" she asks, smirking.

My bisexuality is no secret to either of my siblings and, as much as they like to tease me about it, they've been nothing but supportive. Not that they'd have a choice to be anything but. I have no place in my life for bullshit from anyone, family or not, and they know that. \\\"Can't it be both?\\\" I ask, shutting the door by throwing my shoulder against it.

She nods, grinning mischievously as she pulls out her phone from her pocket and snaps a photo of Bertha's rear. \\\"So . . .\\\" I lean my shoulder against the door and run one hand through my hair, pushing it to one side as a gust of wind tries to blow it back. \\\"What do you make of all this?\\\" I gesture broadly in what may or may not be the direction of Baysville, my brother's new home. \\\"A bit dramatic, don't ya think?\\\"

Nadia's lips pout as she considers my question, then she looks up at me with those deep brown eyes that all of us siblings have. \\\"You mean Nik using his one-one-nine?\\\"

We coined the term one-one-nine over twenty years ago. Whereas a code nine-one-one meant an emergency that we, unfortunately, had no choice but to involve our parents in, a one-one-nine could and should remain between us siblings.

Nik graciously granted us all two one-one-nine uses per year in childhood. But the rule was that we'd only have one after the age of eighteen to use in perpetuity. That goes for all of us. We have one Get Out of Jail Free card. One Hail Mary. One help-me-bury-the-body-and-don't-ask-questions. Then, you're on your own.

\\\"Yeah,\\\" I answer. \\\"It feels a bit extreme; don't you think? He's dreamed of opening his brewery for years and we've never been a part of that plan. What could possibly constitute an emergency?\\\"

\\\"He never specified it had to be used in an emergency. . . . And, if I recall correctly, you used yours to make me catch a mouse for you when we were backpacking in Costa Rica.\\\" She leans her hip up against the van and digs around in her oversized tote for what I hope is not a cigarette. \\\"So, maybe let's not be so quick to judge.\\\"\"},{\"id\":\"116881373T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"One

Milo

“Please, Bertha, baby, I am begging you,” I say, tightening my hands around the shuddering steering wheel. There’s not another living soul in sight. No one to witness our inevitable crash and burn if Bertha decides to call it quits and send us rolling backward down the hill. On this Muskoka backroad it’s just me, Bertha, the black tar pavement under us, the gray storm clouds above us, the granite outcropping bordering either side of the road, and, as always, the bobblehead Jesus on my dash.

“I swear to everything good and holy that if you make it over this hill, I’ll never ask you for anything ever again.” She sputters, and I grit my teeth waiting for the backward roll. “If we make it to town,” I plead, each syllable equal parts pathetic and desperate, “I’ll fill you up with premium fuel and let you rest for a week.” The tires jolt, forcing my hands on the wheel to fight for control. “Okay, okay! Two weeks. I promise.”

My beloved van’s speedometer is broken, as is most of her, but the temperature gauge isn’t, unfortunately. The needle is fluctuating between you’re beyond f***ed and are you on fire yet?

“C’mon, old girl, don’t quit on me now. Not yet. Don’t you want to go home again?” Though I cannot help but think that my death would probably save me from this familial obligation. Maybe Bertha is taking care of me, just as she has for the past decade, and death is the lesser of these two evils.

The sound of metal grinding against metal, an irritating high-pitched squealing, is her answer. Then, the choking of an engine, like the mechanical equivalent of a smoker’s cough, which is never a good sign. I prepare my final words, taking a deep breath as the car slows to a stop a few feet shy of the top of the hill.

Well, this is it, I think to myself. I wonder what my obituary will read, if anyone bothers to write one. If it was up to me it would say: Milo Kablukov, 28, was a nomadic slut, childhood sheep farmer, and wannabe artist with a heart of gold and a penis that launched a thousand ships.

Just as I’m about to say my final goodbyes to this mortal plane, Bertha kicks back to life, taking us over the edge of the hilltop and onto flattened road. I open my eyes, having closed them while bracing for disaster.

“Whew, baby!” I shake my limbs free of tension as I adjust position in my seat and toss back my hair. “You little tease,” I say, petting the dashboard. I make a turn onto a backroad toward the train station with a flat palm on the wheel and slow my speed to give Bertha a rest. “You really had my heart racing that time, gorgeous,” I tell her, releasing the last of my tension in a languid breath.

Other than my younger sister, Nadia, Bertha has been the only consistent woman in my life since I got the f*** out of my hometown of Dorset, Ontario, the day after my eighteenth birthday. The town slogan, if it were up to me, would be: Dorset: Where the sheep outnumber the people.

I won’t be returning there any time soon. My brother, my summoner, has set up home a few towns over. Somewhere just as boring, no doubt, but far enough away from Sonia and Andrei Kablukov—good old Mom and Pop—that my brother would even dare to ask Nadia and me to come to his rescue.

I pull up in front of the small white building that is technically a train station but looks more like an old cottage. “There she is!” I shout as I wheel the passenger window all the way down. “Nadia motherf***in’ Kablukov in the flesh!”

My sister, who perpetually chews gum on one side of her mouth, smirks as she rolls her eyes. “You’re late.” She leans into the window, tapping the inside of the passenger door. “Hi, Bertha baby, you’re looking as shitty as ever.”

“You look older again,” I point out, scowling at her. “You should really stop doing that.”

“Aging?” she clarifies.

I nod.

“Charming . . .” She assesses me, or at least what she can see of me from the window, with a curious, wry grin.

I look her over too, in the habitual, almost subconscious way I always have. Searching for the scrapes, burns, and bruises, and hoping to find none. Nadia has always been equal parts stubborn and prideful, discontent to be the youngest of us three siblings. Which meant she got hurt trying to do things above her paygrade a lot.

At four, she tried to make her own breakfast, and I helped ice the burn from her run-in with the frying pan. At nine, she climbed up to the roof to fix the TV antenna, and I fixed the eaves trough she broke on her way down and bandaged up her ankle. At twelve, she tried to teach herself to drive Dad’s tractor, and I mended the broken fence and her hand from the splinter she’d gotten trying to repair it herself. Then, there were all the many nights that she’d sneak into my room when Mom and Dad were screaming at each other, and I’d let her pretend it was for my sake, not hers.

Now, instead of looking for scraped-up limbs, I look at her eyes. I try and judge how much weight they’re holding. I attempt to measure the dark circles underneath as if they were rings on a tree stump, as if age and sleepless nights could be measured in the same way.

Nadia’s hair is back to its original black color and rests just above her jaw in a straight, sharp line. She’s gained some weight back, which I’m relieved to notice, but not enough. She was way, way too thin for a while there. She joked that she was too busy to eat all the while finding the time to smoke her way through a pack of cigarettes a day.

I’m not judging—all three of us siblings have our vices, our own unhealthy way of surviving our f***ed-up childhood—I just hated seeing her look weak when she is far, far from it.

So maybe it’s her hair, or the extra few pounds she’s gained back, or the fewer rings under her eyes, or the less jittery way that she stands on the curb allowing me the chance to look her over—but she does look older. It settles me and somehow makes me uneasy at the same time. She’s doing better, but I didn’t know that until now. And when was the last time I had asked my little sister how life was treating her?

I need to be better at asking.

“You look great, зайка.” Зайка, or bunny in Russian, is what Nik, our older brother, started calling Nadia from birth. She had these huge, chubby cheeks as a baby that reminded him of his favorite animal at the time; the ones he’d sneak food to that lived under my parents’ barn. “You just look different, that’s all.”

“Well . . . You were gone a long time. Again,” she replies, quirking an arched brow.

I unbuckle the seatbelt, but don’t turn off the engine before getting out of the driver’s seat. Truthfully, I don’t know if I could get Bertha to start back up again and there’s no way I could afford to get a tow truck.

“Get over here,” I request, opening my arms wide for her as I approach. Nadia, stiff as a board, welcomes my hug in a literal sense by stepping toward me, but keeps her arms firmly at her sides. “I missed you,” I say over the top of her head. She mumbles something that sounds like uh-huh into my chest. I squeeze tighter before releasing her.

I reach toward the ground for one of her oversized khaki duffel bags. “What’s in here?” I say, throwing it over my shoulder before reaching for the other one. “This has to be at least fifty pounds.” I pick up the second bag. “Each!”

“That, dear brother, is everything I own. Minus the lamp that came with my apartment, which is somehow controlled by the upstairs tenant. Or, at least, I hope that’s who is turning it on and off all day.”

I walk toward the back of the van, and she follows closely. “Toronto sounds . . . fun.”

“For sure.” I catch her smiling softly at the back doors of the van as I struggle to open the right rear door. Much like my own skin, Bertha’s outer shell is covered in memories, mistakes, and inspirational scribblings. “I see you’re still collecting these . . .” She taps on a bumper sticker, one of many, then underlines the words with her finger. “My other ride is your mother,” she reads, firing an entirely unconvincing disapproving stare my way. “Real classy.”

I smile widely at her in response, flashing all my teeth as I manage to pry open the door with a grunt of effort. “I have the father version of that one too,” I say, gesturing to the hundreds of other stickers decorating the entire surface of the doors. I toss her bags into the hollow back of the van, alongside my own luggage. “I believe in equality, after all.”

“Do you? Or are you simply an equal opportunist?” she asks, smirking.

My bisexuality is no secret to either of my siblings and, as much as they like to tease me about it, they’ve been nothing but supportive. Not that they’d have a choice to be anything but. I have no place in my life for bullshit from anyone, family or not, and they know that. “Can’t it be both?” I ask, shutting the door by throwing my shoulder against it.

She nods, grinning mischievously as she pulls out her phone from her pocket and snaps a photo of Bertha’s rear. “So . . .” I lean my shoulder against the door and run one hand through my hair, pushing it to one side as a gust of wind tries to blow it back. “What do you make of all this?” I gesture broadly in what may or may not be the direction of Baysville, my brother’s new home. “A bit dramatic, don’t ya think?”

Nadia’s lips pout as she considers my question, then she looks up at me with those deep brown eyes that all of us siblings have. “You mean Nik using his one-one-nine?”

We coined the term one-one-nine over twenty years ago. Whereas a code nine-one-one meant an emergency that we, unfortunately, had no choice but to involve our parents in, a one-one-nine could and should remain between us siblings.

Nik graciously granted us all two one-one-nine uses per year in childhood. But the rule was that we’d only have one after the age of eighteen to use in perpetuity. That goes for all of us. We have one Get Out of Jail Free card. One Hail Mary. One help-me-bury-the-body-and-don’t-ask-questions. Then, you’re on your own.

“Yeah,” I answer. “It feels a bit extreme; don’t you think? He’s dreamed of opening his brewery for years and we’ve never been a part of that plan. What could possibly constitute an emergency?”

“He never specified it had to be used in an emergency. . . . And, if I recall correctly, you used yours to make me catch a mouse for you when we were backpacking in Costa Rica.” She leans her hip up against the van and digs around in her oversized tote for what I hope is not a cigarette. “So, maybe let’s not be so quick to judge.”\"},{\"id\":\"127114456T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"One

Milo

“Please, Bertha, baby, I am begging you,” I say, tightening my hands around the shuddering steering wheel. There’s not another living soul in sight. No one to witness our inevitable crash and burn if Bertha decides to call it quits and send us rolling backward down the hill. On this Muskoka backroad it’s just me, Bertha, the black tar pavement under us, the gray storm clouds above us, the granite outcropping bordering either side of the road, and, as always, the bobblehead Jesus on my dash.

“I swear to everything good and holy that if you make it over this hill, I’ll never ask you for anything ever again.” She sputters, and I grit my teeth waiting for the backward roll. “If we make it to town,” I plead, each syllable equal parts pathetic and desperate, “I’ll fill you up with premium fuel and let you rest for a week.” The tires jolt, forcing my hands on the wheel to fight for control. “Okay, okay! Two weeks. I promise.”

My beloved van’s speedometer is broken, as is most of her, but the temperature gauge isn’t, unfortunately. The needle is fluctuating between you’re beyond f***ed and are you on fire yet?

“C’mon, old girl, don’t quit on me now. Not yet. Don’t you want to go home again?” Though I cannot help but think that my death would probably save me from this familial obligation. Maybe Bertha is taking care of me, just as she has for the past decade, and death is the lesser of these two evils.

The sound of metal grinding against metal, an irritating high-pitched squealing, is her answer. Then, the choking of an engine, like the mechanical equivalent of a smoker’s cough, which is never a good sign. I prepare my final words, taking a deep breath as the car slows to a stop a few feet shy of the top of the hill.

Well, this is it, I think to myself. I wonder what my obituary will read, if anyone bothers to write one. If it was up to me it would say: Milo Kablukov, 28, was a nomadic slut, childhood sheep farmer, and wannabe artist with a heart of gold and a penis that launched a thousand ships.

Just as I’m about to say my final goodbyes to this mortal plane, Bertha kicks back to life, taking us over the edge of the hilltop and onto flattened road. I open my eyes, having closed them while bracing for disaster.

“Whew, baby!” I shake my limbs free of tension as I adjust position in my seat and toss back my hair. “You little tease,” I say, petting the dashboard. I make a turn onto a backroad toward the train station with a flat palm on the wheel and slow my speed to give Bertha a rest. “You really had my heart racing that time, gorgeous,” I tell her, releasing the last of my tension in a languid breath.

Other than my younger sister, Nadia, Bertha has been the only consistent woman in my life since I got the f*** out of my hometown of Dorset, Ontario, the day after my eighteenth birthday. The town slogan, if it were up to me, would be: Dorset: Where the sheep outnumber the people.

I won’t be returning there any time soon. My brother, my summoner, has set up home a few towns over. Somewhere just as boring, no doubt, but far enough away from Sonia and Andrei Kablukov—good old Mom and Pop—that my brother would even dare to ask Nadia and me to come to his rescue.

I pull up in front of the small white building that is technically a train station but looks more like an old cottage. “There she is!” I shout as I wheel the passenger window all the way down. “Nadia motherf***in’ Kablukov in the flesh!”

My sister, who perpetually chews gum on one side of her mouth, smirks as she rolls her eyes. “You’re late.” She leans into the window, tapping the inside of the passenger door. “Hi, Bertha baby, you’re looking as shitty as ever.”

“You look older again,” I point out, scowling at her. “You should really stop doing that.”

“Aging?” she clarifies.

I nod.

“Charming . . .” She assesses me, or at least what she can see of me from the window, with a curious, wry grin.

I look her over too, in the habitual, almost subconscious way I always have. Searching for the scrapes, burns, and bruises, and hoping to find none. Nadia has always been equal parts stubborn and prideful, discontent to be the youngest of us three siblings. Which meant she got hurt trying to do things above her paygrade a lot.

At four, she tried to make her own breakfast, and I helped ice the burn from her run-in with the frying pan. At nine, she climbed up to the roof to fix the TV antenna, and I fixed the eaves trough she broke on her way down and bandaged up her ankle. At twelve, she tried to teach herself to drive Dad’s tractor, and I mended the broken fence and her hand from the splinter she’d gotten trying to repair it herself. Then, there were all the many nights that she’d sneak into my room when Mom and Dad were screaming at each other, and I’d let her pretend it was for my sake, not hers.

Now, instead of looking for scraped-up limbs, I look at her eyes. I try and judge how much weight they’re holding. I attempt to measure the dark circles underneath as if they were rings on a tree stump, as if age and sleepless nights could be measured in the same way.

Nadia’s hair is back to its original black color and rests just above her jaw in a straight, sharp line. She’s gained some weight back, which I’m relieved to notice, but not enough. She was way, way too thin for a while there. She joked that she was too busy to eat all the while finding the time to smoke her way through a pack of cigarettes a day.

I’m not judging—all three of us siblings have our vices, our own unhealthy way of surviving our f***ed-up childhood—I just hated seeing her look weak when she is far, far from it.

So maybe it’s her hair, or the extra few pounds she’s gained back, or the fewer rings under her eyes, or the less jittery way that she stands on the curb allowing me the chance to look her over—but she does look older. It settles me and somehow makes me uneasy at the same time. She’s doing better, but I didn’t know that until now. And when was the last time I had asked my little sister how life was treating her?

I need to be better at asking.

“You look great, зайка.” Зайка, or bunny in Russian, is what Nik, our older brother, started calling Nadia from birth. She had these huge, chubby cheeks as a baby that reminded him of his favorite animal at the time; the ones he’d sneak food to that lived under my parents’ barn. “You just look different, that’s all.”

“Well . . . You were gone a long time. Again,” she replies, quirking an arched brow.

I unbuckle the seatbelt, but don’t turn off the engine before getting out of the driver’s seat. Truthfully, I don’t know if I could get Bertha to start back up again and there’s no way I could afford to get a tow truck.

“Get over here,” I request, opening my arms wide for her as I approach. Nadia, stiff as a board, welcomes my hug in a literal sense by stepping toward me, but keeps her arms firmly at her sides. “I missed you,” I say over the top of her head. She mumbles something that sounds like uh-huh into my chest. I squeeze tighter before releasing her.

I reach toward the ground for one of her oversized khaki duffel bags. “What’s in here?” I say, throwing it over my shoulder before reaching for the other one. “This has to be at least fifty pounds.” I pick up the second bag. “Each!”

“That, dear brother, is everything I own. Minus the lamp that came with my apartment, which is somehow controlled by the upstairs tenant. Or, at least, I hope that’s who is turning it on and off all day.”

I walk toward the back of the van, and she follows closely. “Toronto sounds . . . fun.”

“For sure.” I catch her smiling softly at the back doors of the van as I struggle to open the right rear door. Much like my own skin, Bertha’s outer shell is covered in memories, mistakes, and inspirational scribblings. “I see you’re still collecting these . . .” She taps on a bumper sticker, one of many, then underlines the words with her finger. “My other ride is your mother,” she reads, firing an entirely unconvincing disapproving stare my way. “Real classy.”

I smile widely at her in response, flashing all my teeth as I manage to pry open the door with a grunt of effort. “I have the father version of that one too,” I say, gesturing to the hundreds of other stickers decorating the entire surface of the doors. I toss her bags into the hollow back of the van, alongside my own luggage. “I believe in equality, after all.”

“Do you? Or are you simply an equal opportunist?” she asks, smirking.

My bisexuality is no secret to either of my siblings and, as much as they like to tease me about it, they’ve been nothing but supportive. Not that they’d have a choice to be anything but. I have no place in my life for bullshit from anyone, family or not, and they know that. “Can’t it be both?” I ask, shutting the door by throwing my shoulder against it.

She nods, grinning mischievously as she pulls out her phone from her pocket and snaps a photo of Bertha’s rear. “So . . .” I lean my shoulder against the door and run one hand through my hair, pushing it to one side as a gust of wind tries to blow it back. “What do you make of all this?” I gesture broadly in what may or may not be the direction of Baysville, my brother’s new home. “A bit dramatic, don’t ya think?”

Nadia’s lips pout as she considers my question, then she looks up at me with those deep brown eyes that all of us siblings have. “You mean Nik using his one-one-nine?”

We coined the term one-one-nine over twenty years ago. Whereas a code nine-one-one meant an emergency that we, unfortunately, had no choice but to involve our parents in, a one-one-nine could and should remain between us siblings.

Nik graciously granted us all two one-one-nine uses per year in childhood. But the rule was that we’d only have one after the age of eighteen to use in perpetuity. That goes for all of us. We have one Get Out of Jail Free card. One Hail Mary. One help-me-bury-the-body-and-don’t-ask-questions. Then, you’re on your own.

“Yeah,” I answer. “It feels a bit extreme; don’t you think? He’s dreamed of opening his brewery for years and we’ve never been a part of that plan. What could possibly constitute an emergency?”

“He never specified it had to be used in an emergency. . . . And, if I recall correctly, you used yours to make me catch a mouse for you when we were backpacking in Costa Rica.” She leans her hip up against the van and digs around in her oversized tote for what I hope is not a cigarette. “So, maybe let’s not be so quick to judge.”\"},{\"id\":\"127114445T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"\\\"I blew through this! Bonam-Young blends gritty reality, family, and passion to create a powerful story about acceptance and the power of opening up to love. I loved this!\\\"-Abby Jimenez, #1 New York Times bestselling author

\\\"You feel her passion on every page, and the result is a novel that brims with heart, heat, and real emotion-a warm hug and a passionate kiss all in one.\\\"-#1 New York Times bestselling author Carley Fortune

\\\"Bonam-Young has done it again with this deeply emotional story about love, family, and what it really means to grow.\\\"-New York Times bestselling author Talia Hibbert

\\\"A book that you'll be longing to savor but helpless to devour...an absolute triumph.\\\"-Lyla Sage, New York Times bestselling author of Lost and Lassoed

\\\"A celebration of love in all its forms! I adored every second of this read!\\\"-Naina Kumar, USA Today bestselling author of Flirting with Disaster

\\\"People Watching is the epitome of satisfyingly emotional, real, steamy romance-Milo and Prue's journey tugged at my heartstrings in its loving portrayal of hard-won growth, trust, and healing.\\\"-USA Today bestselling author Chloe Liese

\\\"The delicious initial push-and-pull between Milo and Prue gives way to touching connection as the characters navigate what it means to truly show up for one another. These two had me kicking my feet and giggling from the first moment they're on-page together.\\\"-Ivy Fairbank, author of Morbidly Yours

\\\"A memorable and satisfying romance, full of sexy and sensitive moments.\\\"-Library Journal, starred review

\\\"Bonam-Young builds great chemistry between her leads, and the familial subplots-especially the tender scenes between Milo and his estranged siblings-add heart. This is a keeper.\\\"-Publishers Weekly\"},{\"id\":\"127114459T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Prudence is happy with her quiet small-town life — until the adventurous Milo chaotically wanders into her hometown, determined to shake things up. Soon, Prudence learns that opening up to love might not be the worst thing in the world in this charming romcom.

\"},{\"id\":\"115276262T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

\"},{\"id\":\"127114463T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Hannah Bonam-Young is the author of Next of Kin, Next to You, and Out on a Limb. Hannah writes romances featuring a cast of diverse, disabled, marginalized, and LGBTQIA+ folks wherein swoon-worthy storylines blend with the beautiful, messy, and challenging realities of life. When not reading or writing romance you can find her having living room dance parties with her kids or planning any occasion that warrants a cheese board. Originally from Ontario, Canada, she lives with her childhood friend turned husband, Ben, two kids, and bulldog near Niagara Falls on the traditional territory of the Haudenosaunee and Anishinaabe peoples.

\"},{\"id\":\"127114466T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Hannah Bonam-Young is the author of Next of Kin, Next to You, and Out on a Limb. Hannah writes romances featuring a cast of diverse, disabled, marginalized, and LGBTQIA+ folks wherein swoon-worthy storylines blend with the beautiful, messy, and challenging realities of life. When not reading or writing romance you can find her having living room dance parties with her kids or planning any occasion that warrants a cheese board. Originally from Ontario, Canada, she lives with her childhood friend turned husband, Ben, two kids, and bulldog near Niagara Falls on the traditional territory of the Haudenosaunee and Anishinaabe peoples.\"},{\"id\":\"127114464T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Hannah Bonam-Young is the author of Next of Kin, Next to You, and Out on a Limb. Hannah writes romances featuring a cast of diverse, disabled, marginalized, and LGBTQIA+ folks wherein swoon-worthy storylines blend with the beautiful, messy, and challenging realities of life. When not reading or writing romance you can find her having living room dance parties with her kids or planning any occasion that warrants a cheese board. Originally from Ontario, Canada, she lives with her childhood friend turned husband, Ben, two kids, and bulldog near Niagara Falls on the traditional territory of the Haudenosaunee and Anishinaabe peoples.\"},{\"id\":\"127114462T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Hannah Bonam-Young is the author of Next of Kin, Next to You, and Out on a Limb. Hannah writes romances featuring a cast of diverse, disabled, marginalized, and LGBTQIA+ folks wherein swoon-worthy storylines blend with the beautiful, messy, and challenging realities of life. When not reading or writing romance you can find her having living room dance parties with her kids or planning any occasion that warrants a cheese board. Originally from Ontario, Canada, she lives with her childhood friend turned husband, Ben, two kids, and bulldog near Niagara Falls on the traditional territory of the Haudenosaunee and Anishinaabe peoples.\"}]",{"_45":2422,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":2423},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879731638513","People-Watching/Hannah-Bonam-Young",{"_45":2425,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":2426},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879727182065","1150229157",{"_45":2428,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879728886001",{"_45":2430,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":2405},"gid://shopify/Metafield/61708974620913",{"_45":2432,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":2382},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879725117681",{"_45":2434,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879730819313",{"_45":2436,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":2375},"gid://shopify/Metafield/84996106846449",{"_45":2438,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":2439},"gid://shopify/Metafield/79078072877297","29",{"_1887":1888,"_45":2441,"_75":2442,"_1891":2242,"_834":2443,"_1894":2444,"_1896":2445,"_1898":2446,"_1905":2449,"_1913":63,"_1914":2452,"_1920":2455,"_1942":2465,"_1945":2467,"_1947":2468,"_1949":2469,"_1950":2470},"gid://shopify/Product/9474025816305","Murder at the Grand Alpine Hotel: The New Miss Marple Mystery (B&N Exclusive Edition)","9780063578074","This Barnes & Noble Exclusive Edition features a Q&A between Lucy Foley and the host of the popular All About Agatha podcast, Kemper Donovan.The brand-new Miss Marple novel from Lucy Foley, the #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Guest List and The Midnight Feast.High in the Swiss Alps, accessible only by a single, winding railway, stands the luxurious Grand Alpine Hotel. With glorious mountain views and exclusive access to powdery slopes, it draws guests from far and wide.The notorious actress.The high-flying politician.The society wife.The reckless friend.The shrewd doctor.But not everyone is here for a winter holiday.Beneath the champagne and furs, dark histories simmer; old grudges emerge like cracks in the ice.And someone is watching from the shadows. A polite, unassuming woman with an extraordinary mind: Miss Marple.When a body is found and a blizzard cuts off all escape, only Miss Marple can connect the clues before the killer strikes again. Because it isn't a question of who has a motive, but who's next...","

This Barnes & Noble Exclusive Edition features a Q&A between Lucy Foley and the host of the popular All About Agatha podcast, Kemper Donovan.

The brand-new Miss Marple novel from Lucy Foley, the #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Guest List and The Midnight Feast.

High in the Swiss Alps, accessible only by a single, winding railway, stands the luxurious Grand Alpine Hotel. With glorious mountain views and exclusive access to powdery slopes, it draws guests from far and wide.

The notorious actress.

The high-flying politician.

The society wife.

The reckless friend.

The shrewd doctor.

But not everyone is here for a winter holiday.

Beneath the champagne and furs, dark histories simmer; old grudges emerge like cracks in the ice.

And someone is watching from the shadows. A polite, unassuming woman with an extraordinary mind: Miss Marple.

When a body is found and a blizzard cuts off all escape, only Miss Marple can connect the clues before the killer strikes again. Because it isn't a question of who has a motive, but who's next...

",{"_45":2447,"_58":2448,"_60":2317,"_54":1903,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/48744563310833","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780063578074_p0.jpg?v=1772553623",{"_1907":2450},{"_1909":2451,"_1911":1912},"27.0",{"_1907":2453,"_1918":2454},{"_1909":1910,"_1911":1912},{"_1909":1910,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":2456},[2457],{"_45":2458,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":2459,"_714":2460,"_1930":2461,"_1932":2462,"_1934":2463,"_1940":2443,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47801987793137",{"_1909":1910,"_1911":1912},{"_45":2447,"_58":2448,"_1904":-5,"_60":2317,"_54":1903},{"_1909":2451,"_1911":1912},{"_75":2442,"_834":2443},[2464],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":2466},"[\"Barnes & Noble Exclusives (p6314)\",\"BADGE - $3 OFF (p7877)\",\"Special Editions (p10264)\",\"BADGE - 10% OFF (p7873)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"B|B&N Exclusive|#956F2D|#4C3E1B (p7920)\",\"Retail Price fixing (p261)\",\"Barnes & Noble Holiday Gift Guide (p5430)\"]",{"_1938":2443},{"_1938":2242},{"_1938":2270},[2471,2474,-5,2477,2479,-5,2481,2483,2486,2489,2492,-5,2494,2496,-5,2498,2500,2502],{"_45":2472,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":2473},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76466815434993","[{\"contributorId\":499981,\"fullName\":\"Lucy Foley\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1},{\"contributorId\":170686,\"fullName\":\"Agatha Christie\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":2}]",{"_45":2475,"_1954":1955,"_1956":2277,"_1938":2476},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76916593361137","Miss Marple Series",{"_45":2478,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76466815631601",{"_45":2480,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":2242},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76466815271153",{"_45":2482,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":1967},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76466815664369",{"_45":2484,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":2485},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76466816188657","[{\"id\":\"123722512T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"“Rarely has murder been so much wicked fun.” - Alex Michaelides, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Silent Patient
\\\"Evoking the great Agatha Christie classics… Lucy Foley’s clever, taut new novel, The Guest List, takes us to a creepy island off the coast of Ireland…Foley builds her suspense slowly and creepily, deploying an array of narrators bristling with personal secrets.” - New York Times Book Review
\\\"A modern-day Agatha Christie.\\\" - Entertainment Weekly
\\\"An atmospheric, tantalizing thriller peopled with utterly recognizable characters, all of them hiding something about themselves and their connection to the eerie Manor hotel in Dorset.\\\" - Nita Prose, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Maid on The Midnight Feast
“A sharp, stylish and stunning murder mystery. Darkly funny, with trademark twists and unforgettable characters.” - Chris Whitaker, New York Times bestselling author on The Midnight Feast
“Delicious and darkly glamorous, and full of brilliant twists.\\\" - #1 New York Times bestselling author Lisa Jewell on The Midnight Feast
\\\"Everyone's favorite thriller author.\\\" - theSkimm
“This Tilt-A-Whirl of a novel brims with jangly tension – an undeniably engrossing guessing game.” - Vogue on The Paris Apartment
\"},{\"id\":\"124415036T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Miss Marple is back! Agatha Christie’s iconic sleuth returns in a new mystery from Lucy Foley, author of The Paris Apartment and The Hunting Party. After a body is discovered at a luxurious mountaintop resort, there is only one woman who can connect the clues before the killer strikes again.

\"},{\"id\":\"123722525T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Lucy Foley studied English literature at Durham University and University College London and worked for several years as a fiction editor in the publishing industry. She is the author of six novels including The Paris Apartment and The Guest List. She lives in London.

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She died in 1976, after a prolific career spanning six decades.

\"},{\"id\":\"123722524T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

Lucy Foley is a No.1 Sunday Times, Irish Times and New York Times bestselling author. Her contemporary murder mystery thrillers have sold over five million copies worldwide, and several are currently being adapted for the screen. She is a Waterstones Thriller of the Month author, a three-time nominee at the British Book Awards, and The Guest List was a Reese’s Book Club selection and winner of the Goodreads Choice Award for Mystery Thriller. As a life-long Agatha Christie fan, Lucy has drawn immeasurable inspiration from the Queen of Crime. She was one of 12 writers to contribute to Marple, a collection of short stories featuring the beloved detective. And in Murder at the Grand Alpine Hotel, she was inspired to transport Miss Marple – her favorite Christie creation – to the glamorous post-war setting of the Swiss Alps, in a mystery that feels gloriously escapist yet utterly relevant to our times.

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She died in 1976, after a prolific career spanning six decades.

\"},{\"id\":\"123722523T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"123722522T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"

Lucy Foley studied English literature at Durham University and University College London and worked for several years as a fiction editor in the publishing industry. She is the author of six novels including The Paris Apartment and The Guest List. She lives in London.

\"}]",{"_45":2487,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":2488},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76466815926513","Murder-at-the-Grand-Alpine-Hotel/Lucy-Foley",{"_45":2490,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":2491},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76466815205617","1148769663",{"_45":2493,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76466815598833",{"_45":2495,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":2466},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76466816221425",{"_45":2497,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":2443},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76466814714097",{"_45":2499,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76466815697137",{"_45":2501,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":1996},"gid://shopify/Metafield/82235475722481",{"_45":2503,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":900},"gid://shopify/Metafield/82235475689713",{"_1887":1888,"_45":2505,"_75":2506,"_1891":2004,"_834":2507,"_1894":2508,"_1896":2509,"_1898":2510,"_1905":2514,"_1913":63,"_1914":2517,"_1920":2520,"_1942":-5,"_1945":2529,"_1947":2530,"_1949":-5,"_1950":2531},"gid://shopify/Product/8849882972401","Pumpkin Spice & Everything Nice (A Cup o' Jo Novel)","9781339030753","NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER!Gilmore Girls fans! Pour yourselves a hot cup of tea and get ready to fall in love with this cozy YA romance that will have you dreaming of autumn all year long.Fall is a big deal in Briar Glen, a quaint and charming village in New England. That's when tourists from all over the country descend upon this picturesque town to see the babbling brooks and colorful leaves while sipping hot chocolate or pumpkin spice lattes.But sixteen-year-old Lucy Kane hates the uber-popular PSL. She finds it overrated -- especially when you consider the fact that there isn't even pumpkin in it! -- which is bad because she works at Cup o' Jo, the local coffee shop her mom owns. Business at Cup o' Jo hasn't been great in the off-season, but that's okay because it always picks up during the fall ...Until Java Junction, a multinational coffee chain, opens across the street and makes things harder for the small shop. And to make matters worse, it turns out Jack Harper, the new kid in school and Lucy's secret crush, is the son of the owner. Suddenly, fall doesn't seem like it'll be all it's cracked up to be. Will Lucy find a way to save her mom's coffee shop?","

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER!

Gilmore Girls fans! Pour yourselves a hot cup of tea and get ready to fall in love with this cozy YA romance that will have you dreaming of autumn all year long.

Fall is a big deal in Briar Glen, a quaint and charming village in New England. That's when tourists from all over the country descend upon this picturesque town to see the babbling brooks and colorful leaves while sipping hot chocolate or pumpkin spice lattes.

But sixteen-year-old Lucy Kane hates the uber-popular PSL. She finds it overrated -- especially when you consider the fact that there isn't even pumpkin in it! -- which is bad because she works at Cup o' Jo, the local coffee shop her mom owns. Business at Cup o' Jo hasn't been great in the off-season, but that's okay because it always picks up during the fall ...

Until Java Junction, a multinational coffee chain, opens across the street and makes things harder for the small shop. And to make matters worse, it turns out Jack Harper, the new kid in school and Lucy's secret crush, is the son of the owner. Suddenly, fall doesn't seem like it'll be all it's cracked up to be. Will Lucy find a way to save her mom's coffee shop?

",{"_45":2511,"_58":2512,"_60":2513,"_54":1903,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47623694516465","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781339030753_p0.jpg?v=1768986166",1312,{"_1907":2515},{"_1909":2516,"_1911":1912},"10.99",{"_1907":2518,"_1918":2519},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":2521},[2522],{"_45":2523,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":-5,"_714":2524,"_1930":2525,"_1932":2526,"_1934":2527,"_1940":2507,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46248101544177",{"_45":2511,"_58":2512,"_1904":-5,"_60":2513,"_54":1903},{"_1909":2516,"_1911":1912},{"_75":2506,"_834":2507},[2528],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":2507},{"_1938":2004},[2532,-5,-5,2535,2537,-5,2539,2541,2544,2547,2550,-5,-5,2552,-5,2554,2556,2559],{"_45":2533,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":2534},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39816544256241","[{\"contributorId\":19830005,\"fullName\":\"Katie Cicatelli-Kuc\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":2536,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39816544780529",{"_45":2538,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39816543928561",{"_45":2540,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":2041},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39816544878833",{"_45":2542,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":2543},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39816545861873","[{\"id\":\"124407786T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Rival coffee shops and autumnal flavors galore. Pumpkin Spice & Everything Nice is a cup of sugary sweet romance and small-town charm that will make you hit rewind on all your favorite rom-coms.

\"},{\"id\":\"105631440T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Rival coffee shops and autumnal flavors galore. Pumpkin Spice & Everything Nice is a cup of sugary sweet romance and small-town charm that will make you hit rewind on all your favorite rom-coms.

\"},{\"id\":\"124407790T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Katie Cicatelli-Kuc spent a decade working as an in-house copy editor for major publishing houses before becoming a full-time freelancer and mom. She lives in Beacon, New York.

\"},{\"id\":\"115457975T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

Katie Cicatelli-Kuc spent a decade working as an in-house copy editor for major publishing houses before becoming a full-time freelancer and mom. She lives in Beacon, New York.

\"},{\"id\":\"124407789T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Katie Cicatelli-Kuc spent a decade working as an in-house copy editor for major publishing houses before becoming a full-time freelancer and mom. She lives in Beacon, New York.\"},{\"id\":\"124407787T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Katie Cicatelli-Kuc spent a decade working as an in-house copy editor for major publishing houses before becoming a full-time freelancer and mom. She lives in Beacon, New York.\"}]",{"_45":2545,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":2546},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39816545665265","Pumpkin-Spice-Everything-Nice/Katie-Cicatelli-Kuc",{"_45":2548,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":2549},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39816543109361","1144418634",{"_45":2551,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39816544682225",{"_45":2553,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":2507},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39816538718449",{"_45":2555,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39816544977137",{"_45":2557,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":2558},"gid://shopify/Metafield/60043427053809","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"3.2\"}",{"_45":2560,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":2561},"gid://shopify/Metafield/60043427021041","49",{"_30":78,"_79":14,"_58":2563},"https://www.barnesandnoble.com/blog/cozy-reads-pumpkin-spice-make-fall-twice-as-nice","Cozy Reads & Pumpkin Spice Make Fall Twice as Nice",{"_37":2566,"_30":1030,"_1020":2567,"_75":2873},"ba4dc568dfc7",{"_1023":2568,"_1032":223,"_1409":1410,"_1411":1412,"_105":-5,"_58":2871},[2569,2632,2688,2753,2809],{"_1887":1888,"_45":2570,"_75":2571,"_1891":1892,"_834":2572,"_1894":2573,"_1896":2574,"_1898":2575,"_1905":2579,"_1913":63,"_1914":2581,"_1920":2585,"_1942":2595,"_1945":2597,"_1947":2598,"_1949":-5,"_1950":2599},"gid://shopify/Product/9336523948273","The Witches of Cambridge (A Read with Jenna Pick): A Novel","9781668074640","AN INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER A READ WITH JENNA BOOK CLUB PICK The brand-new series from the bestselling author of Practical Magic, following two brilliant young women in 1950s Cambridge, Massachusetts, as they become immersed in a mysterious secret group of witches at Radcliffe known as the Lilith Society.Once upon a time, women were drowned in the river and the only witnesses were the crows in the trees. The Puritans blamed Eve for the sins of the world. That was when we began to meet in the name of Lilith, Adam's first wife-banished for refusing to do as she was told. We Fly Together... By the 1950s, Cambridge, Massachusetts feels far removed from the legendary witch trials that marked its early days as a colony. Ava, a bright young woman from a small town in Maine, arrives for her first year at Radcliffe College. There, she meets Lauren, her opposite in every way-the wild and brazen daughter of a wealthy and well-established Cambridge family. But the two have more in common than they think. Both are recruited by the Lilith Society, a secret organization of witches at Radcliffe dating back to colonial times. As they learn more about their legacy, Ava and Lauren form a close bond that is put to the test as they learn to navigate their new power, friendship, and love. While Radcliffe seems like a safe haven, the shadow of McCarthyism looms large, an ever-present threat to the flourishing creative and intellectual life in Cambridge. And as girls from the Lilith Society begin to go missing, Ava and Lauren realize the witch trials of the past may not be as deeply buried as they once believed.","AN INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER

A READ WITH JENNA BOOK CLUB PICK

The brand-new series from the bestselling author of Practical Magic, following two brilliant young women in 1950s Cambridge, Massachusetts, as they become immersed in a mysterious secret group of witches at Radcliffe known as the Lilith Society.

Once upon a time, women were drowned in the river and the only witnesses were the crows in the trees. The Puritans blamed Eve for the sins of the world. That was when we began to meet in the name of Lilith, Adam's first wife-banished for refusing to do as she was told.

We Fly Together...

By the 1950s, Cambridge, Massachusetts feels far removed from the legendary witch trials that marked its early days as a colony. Ava, a bright young woman from a small town in Maine, arrives for her first year at Radcliffe College. There, she meets Lauren, her opposite in every way-the wild and brazen daughter of a wealthy and well-established Cambridge family. But the two have more in common than they think. Both are recruited by the Lilith Society, a secret organization of witches at Radcliffe dating back to colonial times. As they learn more about their legacy, Ava and Lauren form a close bond that is put to the test as they learn to navigate their new power, friendship, and love.

While Radcliffe seems like a safe haven, the shadow of McCarthyism looms large, an ever-present threat to the flourishing creative and intellectual life in Cambridge. And as girls from the Lilith Society begin to go missing, Ava and Lauren realize the witch trials of the past may not be as deeply buried as they once believed.",{"_45":2576,"_58":2577,"_60":2578,"_54":1903,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/48658131386609","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781668074640_p0.jpg?v=1788439628",1317,{"_1907":2580},{"_1909":2320,"_1911":1912},{"_1907":2582,"_1918":2584},{"_1909":2583,"_1911":1912},"29.0",{"_1909":2583,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":2586},[2587],{"_45":2588,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":2589,"_714":2590,"_1930":2591,"_1932":2592,"_1934":2593,"_1940":2572,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47033627574513",{"_1909":2583,"_1911":1912},{"_45":2576,"_58":2577,"_1904":-5,"_60":2578,"_54":1903},{"_1909":2320,"_1911":1912},{"_75":2571,"_834":2572},[2594],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":2596},"[\"BADGE - $3 OFF (p7877)\",\"BADGE - 10% OFF (p7873)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"Halloween Books & Spooky Stories Collection (p5292)\",\"B|Bestseller|#007C6C (p7858)\",\"Retail Price fixing (p261)\",\"Barnes & Noble Holiday Gift Guide (p5430)\",\"BADGE - Best Seller (p7883)\"]",{"_1938":2572},{"_1938":1892},[2600,-5,-5,2603,2605,-5,2607,2609,2612,2615,2618,-5,2620,2622,-5,2624,2626,2629],{"_45":2601,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":2602},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687268069617","[{\"contributorId\":156487,\"fullName\":\"Alice Hoffman\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":2604,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687268495601",{"_45":2606,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687266889969",{"_45":2608,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":1967},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687268593905",{"_45":2610,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":2611},"gid://shopify/Metafield/66940709470449","[{\"id\":\"133116965T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Chapter One CHAPTER ONE
In every story there is a beginning, and this was hers, the one she had been waiting for all her life. Ava Abbot had grown up in Genesis, Maine, a town too small to be on the map, the only child of a couple who tended an apple orchard. Her parents vowed they would never travel beyond the state line, insisting there was nothing to be found in the outside world other than chaos and crime. To venture forth was foolhardy and dangerous, they insisted, and yet from as far back as she could remember, all Ava had wanted to do was run away.

With her red hair and ink-black eyes, Ava seemed almost too beautiful to be real. Of course, there were flaws. She had been born with an eleventh finger on her left hand, an abnormality that had been removed when she was little more than a baby, but the scar still stung on damp, rainy days. Wary neighbors told their children that Ava had come from the underground land where fairies resided beneath the twisted roots of the apple trees. Don't talk to her, they whispered. Don't even glance in her direction. Something was different about her, that much was clear. Something that made them stay away.

There were no mirrors in the house where Ava grew up, for such things were said to encourage vanity, but she had seen her reflection in the still water of the pond at the edge of their land. Whenever she caught sight of herself, she half-believed she'd spied a stranger. She didn't resemble her parents, and her long hair looked ruby red, so bright she had to blink. She had come to believe she didn't belong in a house where the front door was double-locked every night at the hour when the world disappeared into darkness.

She was someone else entirely. Someone she didn't know.

Jeanne and John Abbot, Ava's parents, were strict and no-nonsense, far older than most other children's parents, with their hair already turning white. Ava's mother sat beside her when she had fevers, and made her soup from scratch; she checked in on her every night, but she was a strict caretaker and Ava was expected to follow the rules. The Abbots didn't believe in praising children or marveling at their every accomplishment. A child was to follow the household rules and not set themselves above others. Lock the door, pick the apples, sit out at the farm stand, braid your hair, come right home, don't go to the library.

Ava felt ashamed each time she wished for another life. She didn't dare defy her parents, but she envied other girls in town. It was difficult to ignore how different she was, and not to wonder how that difference had come to be. Crows gathered on her windowsill, refusing to depart unless her mother banged on an old pan with a wooden spoon to drive them away. Ava knew that crows were faithful and unafraid of people; they brought messages from the other side, and they brought good fortune as well. When they rose into the air, Ava found herself lifting off the ground along with them, just an inch or so, but floating all the same until she was pulled back down by her mother's quick hand. Ava knew there was something her parents were keeping from her. If she asked too many questions, they locked her in her room. Each time they found the books she brought home from the library, they burned them in a barrel out by the barn. If they saw her try to fly, they tied her to the ground. Then one night someone left her a message scratched into the wood of her windowsill with a sharp knife. I know where you are. That brought her comfort. In time, she learned to climb out the window. She perched there, speaking to the birds, biding her time, knowing there would come a day when she could fly.

\\\"Don't you do that again,\\\" Ava's mother said when she discovered how Ava had escaped. \\\"Not if you're half as smart as you think you are. I need you to be a good girl and do what I say.\\\"

A rope was looped around Ava's waist, and she was tied to a chair, kept there until she learned her lesson and remained where she belonged, feet on the ground, nothing more than an ordinary girl.

On Ava's thirteenth birthday, her parents had presented her with a silver necklace her mother said had been handed down through the family, but the chain had turned black as soon as it was looped around Ava's throat. Her parents had exchanged a worried look, then had quickly taken back their gift. It was a test, that much was obvious, and she had failed. \\\"Never wear silver,\\\" her mother had said in a solemn voice.

It was one more rule among many. Ava knew she must beware of strangers, especially if they pretended to know her. She'd been instructed that in this rural part of Maine there were women who walked the country lanes dressed in black, carrying branches of hazel wood, which allowed them to see in the dark as they searched for children to bewitch and spirit away. Ava couldn't help but wonder why a stranger would want her when she was a nobody, even in her parents' eyes, a seemingly unexceptional girl, who was forced to keep her talents to herself. She sneaked into the library whenever possible, immersed in the novels she found, and she managed to read as many books as she could during school hours while her classmates struggled with their assigned work. She taught herself Italian one year, and studied botany another, and when she received A's on papers and tests, she tore them up, embarrassed to have done so well.

Ava knew how to keep a secret. She told no one that on some nights she found a black apple on her windowsill. A unique sapling had been planted in the woods, a rare variety called Black Oxford, which had first been grown in Maine in 1799, as sweet as could be. Ava dared to take a bite, and she found it was the most delicious fruit she'd ever tasted.

Apples had been the original charm, Eve's downfall and Lilith's delight.

It was the sign that she was meant for a very different life.

Ava was not allowed to bring anyone home from school, not that her classmates would have cared to visit even if they had been invited. They wouldn't have dared to walk down the long dirt driveway with its gloomy overhang of sweeping branches, or dash past the wild, barking sheepdogs. These same girls flared with jealousy when the boys in school all fell wildly in love with Ava, not that they would ever have been bold enough to approach her. She was quiet, and yet she seemed dangerous, and her nearly black eyes seemed to look right through them-I know what you think and what you want-so the boys teased her instead, calling her a witch, the worst word they could throw at her. And wasn't it true that she was followed by twelve crows wherever she went? A sign of evil, sure enough. Hadn't she once turned a stone into a frog? The sign of a witch for certain. The children in town wanted to provoke a reaction with their constant name-calling, but Ava merely slinked back to the orchard, her face dark with shame, wanting to be accepted by them, but feeling the heat of anger in her throat. As for home, it was a place that was more isolated and lonelier each year. The wild sheepdogs with tangled coats and bad tempers roamed the property, and there was an iron gate at the end of the drive that was nearly impossible to open, so that what was the countryside felt like a prison.

You can never trust people's intentions, Ava's mother always told her. Those girls at school will steal our apples and tell you lies. They'll want whatever you have and give nothing in return.

That's not what I'm worried about, her father would add.

On nights when there was a full moon, Ava's father often sat on the porch with a rifle. He said he wanted to be prepared if one of the dogs got into a skirmish with a coyote, but whenever a coyote slinked by in the woods, he'd looked the other way. Clearly, John Abbot was waiting for something else. For all the years that Ava was growing up, the outside world stayed where it was meant to be, at the edge of the dirt road. Even when people stopped at their farm stand, where the family sold vegetables in the summer and apples in the fall, there was no one to greet them, only a tin can where they could leave a payment in single dollar bills.

Ava's parents expected her to remain in Genesis and continue to work in the family orchard after her graduation from high school. Though much of farming was drudgery, there was also joy to be found. Under Ava's care trees bloomed in early March, the time of year when the surrounding orchards were still in winter's grip, nothing more than scraggly black sticks. She might never have realized there was an option, she might have indeed stayed on at home, had her science teacher not convinced her to apply to Radcliffe College, an elite school for women considered to be the sister school of Harvard, for her grades blossomed even more than the apple trees, and she was a straight A student.

One morning a large white envelope arrived at the principal's office. Ava had been afraid to give the family's address when she sent her application to the school, and she'd never expected to even get a response. As soon as she was told of her acceptance to Radcliffe, she fainted and had to be revived by a secretary who flung a full glass of water in her face. When Ava came to, everyone applauded, and there it was, like it or not. She was special.

There was little Ava's parents could do once the school announced the good news that she had been offered a scholarship other than glumly accept her new fate. Before she left for Cambridge, they sat Ava down in the parlor and ticked off a list of warnings.

Do your work without asking for praise. Be modest and kind. Be wary at all times. Trust no one. Avoid men who drink and girls who stay out past curfew, for such people will only bring trouble down upon you.

Ava nodded in agreement, not daring to admit that trouble was exactly what she wished for. She wanted it more than anything. She knew about life from the books she sneaked to read at school while her classmates were at recess, novels by Austen and the Brontës and Mary Shelley that had allowed her to see there was another side of life. She didn't want to be polite at all costs and as plain as possible. She wanted to be surprised by life, to walk along dark streets and kiss someone as if her life depended upon it and dance all night, even if her feet ached in the morning, even if dancing was thought to be wicked and vain.

Her mother left her off in town, where the bus to Boston stopped outside the general store. When Ava looked back she thought she saw her mother crying, but she herself didn't shed a tear. When she arrived in Cambridge, she immediately pulled off the scratchy, unfashionable gray jacket her mother had stitched by hand to create what she called a proper traveling outfit. Proper was not what Ava was after. She quickly unbraided her hair, allowing it to fall down her back, something she had never been allowed to do in public at home. When she spied a flash of her reflection in a store window, she was astonished to see the person staring back at her. Right then and there, in the middle of Harvard Square, she had decided that from now on she would do exactly as she pleased.

Most students arriving in Radcliffe Yard were accompanied by families who drove up in station wagons or sedans; brothers and fathers leapt out to drag huge steamer trunks across the lawn to the dorms. Ava had only a single black suitcase, and she was most certainly all alone. She stopped in front of the brick dormitory and breathed in the blue air. She might not have a family with her, but she was free to do as she pleased, rescued by an acceptance letter to the place she most wanted to be.

The school had originally been called the Harvard Annex in 1879, then was renamed Society for the Collegiate Instruction of Women, and had finally been called Radcliffe College, after a donor who valued women's education. The same professors who taught the male students held separate classes for the women, although they were paid far less to do so and many of the most esteemed and respected professors simply refused to teach at Radcliffe, considering it a waste of their time.

Radcliffe and Harvard students often hired tutors to help them through the toughest classes, math and chemistry and the natural sciences. Male and female students received their degrees from separate institutions, and there were scores of guidelines for women that didn't apply to men, with rules listed in The Red Book, a pamphlet distributed only to newly arrived female students. The book presented a moral and social blueprint they were obliged to follow at all times. Women were not to smoke on the street or wear blue jeans in public, and because it was feared that their presence in classrooms would distract men, female students who insisted on taking science classes, allowed with the president's approval, were made to sit in hallways rather than classrooms or laboratories so they would not distract the male students. Married female students with children had to leave their children in strollers on the first floor while they ran upstairs to fourth- or fifth-floor classrooms, listening for their babies' crying and fussing, the sound of which might rise up through the stairwell.

Ava stood where she was, in the middle of Radcliffe Yard, her heart wild with excitement. There were the twelve crows from Maine gathered on the roof, watching over her. She would soon learn that class options for women in the sciences included comparative zoology, numerology, a comparative study of plants, as well as anthropology. Radcliffe students were polite but not pushy, brilliant, but well aware that it was not wise to outshine the men, for who would want to marry you if you were smarter and more accomplished? Better to enter the Miss Radcliffe beauty contest, judged by Harvard professors who would watch the girls read from a provided passage. The winner had a spread in Glamour magazine featuring the ten best-dressed college women in America, a lifetime pass to the Brattle Theatre in Harvard Square, and a stuffed bunny rabbit.

Here it was, the life Ava had always wanted, the one she'd only dared to imagine. Slants of light filtered through the hawthorns and the oak trees. No one knew who Ava was, and she could do exactly as she pleased. That was when she understood that her parents had been right about one thing.

Anything could happen now.\"},{\"id\":\"133116954T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"\\\"The great Alice Hoffman kicks off a brand-new witchy series: this time, taking us to Radcliffe and a secret society of witches in the 1950s. This is so deeply my kind of comfort reading and I cannot wait.\\\" --Literary Hub, Most Anticipated Books of 2026 (Part 2)

\\\"[A] sagely bewitching immersion in New England history, magic, misogyny, and resistance... Spiked with fascinating facts, incandescent with lush evocations of nature and the supernatural, and propelled by ravishing and suspenseful struggles for love against all odds, this is an enrapturing, illuminating, and slyly relevant saga.\\\" --Booklist, Starred Review

\\\"Hoffman again draws on lore and a strong sense of place to root her tale of magic, feminism, and sisterly love. Her characters shine... This is a book that knows what it wants to say and says it. A welcome novel for Hoffman fans and readers of fantastical fiction.\\\" --Kirkus

\\\"Enticing... Hoffman proves she's still capable of magic.\\\" --Publishers Weekly

\\\"Alice Hoffman introduces us to a whole new world of witches and wonders in The Witches of Cambridge. Richly atmospheric and brimming over with Hoffman's love of family, history, and books, the reader is ushered into the dark halls of academia where secret societies and New England's magical legacy are set against the dangers of the McCarthy era. Hoffman twists together secrets and silences, past and present, into a timely and compelling tale that asks, \\\"who can you trust?\\\" --Deborah Harkness, #1 New York Times bestselling author of A Discovery of Witches and the All Souls Trilogy

\\\"Rich with history, heartbreak, and magic, Hoffman's tale of privilege and persecution expertly navigates past and present, reality and fantasy, all of it rendered in brilliant detail. Each twist of fate feels crueler than the last, and I loved watching these characters fight for every hard-won moment of love and redemption. Utterly spellbinding.\\\" --Leigh Bardugo, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Ninth House and The Familiar\"},{\"id\":\"133116966T\",\"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 author of Practical Magic weaves dark academia with historical fiction for a spellbinding tale set in 1950s Massachusetts. Two women discover a mysterious society of witches and uncover dark secrets from the past that threaten the future.

\"},{\"id\":\"131464197T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

\"},{\"id\":\"131642722T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

\"},{\"id\":\"133116971T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Alice Hoffman is the author of thirty works of fiction, including Practical Magic, Practical Magic 2, The Dovekeepers, and Magic Lessons. Visit her website: AliceHoffman.com.

\"},{\"id\":\"133116974T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Alice Hoffman is the author of thirty works of fiction, including Practical Magic, The Dovekeepers, Magic Lessons, and The Book of Magic. Visit her website: AliceHoffman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"133116969T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"

Alice Hoffman is the author of thirty works of fiction, including Practical Magic, Practical Magic 2, The Dovekeepers, and Magic Lessons. Visit her website: AliceHoffman.com.

\"},{\"id\":\"133116973T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"

Alice Hoffman is the author of thirty works of fiction, including Practical Magic, Practical Magic 2, The Dovekeepers, and Magic Lessons. Visit her website: AliceHoffman.com.

\"}]",{"_45":2613,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":2614},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687269413105","The-Witches-of-Cambridge/Alice-Hoffman",{"_45":2616,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":2617},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687265906929","1148560383",{"_45":2619,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687268331761",{"_45":2621,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":2596},"gid://shopify/Metafield/78682069893361",{"_45":2623,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":2572},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687262793969",{"_45":2625,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687268692209",{"_45":2627,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":2628},"gid://shopify/Metafield/82222509752561","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.2\"}",{"_45":2630,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":2631},"gid://shopify/Metafield/82222509719793","33",{"_1887":1888,"_45":2633,"_75":2634,"_1891":1892,"_834":2635,"_1894":2636,"_1896":2637,"_1898":2638,"_1905":2642,"_1913":63,"_1914":2644,"_1920":2647,"_1942":-5,"_1945":2656,"_1947":2657,"_1949":-5,"_1950":2658},"gid://shopify/Product/9477572657393","A Time of Witches: A Novel","9781335003928","*INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES AND NATIONAL BESTSELLER*Two women, bound by blood and betrayal, must break silence across centuries-or be silenced forever, in the dazzling new novel by New York Times bestselling author Madeline Martin.Lilith Legare's life is unraveling. Since her mother's death, strange things have been happening - plants turn toward her touch, animals linger in her path, and the birthmark on her arm has started tingling. Worse still is her recurring nightmare of being burned alive at the stake.Her search for answers brings her from Savannah to England, to the decaying Brackenmere Manor where the past blurs with the present. There, Lilith discovers a legacy she never asked for and along with it, the threat of peril. History must be rewritten, or she too will die.In 1645 Suffolk, Sybil Brantham stands accused as a witch. An educated, wealthy widow, she is branded a threat by men who fear her independence. As arrests begin and suspicion abounds, Sybil must protect her younger sister, even as betrayal takes root within her household.Across centuries, Lilith and Sybil are bound by blood and by danger. To save themselves, and each other, they must confront the silence that has stolen women's power for generations-and dare to claim their voices before it's too late.Discover more from Madeline Martin: The Secret Book Society The Booklover's Library The Keeper of Hidden Books The Librarian Spy The Last Bookshop in London","*INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES AND NATIONAL BESTSELLER*

Two women, bound by blood and betrayal, must break silence across centuries-or be silenced forever, in the dazzling new novel by New York Times bestselling author Madeline Martin.

Lilith Legare's life is unraveling. Since her mother's death, strange things have been happening - plants turn toward her touch, animals linger in her path, and the birthmark on her arm has started tingling. Worse still is her recurring nightmare of being burned alive at the stake.

Her search for answers brings her from Savannah to England, to the decaying Brackenmere Manor where the past blurs with the present. There, Lilith discovers a legacy she never asked for and along with it, the threat of peril. History must be rewritten, or she too will die.

In 1645 Suffolk, Sybil Brantham stands accused as a witch. An educated, wealthy widow, she is branded a threat by men who fear her independence. As arrests begin and suspicion abounds, Sybil must protect her younger sister, even as betrayal takes root within her household.

Across centuries, Lilith and Sybil are bound by blood and by danger. To save themselves, and each other, they must confront the silence that has stolen women's power for generations-and dare to claim their voices before it's too late.

Discover more from Madeline Martin:

The Secret Book Society
The Booklover's Library
The Keeper of Hidden Books
The Librarian Spy
The Last Bookshop in London

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Atmospheric and compelling, Madeline Martin's A TIME OF WITCHES weaves a tale of women discovering strength and resilience through sisterhood, the power of the natural world, and their own courage in the face of adversity. Stitching together the past and present to both whimsical and harrowing effect, this story will keep readers turning the pages to unravel the mysteries connecting women across centuries, and the secrets that will ultimately save them. A captivating read!\\\" -Kristin Judd, Author of Witches Three

\\\"Step into Madeline Martin's A Time of Witches, where two exceptionally spirited women-separated by centuries but tied by fate, magic, and bloodlines-discover the depths of their powers and dare to defy the men and forces that threaten to destroy them. Spellbinding and illuminating, A Time of Witches is an enchanting gothic tale of family mysteries and fierce female bonds that twists through time and delivers a stunning conclusion. You will be riveted by Martin's masterful storytelling.\\\" -- Laurie Lico Albanese, author of Hester

\\\"A Time of Witches is a heartfelt ode to the magic of friendship and self-acceptance. I found myself lost in the tangled beauty of a witch's garden, where goodness blooms even as evil takes root. Where heroines of all stripes walk the earth and reach out to each other across the centuries. It's a treat perfect for fans of Practical Magic.\\\" - Anna Rasche, author of The Stone Witch of Florence

\\\"Madeline Martin's foray into the supernatural is a propulsive and moving portrait of women wielding and subverting power - with a shimmering dash of magic.\\\" - Elizabeth DeLozier, author of Eleanor of Avignon

\\\"Fans of Weyward will fall in love with Madeline Martin's dual-timeline historical novel. Set during the 1640's East Anglian witch hunts, Martin creates a perfect potion of magical realism mixed with a visit to one of history's darkest hours. Themes of family, friendship, the divine feminine, and hope in the face of despair woven within perfectly paced storytelling keep the pages turning in this emotionally moving novel.\\\" -Andrea Catalano, author of The First Witch of Boston

\\\"A must-read for anyone who is a fan of the \\\"Practical Magic\\\" series by Alice Hoffman or The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V. E. Schwab... A well-told novel with heart and soul that has dual perspectives and flawlessly blends jumping through time with fully realized women characters.\\\" -Library Journal\"},{\"id\":\"132069625T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"\\\"Witch trials, buried secrets, and a legacy that refuses to stay hidden, A Time of Witches is a haunting, atmospheric journey where women's voices echo across centuries. Madeline Martin brings to life complex women navigating power, identity, and the cost of simply existing in a world determined to erase them. Blending history with mystery and a touch of magic, this is a compelling story of sisterhood and self-discovery. A timely reminder that women who refuse to be silenced are the ones who change everything--like a spell once spoken that cannot be taken back.\\\" -- Eliza Knight, USA Today bestselling author of Lost in the Summer of '69

Atmospheric and compelling, Madeline Martin's A TIME OF WITCHES weaves a tale of women discovering strength and resilience through sisterhood, the power of the natural world, and their own courage in the face of adversity. Stitching together the past and present to both whimsical and harrowing effect, this story will keep readers turning the pages to unravel the mysteries connecting women across centuries, and the secrets that will ultimately save them. A captivating read!\\\" -Kristin Judd, Author of Witches Three

\\\"Step into Madeline Martin's A Time of Witches, where two exceptionally spirited women--separated by centuries but tied by fate, magic, and bloodlines--discover the depths of their powers and dare to defy the men and forces that threaten to destroy them. Spellbinding and illuminating, A Time of Witches is an enchanting gothic tale of family mysteries and fierce female bonds that twists through time and delivers a stunning conclusion. You will be riveted by Martin's masterful storytelling.\\\" -- Laurie Lico Albanese, author of Hester

\\\"A Time of Witches is a heartfelt ode to the magic of friendship and self-acceptance. I found myself lost in the tangled beauty of a witch's garden, where goodness blooms even as evil takes root. Where heroines of all stripes walk the earth and reach out to each other across the centuries. It's a treat perfect for fans of Practical Magic.\\\" - Anna Rasche, author of The Stone Witch of Florence

\\\"Madeline Martin's foray into the supernatural is a propulsive and moving portrait of women wielding and subverting power - with a shimmering dash of magic.\\\" - Elizabeth DeLozier, author of Eleanor of Avignon

\\\"Fans of Weyward will fall in love with Madeline Martin's dual-timeline historical novel. Set during the 1640's East Anglian witch hunts, Martin creates a perfect potion of magical realism mixed with a visit to one of history's darkest hours. Themes of family, friendship, the divine feminine, and hope in the face of despair woven within perfectly paced storytelling keep the pages turning in this emotionally moving novel.\\\" --Andrea Catalano, author of The First Witch of Boston

\\\"A must-read for anyone who is a fan of the \\\"Practical Magic\\\" series by Alice Hoffman or The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V. E. Schwab... A well-told novel with heart and soul that has dual perspectives and flawlessly blends jumping through time with fully realized women characters.\\\" --Library Journal\"},{\"id\":\"127271591T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Madeline Martin is a New York Times, USA TODAY, and international bestselling author of historical fiction and historical romance with books that have been translated into over twenty different languages.

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\"},{\"id\":\"119381733T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Madeline Martin is a New York Times, USA TODAY, and international bestselling author of historical fiction and historical romance with books that have been translated into over twenty different languages.\"}]",{"_45":2672,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":2673},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76638446420209","A-Time-of-Witches/Madeline-Martin",{"_45":2675,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":2676},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76638444519665","1148773521",{"_45":2678,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76638445502705",{"_45":2680,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":2635},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76638443012337",{"_45":2682,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76638445797617",{"_45":2684,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":2685},"gid://shopify/Metafield/93652538097905","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.8\"}",{"_45":2687,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":2176},"gid://shopify/Metafield/93319617020145",{"_1887":1888,"_45":2689,"_75":2690,"_1891":2004,"_834":2691,"_1894":2692,"_1896":2693,"_1898":2694,"_1905":2699,"_1913":63,"_1914":2702,"_1920":2706,"_1942":2716,"_1945":2718,"_1947":2719,"_1949":-5,"_1950":2720},"gid://shopify/Product/9448598274289","Practical Magic: Deluxe Edition","9798217192298","The Owens sisters confront the challenges of life and love in this bewitching, New York Times bestselling novel that inspired the cult-classic film starring Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock.This beautiful deluxe trade paperback edition features:* A dazzling new cover with foil details* Exquisitely designed stenciled edges For more than two hundred years, the Owens women have been blamed for everything that has gone wrong in their Massachusetts town. Gillian and Sally have endured that fate as well: as children, the sisters were forever outsiders, taunted, talked about, pointed at. Their elderly aunts almost seemed to encourage the whispers of witchery, with their musty house and their exotic concoctions and their crowd of black cats. But all Gillian and Sally wanted was to escape. One will do so by marrying, the other by running away. But the bonds they share will bring them back-almost as if by magic...\"Splendid...Practical Magic is one of [Hoffman's] best novels, showing on every page her gift for touching ordinary life as if with a wand, to reveal how extraordinary life really is.\"-Newsweek \"[A] delicious fantasy of witchcraft and love in a world where gardens smell of lemon verbena and happy endings are possible.\"-Cosmopolitan","The Owens sisters confront the challenges of life and love in this bewitching, New York Times bestselling novel that inspired the cult-classic film starring Nicole Kidman and Sandra Bullock.

This beautiful deluxe trade paperback edition features:
* A dazzling new cover with foil details
* Exquisitely designed stenciled edges

For more than two hundred years, the Owens women have been blamed for everything that has gone wrong in their Massachusetts town. Gillian and Sally have endured that fate as well: as children, the sisters were forever outsiders, taunted, talked about, pointed at. Their elderly aunts almost seemed to encourage the whispers of witchery, with their musty house and their exotic concoctions and their crowd of black cats. But all Gillian and Sally wanted was to escape. One will do so by marrying, the other by running away. But the bonds they share will bring them back-almost as if by magic...

\"Splendid...Practical Magic is one of [Hoffman's] best novels, showing on every page her gift for touching ordinary life as if with a wand, to reveal how extraordinary life really is.\"-Newsweek

\"[A] delicious fantasy of witchcraft and love in a world where gardens smell of lemon verbena and happy endings are possible.\"-Cosmopolitan",{"_45":2695,"_58":2696,"_60":2697,"_54":2698,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/48832610468081","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9798217192298_p0.jpg?v=1784582093",1070,1617,{"_1907":2700},{"_1909":2701,"_1911":1912},"20.0",{"_1907":2703,"_1918":2705},{"_1909":2704,"_1911":1912},"22.0",{"_1909":2704,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":2707},[2708],{"_45":2709,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":2710,"_714":2711,"_1930":2712,"_1932":2713,"_1934":2714,"_1940":2691,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47720472805617",{"_1909":2704,"_1911":1912},{"_45":2695,"_58":2696,"_1904":-5,"_60":2697,"_54":2698},{"_1909":2701,"_1911":1912},{"_75":2690,"_834":2691},[2715],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":2717},"[\"Special Editions (p10264)\",\"Judge a Book by Its Edges (p10048)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"Our Best Paperbacks (p10342)\",\"B|Bestseller|#007C6C (p7858)\",\"BADGE - $2 OFF (p7878)\",\"Paperbacks of the Year (p10818)\",\"Retail Price fixing (p261)\",\"Barnes & Noble Holiday Gift Guide (p5430)\",\"BADGE - Best Seller (p7883)\"]",{"_1938":2691},{"_1938":2004},[2721,2723,2726,2728,2730,-5,2732,2734,2737,2740,2743,-5,2745,2747,-5,2749,-5,2751],{"_45":2722,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":2602},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629413892337",{"_45":2724,"_1954":1955,"_1956":2277,"_1938":2725},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629414088945","Practical Magic Series",{"_45":2727,"_1954":1955,"_1956":2349,"_1938":900},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629414154481",{"_45":2729,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629414383857",{"_45":2731,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629413597425",{"_45":2733,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":2041},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629414482161",{"_45":2735,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":2736},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629543588081","[{\"id\":\"127262695T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"INTRODUCTION

In the world of Practical Magic, lilacs bloom overnight, the real and the magical overlap, and the Owens women have been witches for generations. This novel is an attempt to unlock the secrets of the human heart. What price are we willing to pay for love? How do we recognize and understand our truest selves? How does our past affect our present? Many of us know what it's like to try to escape a family legacy of one sort or another, only to discover that in the long run we carry our heritage with us no matter how far we might run. The Owens family is one in which the women will do anything for each other; they may argue, they may disagree, but they are fiercely devoted to one another.

Witches are outsiders, and those among us who have been bullied and ostracized can relate to their plight. Part of our fascination with witches is that they are the only female mythic figures with power. These are women who don't need to be rescued by a prince or a king but, instead, can save themselves-sometimes with the help of a sister. They are wise and fearless women of courage. In short, they are everything little girls wish to grow up to become. In both Practical Magic and its prequel, The Rules of Magic, girls are always encouraged to choose courage, and Courage Tea is the aunts' most treasured remedy. Practical Magic is the mythic reconfiguration of the journey most women must make, whether they are sisters, mothers, daughters, or aunts.
The Owens women practice magic in the modern world. Sally is the steady older sister who yearns for a \\\"normal\\\" life. Gillian is the wild, unpredictable younger sister who searches out danger. Although they are opposites, each is wary of love, for they have seen lovestruck women come to their aunts for potions and remedies. The original Owens ancestor, Maria Owens, after being abandoned by one of the magistrates at the Salem witch trials, called down a curse upon her family to protect them from the troubles of love. Sally and Gillian know that they carry Maria's curse. Both must fight for love in a world that is more dangerous when you open your heart, but which is also more meaningful and joyful once you do. The sisters can't escape magic any more than they can escape love, and in the end they realize this is a blessing rather than a curse.

Twenty-five years after its publication, I am delighted to say that Practical Magic lives on. Just as there are three generations of women in the novel, the book has been embraced by three generations of readers. I've met daughters and mothers and grandmothers who have shared the novel, and nothing brings me more joy than to know that Practical Magic is a family affair. This is a book about magic, but more importantly, it's an ode to sisterhood and family, and to the power of love.

Readers have said that when they return to Practical Magic for a second or third reading, they experience the novel in a completely different way than they did the first time around. The meaning of the book changes for them depending on the stage of their life. The family dynamics are complex; and as often happens in our own lives, how we view the people close to us, even when they are fictional characters, depends on where we stand in the world at that time.
Over the years, readers have asked for another novel about the Owens women. My interest in personal history led me to go back in time and write a prequel rather than a sequel. The Rules of Magic tells the story of the aunts from Practical Magic, Franny and Jet, when they are young and first experience their own magical awakenings. I wanted to explore how Franny and Jet became the wise, beloved aunts in Practical Magic. The young Franny is a beautiful red-haired girl, fearless and confident in her powers; the young Jet is wounded in love but still willing to open her heart. The aunts are raised-without any knowledge of their magical family history-in the sixties, a magical and revolutionary time in New York, the time and place I had known as a girl. It was a pleasure to go back to the sixties and discover how the aunts had lived their lives, both magically and practically. It was also a pleasure for me to return to Greenwich Village as a researcher and revisit the landscape of my own youth. The novelist can be the last to know what a novel is about, and I'm often surprised by the turns in my own stories and by the choices my characters make. Franny and Jet's brother, Vincent, has a story that neither he nor I would have predicted, one that is at the heart of The Rules of Magic.

I start writing a novel with a question I need answered. Practical Magic addresses serious questions about the place of women in our society-questions that are as important, or more so, than they were twenty-five years ago. Unfortunately, over the past quarter century, the place of a woman in society has not moved forward as we had wished, then and now. There are still many of the same issues left to address: equal pay, childcare, healthcare, sexual assault. Magic may not be able to right these wrongs, but sisterhood just might. The years have only intensified the importance of telling women's stories, and doing our best to ensure that women who have been forced to be silent can speak and tell their own truths.

Fortunately, the Owens women spoke to me. It was as if they had walked through the door and all I had to do was chart their histories. I loved magic from the start, beginning with the stories my Russian grandmother told me. If \\\"magic\\\" was in the title of a book, I was bound to find it. In the world of fairy tales, the amazing is recounted in a matter-of fact tone, with the practical and the magical living side by side. One day there is a knock at the door, or a rose that blooms through the winter, or a spindle that must be avoided at all costs. It was the melding of the magical and the everyday that was most affecting to me as a reader, for the world I lived in seemed much the same. People you loved could disappear, through death or divorce; they could turn into heroes or beasts. My personal experience and my childhood reading left me longing for a world in which anything could happen, magic or not, on an ordinary day.

More and more readers have come to feel that magical literature is the original form of storytelling, including fairy tales, folktales, myth, and modern fiction. If I were to write Practical Magic today, I would begin in exactly the same way as I did twenty-five years ago.

For more than two hundred years, the Owens women have been blamed for everything that has gone wrong in town.

There are those who have come to the book after watching the film version of Practical Magic, which has become a much loved cult movie and boasts one of the most exceptional casts of women ever gathered: Sandra Bullock, Nicole Kidman, Stockard Channing, Dianne Wiest, Evan Rachel Wood, Camilla Belle, Chloe Webb, and Margo Martindale. It's a rare film that is so chock-full of interesting female characters who argue, form friendships, hurt one another, and support each other. The film is great fun, but it doesn't avoid the darkness in the story: Gillian's history of abuse resonates, as does Sally's emotional journey of love and loss, which leads her to understand that the only chance for happiness is to be true to herself.

At this writing, I am beginning a third magic book about Maria Owens, Magic Lessons, going even further back in time, charting the initial history of the Owens family and their magical abilities. I can't wait for readers to discover the origins of the family, and I can't wait to discover it for myself. The story may surprise me, and I expect it will take on a life of its own, but I know that within it I will find that once upon a time, there was a woman or a girl who was different, who was an outcast, who looked for beauty in the world, who was wounded, who fell in love despite the warnings, who would do anything for her sister or her niece or her daughter or her mother, who knew that despite the dangers, we must fall in love whenever we can.

SUPERSTITION

For more than two hundred years, the Owens women have been blamed for everything that has gone wrong in town. If a damp spring arrived, if cows in the pasture gave milk that was runny with blood, if a colt died of colic or a baby was born with a red birthmark stamped onto his cheek, everyone believed that fate must have been twisted, at least a little, by those women over on Magnolia Street. It didn't matter what the problem was-lightning, or locusts, or a death by drowning. It didn't matter if the situation could be explained by logic, or science, or plain bad luck. As soon as there was a hint of trouble or the slightest misfortune, people began pointing their fingers and placing blame. Before long they'd convinced themselves that it wasn't safe to walk past the Owens house after dark, and only the most foolish neighbors would dare to peer over the black wrought-iron fence that circled the yard like a snake.

Inside the house there were no clocks and no mirrors and three locks on each and every door. Mice lived under the floorboards and in the walls and often could be found in the dresser drawers, where they ate the embroidered tablecloths, as well as the lacy edges of the linen placemats. Fifteen different sorts of wood had been used for the window seats and the mantels, including golden oak, silver ash, and a peculiarly fragrant cherrywood that gave off the scent of ripe fruit even in the dead of winter, when every tree outside was nothing more than a leafless black stick. No matter how dusty the rest of the house might be, none of the woodwork ever needed polishing. If you squinted, you could see your reflection right there in the wainscoting in the dining room or the banister you held on to as you ran up the stairs. It was dark in every room, even at noon, and cool all through the heat of July. Anyone who dared to stand on the porch, where the ivy grew wild, could try for hours to look through the windows and never see a thing. It was the same looking out; the green-tinted window glass was so old and so thick that everything on the other side seemed like a dream, including the sky and the trees.

The little girls who lived in the attic were sisters, only thirteen months apart in age. They were never told to go to bed before midnight or reminded to brush their teeth. No one cared if their clothes were wrinkled or if they spit on the street. All the while these little girls were growing up, they were allowed to sleep with their shoes on and draw funny faces on their bedroom walls with black crayons. They could drink cold Dr Peppers for breakfast, if that was what they craved, or eat marshmallow pies for dinner. They could climb onto the roof and sit perched on the slate peak, leaning back as far as possible, in order to spy the first star. There they would stay on windy March nights or humid August evenings, whispering, arguing over whether it was feasible for even the smallest wish to ever come true.

The girls were being raised by the aunts, who, as much as they might have wanted to, simply couldn't turn their nieces away. The children, after all, were orphans whose careless parents were so much in love they failed to notice smoke emanating from the walls of the bungalow where they'd gone to enjoy a second honeymoon, after leaving the girls home with a babysitter. No wonder the sisters always shared a bed during storms; they were both terrified of thunder and could never speak above a whisper once the sky began to rumble. When they did finally doze off, their arms wrapped around each other, they often had the exact same dreams. There were times when they could complete each other's sentences; certainly each could close her eyes and guess what the other most desired for dessert on any given day.

But in spite of their closeness, the two sisters were entirely different in appearance and temperament. Aside from the beautiful gray eyes the Owens women were known for, no one would have had reason to guess the sisters were related. Gillian was fair and blond, while Sally's hair was as black as the pelts of the ill-mannered cats the aunts allowed to skulk through the garden and claw at the draperies in the parlor. Gillian was lazy and liked to sleep past noon. She saved up her allowance money, then paid Sally to do her math homework and iron her party dresses. She drank bottles of Yoo-Hoo and ate goopy Hershey's bars while sprawled out on the cool basement floor, content to watch as Sally dusted the metal shelves where the aunts kept pickles and preserves. Gillian's favorite thing in the world to do was to lie on the velvet-cushioned window seat, up on the landing, where the drapes were made of damask and a portrait of Maria Owens, who had built the house so long ago, collected dust in a corner. That's where she could be found on summer afternoons, so relaxed and languid that moths would land on her, mistaking her for a cushion, and proceed to make tiny holes in her T-shirts and jeans.

Sally, three hundred ninety-seven days older than her sister, was as conscientious as Gillian was idle. She never believed in anything that could not be proven with facts and figures. When Gillian pointed to a shooting star, it was Sally who reminded her that what was falling to earth was only an old rock, heated by its descent through the atmosphere. Sally was a take-charge sort of person from the start; she didn't like confusion and mess, both of which filled the aunts' old house on Magnolia Street from attic to cellar.

From the time she was in third grade, and Gillian in second, Sally was the one who cooked healthy dinners of meat loaf and fresh green beans and barley soup, using recipes from a copy of Joy of Cooking she'd managed to smuggle into the house. She fixed their lunchboxes each morning, packing up turkey-and-tomato sandwiches on whole-wheat bread, adding carrot sticks and iced oatmeal cookies, all of which Gillian tossed in the trash the instant after Sally deposited her in her classroom, since she preferred the sloppy joes and brownies sold in the school cafeteria, and she often had swiped enough quarters and dimes from the aunts' coat pockets to buy herself whatever she liked.

Night and Day, the aunts called them, and although neither girl laughed at this little joke or found it amusing in the least, they recognized the truth in it, and were able to understand, earlier than most sisters, that the moon is always jealous of the heat of the day, just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep. They kept each other's secrets well; they crossed their hearts and hoped to die if they should ever slip and tell, even if the secret was only a cat's tail pulled or some foxglove stolen from the aunts' garden.\"},{\"id\":\"122479405T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"INTRODUCTION

In the world of Practical Magic, lilacs bloom overnight, the real and the magical overlap, and the Owens women have been witches for generations. This novel is an attempt to unlock the secrets of the human heart. What price are we willing to pay for love? How do we recognize and understand our truest selves? How does our past affect our present? Many of us know what it’s like to try to escape a family legacy of one sort or another, only to discover that in the long run we carry our heritage with us no matter how far we might run. The Owens family is one in which the women will do anything for each other; they may argue, they may disagree, but they are fiercely devoted to one another.

Witches are outsiders, and those among us who have been bullied and ostracized can relate to their plight. Part of our fascination with witches is that they are the only female mythic figures with power. These are women who don’t need to be rescued by a prince or a king but, instead, can save themselves—sometimes with the help of a sister. They are wise and fearless women of courage. In short, they are everything little girls wish to grow up to become. In both Practical Magic and its prequel, The Rules of Magic, girls are always encouraged to choose courage, and Courage Tea is the aunts’ most treasured remedy. Practical Magic is the mythic reconfiguration of the journey most women must make, whether they are sisters, mothers, daughters, or aunts.
The Owens women practice magic in the modern world. Sally is the steady older sister who yearns for a “normal” life. Gillian is the wild, unpredictable younger sister who searches out danger. Although they are opposites, each is wary of love, for they have seen lovestruck women come to their aunts for potions and remedies. The original Owens ancestor, Maria Owens, after being abandoned by one of the magistrates at the Salem witch trials, called down a curse upon her family to protect them from the troubles of love. Sally and Gillian know that they carry Maria’s curse. Both must fight for love in a world that is more dangerous when you open your heart, but which is also more meaningful and joyful once you do. The sisters can’t escape magic any more than they can escape love, and in the end they realize this is a blessing rather than a curse.

Twenty-five years after its publication, I am delighted to say that Practical Magic lives on. Just as there are three generations of women in the novel, the book has been embraced by three generations of readers. I’ve met daughters and mothers and grandmothers who have shared the novel, and nothing brings me more joy than to know that Practical Magic is a family affair. This is a book about magic, but more importantly, it’s an ode to sisterhood and family, and to the power of love.

Readers have said that when they return to Practical Magic for a second or third reading, they experience the novel in a completely different way than they did the first time around. The meaning of the book changes for them depending on the stage of their life. The family dynamics are complex; and as often happens in our own lives, how we view the people close to us, even when they are fictional characters, depends on where we stand in the world at that time.
Over the years, readers have asked for another novel about the Owens women. My interest in personal history led me to go back in time and write a prequel rather than a sequel. The Rules of Magic tells the story of the aunts from Practical Magic, Franny and Jet, when they are young and first experience their own magical awakenings. I wanted to explore how Franny and Jet became the wise, beloved aunts in Practical Magic. The young Franny is a beautiful red-haired girl, fearless and confident in her powers; the young Jet is wounded in love but still willing to open her heart. The aunts are raised—without any knowledge of their magical family history—in the sixties, a magical and revolutionary time in New York, the time and place I had known as a girl. It was a pleasure to go back to the sixties and discover how the aunts had lived their lives, both magically and practically. It was also a pleasure for me to return to Greenwich Village as a researcher and revisit the landscape of my own youth. The novelist can be the last to know what a novel is about, and I’m often surprised by the turns in my own stories and by the choices my characters make. Franny and Jet’s brother, Vincent, has a story that neither he nor I would have predicted, one that is at the heart of The Rules of Magic.

I start writing a novel with a question I need answered. Practical Magic addresses serious questions about the place of women in our society—questions that are as important, or more so, than they were twenty-five years ago. Unfortunately, over the past quarter century, the place of a woman in society has not moved forward as we had wished, then and now. There are still many of the same issues left to address: equal pay, childcare, healthcare, sexual assault. Magic may not be able to right these wrongs, but sisterhood just might. The years have only intensified the importance of telling women’s stories, and doing our best to ensure that women who have been forced to be silent can speak and tell their own truths.

Fortunately, the Owens women spoke to me. It was as if they had walked through the door and all I had to do was chart their histories. I loved magic from the start, beginning with the stories my Russian grandmother told me. If “magic” was in the title of a book, I was bound to find it. In the world of fairy tales, the amazing is recounted in a matter-of fact tone, with the practical and the magical living side by side. One day there is a knock at the door, or a rose that blooms through the winter, or a spindle that must be avoided at all costs. It was the melding of the magical and the everyday that was most affecting to me as a reader, for the world I lived in seemed much the same. People you loved could disappear, through death or divorce; they could turn into heroes or beasts. My personal experience and my childhood reading left me longing for a world in which anything could happen, magic or not, on an ordinary day.

More and more readers have come to feel that magical literature is the original form of storytelling, including fairy tales, folktales, myth, and modern fiction. If I were to write Practical Magic today, I would begin in exactly the same way as I did twenty-five years ago.

For more than two hundred years, the Owens women have been blamed for everything that has gone wrong in town.

There are those who have come to the book after watching the film version of Practical Magic, which has become a much loved cult movie and boasts one of the most exceptional casts of women ever gathered: Sandra Bullock, Nicole Kidman, Stockard Channing, Dianne Wiest, Evan Rachel Wood, Camilla Belle, Chloe Webb, and Margo Martindale. It’s a rare film that is so chock-full of interesting female characters who argue, form friendships, hurt one another, and support each other. The film is great fun, but it doesn’t avoid the darkness in the story: Gillian’s history of abuse resonates, as does Sally’s emotional journey of love and loss, which leads her to understand that the only chance for happiness is to be true to herself.

At this writing, I am beginning a third magic book about Maria Owens, Magic Lessons, going even further back in time, charting the initial history of the Owens family and their magical abilities. I can’t wait for readers to discover the origins of the family, and I can’t wait to discover it for myself. The story may surprise me, and I expect it will take on a life of its own, but I know that within it I will find that once upon a time, there was a woman or a girl who was different, who was an outcast, who looked for beauty in the world, who was wounded, who fell in love despite the warnings, who would do anything for her sister or her niece or her daughter or her mother, who knew that despite the dangers, we must fall in love whenever we can.

SUPERSTITION

For more than two hundred years, the Owens women have been blamed for everything that has gone wrong in town. If a damp spring arrived, if cows in the pasture gave milk that was runny with blood, if a colt died of colic or a baby was born with a red birthmark stamped onto his cheek, everyone believed that fate must have been twisted, at least a little, by those women over on Magnolia Street. It didn’t matter what the problem was—lightning, or locusts, or a death by drowning. It didn’t matter if the situation could be explained by logic, or science, or plain bad luck. As soon as there was a hint of trouble or the slightest misfortune, people began pointing their fingers and placing blame. Before long they’d convinced themselves that it wasn’t safe to walk past the Owens house after dark, and only the most foolish neighbors would dare to peer over the black wrought-iron fence that circled the yard like a snake.

Inside the house there were no clocks and no mirrors and three locks on each and every door. Mice lived under the floorboards and in the walls and often could be found in the dresser drawers, where they ate the embroidered tablecloths, as well as the lacy edges of the linen placemats. Fifteen different sorts of wood had been used for the window seats and the mantels, including golden oak, silver ash, and a peculiarly fragrant cherrywood that gave off the scent of ripe fruit even in the dead of winter, when every tree outside was nothing more than a leafless black stick. No matter how dusty the rest of the house might be, none of the woodwork ever needed polishing. If you squinted, you could see your reflection right there in the wainscoting in the dining room or the banister you held on to as you ran up the stairs. It was dark in every room, even at noon, and cool all through the heat of July. Anyone who dared to stand on the porch, where the ivy grew wild, could try for hours to look through the windows and never see a thing. It was the same looking out; the green-tinted window glass was so old and so thick that everything on the other side seemed like a dream, including the sky and the trees.

The little girls who lived in the attic were sisters, only thirteen months apart in age. They were never told to go to bed before midnight or reminded to brush their teeth. No one cared if their clothes were wrinkled or if they spit on the street. All the while these little girls were growing up, they were allowed to sleep with their shoes on and draw funny faces on their bedroom walls with black crayons. They could drink cold Dr Peppers for breakfast, if that was what they craved, or eat marshmallow pies for dinner. They could climb onto the roof and sit perched on the slate peak, leaning back as far as possible, in order to spy the first star. There they would stay on windy March nights or humid August evenings, whispering, arguing over whether it was feasible for even the smallest wish to ever come true.

The girls were being raised by the aunts, who, as much as they might have wanted to, simply couldn’t turn their nieces away. The children, after all, were orphans whose careless parents were so much in love they failed to notice smoke emanating from the walls of the bungalow where they’d gone to enjoy a second honeymoon, after leaving the girls home with a babysitter. No wonder the sisters always shared a bed during storms; they were both terrified of thunder and could never speak above a whisper once the sky began to rumble. When they did finally doze off, their arms wrapped around each other, they often had the exact same dreams. There were times when they could complete each other’s sentences; certainly each could close her eyes and guess what the other most desired for dessert on any given day.

But in spite of their closeness, the two sisters were entirely different in appearance and temperament. Aside from the beautiful gray eyes the Owens women were known for, no one would have had reason to guess the sisters were related. Gillian was fair and blond, while Sally’s hair was as black as the pelts of the ill-mannered cats the aunts allowed to skulk through the garden and claw at the draperies in the parlor. Gillian was lazy and liked to sleep past noon. She saved up her allowance money, then paid Sally to do her math homework and iron her party dresses. She drank bottles of Yoo-Hoo and ate goopy Hershey’s bars while sprawled out on the cool basement floor, content to watch as Sally dusted the metal shelves where the aunts kept pickles and preserves. Gillian’s favorite thing in the world to do was to lie on the velvet-cushioned window seat, up on the landing, where the drapes were made of damask and a portrait of Maria Owens, who had built the house so long ago, collected dust in a corner. That’s where she could be found on summer afternoons, so relaxed and languid that moths would land on her, mistaking her for a cushion, and proceed to make tiny holes in her T-shirts and jeans.

Sally, three hundred ninety-seven days older than her sister, was as conscientious as Gillian was idle. She never believed in anything that could not be proven with facts and figures. When Gillian pointed to a shooting star, it was Sally who reminded her that what was falling to earth was only an old rock, heated by its descent through the atmosphere. Sally was a take-charge sort of person from the start; she didn’t like confusion and mess, both of which filled the aunts’ old house on Magnolia Street from attic to cellar.

From the time she was in third grade, and Gillian in second, Sally was the one who cooked healthy dinners of meat loaf and fresh green beans and barley soup, using recipes from a copy of Joy of Cooking she’d managed to smuggle into the house. She fixed their lunchboxes each morning, packing up turkey-and-tomato sandwiches on whole-wheat bread, adding carrot sticks and iced oatmeal cookies, all of which Gillian tossed in the trash the instant after Sally deposited her in her classroom, since she preferred the sloppy joes and brownies sold in the school cafeteria, and she often had swiped enough quarters and dimes from the aunts’ coat pockets to buy herself whatever she liked.

Night and Day, the aunts called them, and although neither girl laughed at this little joke or found it amusing in the least, they recognized the truth in it, and were able to understand, earlier than most sisters, that the moon is always jealous of the heat of the day, just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep. They kept each other’s secrets well; they crossed their hearts and hoped to die if they should ever slip and tell, even if the secret was only a cat’s tail pulled or some foxglove stolen from the aunts’ garden.\"},{\"id\":\"117307835T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"INTRODUCTION

In the world of Practical Magic, lilacs bloom overnight, the real and the magical overlap, and the Owens women have been witches for generations. This novel is an attempt to unlock the secrets of the human heart. What price are we willing to pay for love? How do we recognize and understand our truest selves? How does our past affect our present? Many of us know what it’s like to try to escape a family legacy of one sort or another, only to discover that in the long run we carry our heritage with us no matter how far we might run. The Owens family is one in which the women will do anything for each other; they may argue, they may disagree, but they are fiercely devoted to one another.

Witches are outsiders, and those among us who have been bullied and ostracized can relate to their plight. Part of our fascination with witches is that they are the only female mythic figures with power. These are women who don’t need to be rescued by a prince or a king but, instead, can save themselves—sometimes with the help of a sister. They are wise and fearless women of courage. In short, they are everything little girls wish to grow up to become. In both Practical Magic and its prequel, The Rules of Magic, girls are always encouraged to choose courage, and Courage Tea is the aunts’ most treasured remedy. Practical Magic is the mythic reconfiguration of the journey most women must make, whether they are sisters, mothers, daughters, or aunts.
The Owens women practice magic in the modern world. Sally is the steady older sister who yearns for a “normal” life. Gillian is the wild, unpredictable younger sister who searches out danger. Although they are opposites, each is wary of love, for they have seen lovestruck women come to their aunts for potions and remedies. The original Owens ancestor, Maria Owens, after being abandoned by one of the magistrates at the Salem witch trials, called down a curse upon her family to protect them from the troubles of love. Sally and Gillian know that they carry Maria’s curse. Both must fight for love in a world that is more dangerous when you open your heart, but which is also more meaningful and joyful once you do. The sisters can’t escape magic any more than they can escape love, and in the end they realize this is a blessing rather than a curse.

Twenty-five years after its publication, I am delighted to say that Practical Magic lives on. Just as there are three generations of women in the novel, the book has been embraced by three generations of readers. I’ve met daughters and mothers and grandmothers who have shared the novel, and nothing brings me more joy than to know that Practical Magic is a family affair. This is a book about magic, but more importantly, it’s an ode to sisterhood and family, and to the power of love.

Readers have said that when they return to Practical Magic for a second or third reading, they experience the novel in a completely different way than they did the first time around. The meaning of the book changes for them depending on the stage of their life. The family dynamics are complex; and as often happens in our own lives, how we view the people close to us, even when they are fictional characters, depends on where we stand in the world at that time.
Over the years, readers have asked for another novel about the Owens women. My interest in personal history led me to go back in time and write a prequel rather than a sequel. The Rules of Magic tells the story of the aunts from Practical Magic, Franny and Jet, when they are young and first experience their own magical awakenings. I wanted to explore how Franny and Jet became the wise, beloved aunts in Practical Magic. The young Franny is a beautiful red-haired girl, fearless and confident in her powers; the young Jet is wounded in love but still willing to open her heart. The aunts are raised—without any knowledge of their magical family history—in the sixties, a magical and revolutionary time in New York, the time and place I had known as a girl. It was a pleasure to go back to the sixties and discover how the aunts had lived their lives, both magically and practically. It was also a pleasure for me to return to Greenwich Village as a researcher and revisit the landscape of my own youth. The novelist can be the last to know what a novel is about, and I’m often surprised by the turns in my own stories and by the choices my characters make. Franny and Jet’s brother, Vincent, has a story that neither he nor I would have predicted, one that is at the heart of The Rules of Magic.

I start writing a novel with a question I need answered. Practical Magic addresses serious questions about the place of women in our society—questions that are as important, or more so, than they were twenty-five years ago. Unfortunately, over the past quarter century, the place of a woman in society has not moved forward as we had wished, then and now. There are still many of the same issues left to address: equal pay, childcare, healthcare, sexual assault. Magic may not be able to right these wrongs, but sisterhood just might. The years have only intensified the importance of telling women’s stories, and doing our best to ensure that women who have been forced to be silent can speak and tell their own truths.

Fortunately, the Owens women spoke to me. It was as if they had walked through the door and all I had to do was chart their histories. I loved magic from the start, beginning with the stories my Russian grandmother told me. If “magic” was in the title of a book, I was bound to find it. In the world of fairy tales, the amazing is recounted in a matter-of fact tone, with the practical and the magical living side by side. One day there is a knock at the door, or a rose that blooms through the winter, or a spindle that must be avoided at all costs. It was the melding of the magical and the everyday that was most affecting to me as a reader, for the world I lived in seemed much the same. People you loved could disappear, through death or divorce; they could turn into heroes or beasts. My personal experience and my childhood reading left me longing for a world in which anything could happen, magic or not, on an ordinary day.

More and more readers have come to feel that magical literature is the original form of storytelling, including fairy tales, folktales, myth, and modern fiction. If I were to write Practical Magic today, I would begin in exactly the same way as I did twenty-five years ago.

For more than two hundred years, the Owens women have been blamed for everything that has gone wrong in town.

There are those who have come to the book after watching the film version of Practical Magic, which has become a much loved cult movie and boasts one of the most exceptional casts of women ever gathered: Sandra Bullock, Nicole Kidman, Stockard Channing, Dianne Wiest, Evan Rachel Wood, Camilla Belle, Chloe Webb, and Margo Martindale. It’s a rare film that is so chock-full of interesting female characters who argue, form friendships, hurt one another, and support each other. The film is great fun, but it doesn’t avoid the darkness in the story: Gillian’s history of abuse resonates, as does Sally’s emotional journey of love and loss, which leads her to understand that the only chance for happiness is to be true to herself.

At this writing, I am beginning a third magic book about Maria Owens, Magic Lessons, going even further back in time, charting the initial history of the Owens family and their magical abilities. I can’t wait for readers to discover the origins of the family, and I can’t wait to discover it for myself. The story may surprise me, and I expect it will take on a life of its own, but I know that within it I will find that once upon a time, there was a woman or a girl who was different, who was an outcast, who looked for beauty in the world, who was wounded, who fell in love despite the warnings, who would do anything for her sister or her niece or her daughter or her mother, who knew that despite the dangers, we must fall in love whenever we can.

SUPERSTITION

For more than two hundred years, the Owens women have been blamed for everything that has gone wrong in town. If a damp spring arrived, if cows in the pasture gave milk that was runny with blood, if a colt died of colic or a baby was born with a red birthmark stamped onto his cheek, everyone believed that fate must have been twisted, at least a little, by those women over on Magnolia Street. It didn’t matter what the problem was—lightning, or locusts, or a death by drowning. It didn’t matter if the situation could be explained by logic, or science, or plain bad luck. As soon as there was a hint of trouble or the slightest misfortune, people began pointing their fingers and placing blame. Before long they’d convinced themselves that it wasn’t safe to walk past the Owens house after dark, and only the most foolish neighbors would dare to peer over the black wrought-iron fence that circled the yard like a snake.

Inside the house there were no clocks and no mirrors and three locks on each and every door. Mice lived under the floorboards and in the walls and often could be found in the dresser drawers, where they ate the embroidered tablecloths, as well as the lacy edges of the linen placemats. Fifteen different sorts of wood had been used for the window seats and the mantels, including golden oak, silver ash, and a peculiarly fragrant cherrywood that gave off the scent of ripe fruit even in the dead of winter, when every tree outside was nothing more than a leafless black stick. No matter how dusty the rest of the house might be, none of the woodwork ever needed polishing. If you squinted, you could see your reflection right there in the wainscoting in the dining room or the banister you held on to as you ran up the stairs. It was dark in every room, even at noon, and cool all through the heat of July. Anyone who dared to stand on the porch, where the ivy grew wild, could try for hours to look through the windows and never see a thing. It was the same looking out; the green-tinted window glass was so old and so thick that everything on the other side seemed like a dream, including the sky and the trees.

The little girls who lived in the attic were sisters, only thirteen months apart in age. They were never told to go to bed before midnight or reminded to brush their teeth. No one cared if their clothes were wrinkled or if they spit on the street. All the while these little girls were growing up, they were allowed to sleep with their shoes on and draw funny faces on their bedroom walls with black crayons. They could drink cold Dr Peppers for breakfast, if that was what they craved, or eat marshmallow pies for dinner. They could climb onto the roof and sit perched on the slate peak, leaning back as far as possible, in order to spy the first star. There they would stay on windy March nights or humid August evenings, whispering, arguing over whether it was feasible for even the smallest wish to ever come true.

The girls were being raised by the aunts, who, as much as they might have wanted to, simply couldn’t turn their nieces away. The children, after all, were orphans whose careless parents were so much in love they failed to notice smoke emanating from the walls of the bungalow where they’d gone to enjoy a second honeymoon, after leaving the girls home with a babysitter. No wonder the sisters always shared a bed during storms; they were both terrified of thunder and could never speak above a whisper once the sky began to rumble. When they did finally doze off, their arms wrapped around each other, they often had the exact same dreams. There were times when they could complete each other’s sentences; certainly each could close her eyes and guess what the other most desired for dessert on any given day.

But in spite of their closeness, the two sisters were entirely different in appearance and temperament. Aside from the beautiful gray eyes the Owens women were known for, no one would have had reason to guess the sisters were related. Gillian was fair and blond, while Sally’s hair was as black as the pelts of the ill-mannered cats the aunts allowed to skulk through the garden and claw at the draperies in the parlor. Gillian was lazy and liked to sleep past noon. She saved up her allowance money, then paid Sally to do her math homework and iron her party dresses. She drank bottles of Yoo-Hoo and ate goopy Hershey’s bars while sprawled out on the cool basement floor, content to watch as Sally dusted the metal shelves where the aunts kept pickles and preserves. Gillian’s favorite thing in the world to do was to lie on the velvet-cushioned window seat, up on the landing, where the drapes were made of damask and a portrait of Maria Owens, who had built the house so long ago, collected dust in a corner. That’s where she could be found on summer afternoons, so relaxed and languid that moths would land on her, mistaking her for a cushion, and proceed to make tiny holes in her T-shirts and jeans.

Sally, three hundred ninety-seven days older than her sister, was as conscientious as Gillian was idle. She never believed in anything that could not be proven with facts and figures. When Gillian pointed to a shooting star, it was Sally who reminded her that what was falling to earth was only an old rock, heated by its descent through the atmosphere. Sally was a take-charge sort of person from the start; she didn’t like confusion and mess, both of which filled the aunts’ old house on Magnolia Street from attic to cellar.

From the time she was in third grade, and Gillian in second, Sally was the one who cooked healthy dinners of meat loaf and fresh green beans and barley soup, using recipes from a copy of Joy of Cooking she’d managed to smuggle into the house. She fixed their lunchboxes each morning, packing up turkey-and-tomato sandwiches on whole-wheat bread, adding carrot sticks and iced oatmeal cookies, all of which Gillian tossed in the trash the instant after Sally deposited her in her classroom, since she preferred the sloppy joes and brownies sold in the school cafeteria, and she often had swiped enough quarters and dimes from the aunts’ coat pockets to buy herself whatever she liked.

Night and Day, the aunts called them, and although neither girl laughed at this little joke or found it amusing in the least, they recognized the truth in it, and were able to understand, earlier than most sisters, that the moon is always jealous of the heat of the day, just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep. They kept each other’s secrets well; they crossed their hearts and hoped to die if they should ever slip and tell, even if the secret was only a cat’s tail pulled or some foxglove stolen from the aunts’ garden.\"},{\"id\":\"91486855T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"INTRODUCTION

In the world of Practical Magic, lilacs bloom overnight, the real and the magical overlap, and the Owens women have been witches for generations. This novel is an attempt to unlock the secrets of the human heart. What price are we willing to pay for love? How do we recognize and understand our truest selves? How does our past affect our present? Many of us know what it’s like to try to escape a family legacy of one sort or another, only to discover that in the long run we carry our heritage with us no matter how far we might run. The Owens family is one in which the women will do anything for each other; they may argue, they may disagree, but they are fiercely devoted to one another.

Witches are outsiders, and those among us who have been bullied and ostracized can relate to their plight. Part of our fascination with witches is that they are the only female mythic figures with power. These are women who don’t need to be rescued by a prince or a king but, instead, can save themselves—sometimes with the help of a sister. They are wise and fearless women of courage. In short, they are everything little girls wish to grow up to become. In both Practical Magic and its prequel, The Rules of Magic, girls are always encouraged to choose courage, and Courage Tea is the aunts’ most treasured remedy. Practical Magic is the mythic reconfiguration of the journey most women must make, whether they are sisters, mothers, daughters, or aunts.
The Owens women practice magic in the modern world. Sally is the steady older sister who yearns for a “normal” life. Gillian is the wild, unpredictable younger sister who searches out danger. Although they are opposites, each is wary of love, for they have seen lovestruck women come to their aunts for potions and remedies. The original Owens ancestor, Maria Owens, after being abandoned by one of the magistrates at the Salem witch trials, called down a curse upon her family to protect them from the troubles of love. Sally and Gillian know that they carry Maria’s curse. Both must fight for love in a world that is more dangerous when you open your heart, but which is also more meaningful and joyful once you do. The sisters can’t escape magic any more than they can escape love, and in the end they realize this is a blessing rather than a curse.

Twenty-five years after its publication, I am delighted to say that Practical Magic lives on. Just as there are three generations of women in the novel, the book has been embraced by three generations of readers. I’ve met daughters and mothers and grandmothers who have shared the novel, and nothing brings me more joy than to know that Practical Magic is a family affair. This is a book about magic, but more importantly, it’s an ode to sisterhood and family, and to the power of love.

Readers have said that when they return to Practical Magic for a second or third reading, they experience the novel in a completely different way than they did the first time around. The meaning of the book changes for them depending on the stage of their life. The family dynamics are complex; and as often happens in our own lives, how we view the people close to us, even when they are fictional characters, depends on where we stand in the world at that time.
Over the years, readers have asked for another novel about the Owens women. My interest in personal history led me to go back in time and write a prequel rather than a sequel. The Rules of Magic tells the story of the aunts from Practical Magic, Franny and Jet, when they are young and first experience their own magical awakenings. I wanted to explore how Franny and Jet became the wise, beloved aunts in Practical Magic. The young Franny is a beautiful red-haired girl, fearless and confident in her powers; the young Jet is wounded in love but still willing to open her heart. The aunts are raised—without any knowledge of their magical family history—in the sixties, a magical and revolutionary time in New York, the time and place I had known as a girl. It was a pleasure to go back to the sixties and discover how the aunts had lived their lives, both magically and practically. It was also a pleasure for me to return to Greenwich Village as a researcher and revisit the landscape of my own youth. The novelist can be the last to know what a novel is about, and I’m often surprised by the turns in my own stories and by the choices my characters make. Franny and Jet’s brother, Vincent, has a story that neither he nor I would have predicted, one that is at the heart of The Rules of Magic.

I start writing a novel with a question I need answered. Practical Magic addresses serious questions about the place of women in our society—questions that are as important, or more so, than they were twenty-five years ago. Unfortunately, over the past quarter century, the place of a woman in society has not moved forward as we had wished, then and now. There are still many of the same issues left to address: equal pay, childcare, healthcare, sexual assault. Magic may not be able to right these wrongs, but sisterhood just might. The years have only intensified the importance of telling women’s stories, and doing our best to ensure that women who have been forced to be silent can speak and tell their own truths.

Fortunately, the Owens women spoke to me. It was as if they had walked through the door and all I had to do was chart their histories. I loved magic from the start, beginning with the stories my Russian grandmother told me. If “magic” was in the title of a book, I was bound to find it. In the world of fairy tales, the amazing is recounted in a matter-of fact tone, with the practical and the magical living side by side. One day there is a knock at the door, or a rose that blooms through the winter, or a spindle that must be avoided at all costs. It was the melding of the magical and the everyday that was most affecting to me as a reader, for the world I lived in seemed much the same. People you loved could disappear, through death or divorce; they could turn into hero's or beasts. My personal experience and my childhood reading left me longing for a world in which anything could happen, magic or not, on an ordinary day.

More and more readers have come to feel that magical literature is the original form of storytelling, including fairy tales, folktales, myth, and modern fiction. If I were to write Practical Magic today, I would begin in exactly the same way as I did twenty-five years ago.

For more than two hundred years, the Owens women have been blamed for everything that has gone wrong in town.

There are those who have come to the book after watching the film version of Practical Magic, which has become a much loved cult movie and boasts one of the most exceptional casts of women ever gathered: Sandra Bullock, Nicole Kidman, Stockard Channing, Dianne Wiest, Evan Rachel Wood, Camilla Belle, Chloe Webb, and Margo Martindale. It’s a rare film that is so chock-full of interesting female characters who argue, form friendships, hurt one another, and support each other. The film is great fun, but it doesn’t avoid the darkness in the story: Gillian’s history of abuse resonates, as does Sally’s emotional journey of love and loss, which leads her to understand that the only chance for happiness is to be true to herself.

At this writing, I am beginning a third magic book about Maria Owens, Magic Lessons, going even further back in time, charting the initial history of the Owens family and their magical abilities. I can’t wait for readers to discover the origins of the family, and I can’t wait to discover it for myself. The story may surprise me, and I expect it will take on a life of its own, but I know that within it I will find that once upon a time, there was a woman or a girl who was different, who was an outcast, who looked for beauty in the world, who was wounded, who fell in love despite the warnings, who would do anything for her sister or her niece or her daughter or her mother, who knew that despite the dangers, we must fall in love whenever we can.

SUPERSTITION

For more than two hundred years, the Owens women have been blamed for everything that has gone wrong in town. If a damp spring arrived, if cows in the pasture gave milk that was runny with blood, if a colt died of colic or a baby was born with a red birthmark stamped onto his cheek, everyone believed that fate must have been twisted, at least a little, by those women over on Magnolia Street. It didn’t matter what the problem was—lightning, or locusts, or a death by drowning. It didn’t matter if the situation could be explained by logic, or science, or plain bad luck. As soon as there was a hint of trouble or the slightest misfortune, people began pointing their fingers and placing blame. Before long they’d convinced themselves that it wasn’t safe to walk past the Owens house after dark, and only the most foolish neighbors would dare to peer over the black wrought-iron fence that circled the yard like a snake.

Inside the house there were no clocks and no mirrors and three locks on each and every door. Mice lived under the floorboards and in the walls and often could be found in the dresser drawers, where they ate the embroidered tablecloths, as well as the lacy edges of the linen placemats. Fifteen different sorts of wood had been used for the window seats and the mantels, including golden oak, silver ash, and a peculiarly fragrant cherrywood that gave off the scent of ripe fruit even in the dead of winter, when every tree outside was nothing more than a leafless black stick. No matter how dusty the rest of the house might be, none of the woodwork ever needed polishing. If you squinted, you could see your reflection right there in the wainscoting in the dining room or the banister you held on to as you ran up the stairs. It was dark in every room, even at noon, and cool all through the heat of July. Anyone who dared to stand on the porch, where the ivy grew wild, could try for hours to look through the windows and never see a thing. It was the same looking out; the green-tinted window glass was so old and so thick that everything on the other side seemed like a dream, including the sky and the trees.

The little girls who lived in the attic were sisters, only thirteen months apart in age. They were never told to go to bed before midnight or reminded to brush their teeth. No one cared if their clothes were wrinkled or if they spit on the street. All the while these little girls were growing up, they were allowed to sleep with their shoes on and draw funny faces on their bedroom walls with black crayons. They could drink cold Dr Peppers for breakfast, if that was what they craved, or eat marshmallow pies for dinner. They could climb onto the roof and sit perched on the slate peak, leaning back as far as possible, in order to spy the first star. There they would stay on windy March nights or humid August evenings, whispering, arguing over whether it was feasible for even the smallest wish to ever come true.

The girls were being raised by the aunts, who, as much as they might have wanted to, simply couldn’t turn their nieces away. The children, after all, were orphans whose careless parents were so much in love they failed to notice smoke emanating from the walls of the bungalow where they’d gone to enjoy a second honeymoon, after leaving the girls home with a babysitter. No wonder the sisters always shared a bed during storms; they were both terrified of thunder and could never speak above a whisper once the sky began to rumble. When they did finally doze off, their arms wrapped around each other, they often had the exact same dreams. There were times when they could complete each other’s sentences; certainly each could close her eyes and guess what the other most desired for dessert on any given day.

But in spite of their closeness, the two sisters were entirely different in appearance and temperament. Aside from the beautiful gray eyes the Owens women were known for, no one would have had reason to guess the sisters were related. Gillian was fair and blond, while Sally’s hair was as black as the pelts of the ill-mannered cats the aunts allowed to skulk through the garden and claw at the draperies in the parlor. Gillian was lazy and liked to sleep past noon. She saved up her allowance money, then paid Sally to do her math homework and iron her party dresses. She drank bottles of Yoo-Hoo and ate goopy Hershey’s bars while sprawled out on the cool basement floor, content to watch as Sally dusted the metal shelves where the aunts kept pickles and preserves. Gillian’s favorite thing in the world to do was to lie on the velvet-cushioned window seat, up on the landing, where the drapes were made of damask and a portrait of Maria Owens, who had built the house so long ago, collected dust in a corner. That’s where she could be found on summer afternoons, so relaxed and languid that moths would land on her, mistaking her for a cushion, and proceed to make tiny holes in her T-shirts and jeans.

Sally, three hundred ninety-seven days older than her sister, was as conscientious as Gillian was idle. She never believed in anything that could not be proven with facts and figures. When Gillian pointed to a shooting star, it was Sally who reminded her that what was falling to earth was only an old rock, heated by its descent through the atmosphere. Sally was a take-charge sort of person from the start; she didn’t like confusion and mess, both of which filled the aunts’ old house on Magnolia Street from attic to cellar.

From the time she was in third grade, and Gillian in second, Sally was the one who cooked healthy dinners of meat loaf and fresh green beans and barley soup, using recipes from a copy of Joy of Cooking she’d managed to smuggle into the house. She fixed their lunchboxes each morning, packing up turkey-and-tomato sandwiches on whole-wheat bread, adding carrot sticks and iced oatmeal cookies, all of which Gillian tossed in the trash the instant after Sally deposited her in her classroom, since she preferred the sloppy joes and brownies sold in the school cafeteria, and she often had swiped enough quarters and dimes from the aunts’ coat pockets to buy herself whatever she liked.

Night and Day, the aunts called them, and although neither girl laughed at this little joke or found it amusing in the least, they recognized the truth in it, and were able to understand, earlier than most sisters, that the moon is always jealous of the heat of the day, just as the sun always longs for something dark and deep. They kept each other’s secrets well; they crossed their hearts and hoped to die if they should ever slip and tell, even if the secret was only a cat’s tail pulled or some foxglove stolen from the aunts’ garden.\"},{\"id\":\"117307836T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Praise for Practical Magic

\\\"A beautiful, moving book about the power of love and the desires of the heart.\\\"-Denver Post

\\\"Charmingly told, and a good deal of fun.\\\"-The New York Times Book Review

\\\"One of her most lyrical works...Hoffman is at her best.\\\"-San Francisco Chronicle Book Review

\\\"Written with a light hand and rhythm...Practical Magic has the pace of a fairy tale but with the impact of accomplished fiction.\\\"-People

\\\"A sweet, sweet story that like the best fairy tales says more than at first it seems to.\\\"-New York Daily News

\\\"[Hoffman] has proved once again her potency as a storyteller, combining the mundane with the fantastic in a totally engaging way.\\\"-The Orlando Sentinel

\\\"Hoffman's writing has plenty of power. Her best sentences are like incantations-they won't let you get away.\\\"-Kirkus Reviews

\\\"Witches and ghosts, spells and sleight-of-hand weave a fanciful atmosphere in Alice Hoffman's tender comedy about clairvoyance, spells, and family ties.\\\"-The Miami Herald

\\\"A cosmic romance leavened with just the right touch of pragmatism and humor.\\\"-Booklist
\"},{\"id\":\"91223258T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Making magic feel like a part of every day life is no easy feat, but Alice Hoffman does it with style. This is the story of two sisters seeking freedom down different paths before being pulled back together again. And in this special deluxe edition, the book has never looked better.

\"},{\"id\":\"127262696T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Alice Hoffman is the bestselling author of more than thirty works of fiction, including The Invisible Hour, The World That We Knew, Practical Magic, The Rules of Magic (A Reese's Book Club pick), Magic Lessons, The Book of Magic, Here on Earth (An Oprah's Book Club pick), and The Dovekeepers. She lives near Boston.

\"},{\"id\":\"122479407T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

Alice Hoffman is the bestselling author of more than thirty works of fiction, including The Invisible Hour, The World That We Knew, Practical Magic, The Rules of Magic (A Reese’s Book Club pick), Magic Lessons, The Book of Magic, Here on Earth (An Oprah’s Book Club pick), and The Dovekeepers. She lives near Boston.

\"},{\"id\":\"117307837T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"

Alice Hoffman is the bestselling author of more than thirty works of fiction, including The Invisible Hour, The World That We Knew, Practical Magic, The Rules of Magic (A Reese’s Book Club pick), Magic Lessons, The Book of Magic, Here on Earth (An Oprah’s Book Club pick), and The Dovekeepers. She lives near Boston.

\"},{\"id\":\"89742137T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Alice Hoffman is the bestselling author of more than thirty works of fiction, including The Invisible Hour, The World That We Knew, Practical Magic, The Rules of Magic (A Reese’s Book Club pick), Magic Lessons, The Book of Magic, Here on Earth (An Oprah’s Book Club pick), and The Dovekeepers. She lives near Boston.\"}]",{"_45":2738,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":2739},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629415006449","Practical-Magic/Alice-Hoffman",{"_45":2741,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":2742},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629413466353","1143547970",{"_45":2744,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629414318321",{"_45":2746,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":2717},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76638559076593",{"_45":2748,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":2691},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629412679921",{"_45":2750,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629414547697",{"_45":2752,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":2119},"gid://shopify/Metafield/85916967207153",{"_1887":1888,"_45":2754,"_75":2755,"_1891":2004,"_834":2756,"_1894":2757,"_1896":2758,"_1898":2759,"_1905":2763,"_1913":63,"_1914":2765,"_1920":2768,"_1942":-5,"_1945":2777,"_1947":2778,"_1949":-5,"_1950":2779},"gid://shopify/Product/8871382188273","Cackle","9780593202036","A darkly funny, frightening novel about a young woman learning how to take what she wants from a witch who may be too good to be true, from the author of The Return. All her life, Annie has played it nice and safe. After being unceremoniously dumped by her longtime boyfriend, Annie seeks a fresh start. She accepts a teaching position that moves her from Manhattan to a small village upstate. She's stunned by how perfect and picturesque the town is. The people are all friendly and warm. Her new apartment is dreamy too, minus the oddly persistent spider infestation. Then Annie meets Sophie. Beautiful, charming, magnetic Sophie, who takes a special interest in Annie, who wants to be her friend. More importantly, she wants Annie to stop apologizing and start living for herself. That's how Sophie lives. Annie can't help but gravitate toward the self-possessed Sophie, wanting to spend more and more time with her, despite the fact that the rest of the townsfolk seem...a little afraid of her. And like, okay. There are some things. Sophie's appearance is uncanny and ageless, her mansion in the middle of the woods feels a little unearthly, and she does seem to wield a certain power...but she couldn't be...could she?","A darkly funny, frightening novel about a young woman learning how to take what she wants from a witch who may be too good to be true, from the author of The Return.

All her life, Annie has played it nice and safe. After being unceremoniously dumped by her longtime boyfriend, Annie seeks a fresh start. She accepts a teaching position that moves her from Manhattan to a small village upstate. She's stunned by how perfect and picturesque the town is. The people are all friendly and warm. Her new apartment is dreamy too, minus the oddly persistent spider infestation.

Then Annie meets Sophie. Beautiful, charming, magnetic Sophie, who takes a special interest in Annie, who wants to be her friend. More importantly, she wants Annie to stop apologizing and start living for herself. That's how Sophie lives. Annie can't help but gravitate toward the self-possessed Sophie, wanting to spend more and more time with her, despite the fact that the rest of the townsfolk seem...a little afraid of her. And like, okay. There are some things. Sophie's appearance is uncanny and ageless, her mansion in the middle of the woods feels a little unearthly, and she does seem to wield a certain power...but she couldn't be...could she?",{"_45":2760,"_58":2761,"_60":2762,"_54":1903,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47558700892401","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593202036_p0.jpg?v=1787801016",1297,{"_1907":2764},{"_1909":2701,"_1911":1912},{"_1907":2766,"_1918":2767},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":2769},[2770],{"_45":2771,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":-5,"_714":2772,"_1930":2773,"_1932":2774,"_1934":2775,"_1940":2756,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46271865094385",{"_45":2760,"_58":2761,"_1904":-5,"_60":2762,"_54":1903},{"_1909":2701,"_1911":1912},{"_75":2755,"_834":2756},[2776],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":2756},{"_1938":2004},[2780,-5,-5,2783,2785,-5,2787,2789,2792,2795,2798,-5,-5,2800,-5,2802,2804,2807],{"_45":2781,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":2782},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857569263857","[{\"contributorId\":205806,\"fullName\":\"Rachel Harrison\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":2784,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857569689841",{"_45":2786,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857569001713",{"_45":2788,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":2041},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857569788145",{"_45":2790,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":2791},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857571197169","[{\"id\":\"117307626T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Fortune

The sky is a strange color. Not quite red but too violent to be orange. I search for the sun, imagine it tired and bitter, slouching into another long shift. I find it hovering over New Jersey. Poor sun.

\\\"Annie,\\\" Nadia whines behind me, \\\"you're bumming me out.\\\"

\\\"Sorry,\\\" I say. I contort my mouth into what I think is a smile, but Nadia winces at the sight of it, so I'm guessing the attempt is unsuccessful.

\\\"Girl,\\\" she says, \\\"pull it together! It's your birthday.\\\"

I groan.

\\\"All right, all right,\\\" she says, roping her arm around me. \\\"Let's get you wasted.\\\"

We dodge the bags of trash reclining on every curb, avoid the rogue dog turds swarming with flies, unashamed in the middle of the sidewalk. When I first moved to New York City twelve years ago, starry-eyed and energetic, a college freshman, it didn't seem so dirty. I can't tell if it was because I was young then, charmed by the skyline, always looking up, or if it used to be cleaner.

\\\"Here,\\\" Nadia says, putting her hands on my shoulders and ushering me into a random bar. It's almost chic. Draped-bead chandeliers hang from a high ceiling. The place is crowded with couches and mismatched armchairs, stuffing sneaking out through straining seams. Nadia directs me to two stools in the corner where the counter disappears into the wall.

\\\"Perfect,\\\" she purrs. She's wearing a low-cut leopard-print jumpsuit, which at first I thought was a smidge much, but now that we've received immediate attention from the bartender, I'm beginning to appreciate her strategic fashion choice.

She orders us vodka lemonades and tequila shots.

I've been out with Nadia only once before, at a karaoke fundraiser for our school that was near torture. She performed an earnest cover of Natalie Imbruglia's \\\"Torn.\\\" I sat squirming in the corner, anticipating a flood of secondhand embarrassment, but the crowd was surprisingly into it.

I watch her now, as she sticks her pink acrylics into the bowl of assorted nuts on the bar. She tilts her head to the side, searching for a specific nut, exposing her long, delicate neck. Her hair is dark and thick and falls down past her shoulders, curving like a chain of crescent moons. She's got false lashes that are in a constant flutter.

She teaches biology. She's good at it, too. At school, she doesn't wear a lick of makeup. All the students whisper about how she's the hottest teacher.

It doesn't matter how old you get. A superlative will always be insulting when it's awarded to anyone but you.

The bartender drops the shots in front of us. They're accompanied by a tiny plate with two lime wedges and a crusty saltshaker.

Nadia lifts up one of the shots. \\\"To you. And your new job. Oh, and fuck your ex.\\\"

She takes her shot.

I take mine, too. The mention of Sam is like an ice pick to the sternum. I begin to count the bottles of liquor lined up behind the bar. Are there enough? In this bar? In this city? In the tristate area? How much will it take?

\\\"It's all happening,\\\" Nadia says, snapping her fingers as our cocktails arrive. \\\"New job. New city.\\\"

\\\"It's not a city,\\\" I say. \\\"It's a small town no one's ever heard of.\\\"

\\\"Yeah,\\\" she says, and pauses to aggressively suck the remaining juice from her lime wedge. \\\"But that's how all romance movies start. You're going to move to this, like, small-ass town and meet some brooding lumberjack, and he's going to be named Lucien and have a six-pack even though he's a low-key alcoholic. He'll live in a trailer and have a tragic past. It'll be great.\\\"

\\\"Sounds great,\\\" I say, my voice flat.

She nudges me. \\\"Oh, come on, Annie. Loosen up! Have some fun. It's your birthday!\\\"

I wish she would stop reminding me of that.

I hadn't planned on spending my thirtieth birthday with a coworker I barely know who just ate a bar cashew out of her cleavage, or drinking a vodka cocktail that's going down smooth as battery acid. Admittedly, it's not the worst. It's just not what I had envisioned.

I saw myself with Sam. On vacation somewhere. Butchering the French language while attempting to order food at a cafŽ in Montmartre, in the shadow of the SacrŽ-Coeur. Or in London contemplating the paintings at the Tate Modern and having cream tea, then smuggling back Cadbury bars in our suitcases. Or a simple weekend trip to the Hudson Valley or Mystic, somewhere we could take the train to and get a nice hotel room with a big tub and laze around in those cozy robes.

\\\"Okay,\\\" she says. \\\"What is it? Is it him? Are you thinking about him? Is it thirty? Because thirty is not old, okay?\\\"

She's twenty-seven.

\\\"It's all of it,\\\" I say. \\\"I'm sorry. It was nice of you to come out with me.\\\"

She raises an expertly shaped eyebrow. \\\"I told you all year we should go out. You were, like, not about it. Look, I don't know you that well. But I know you're not a super-social person. And it's easy not to be social when you, like, have a person at home who's there all the time. What I'm saying is, basically, maybe this is a good thing for you. You can get out there. Meet new people. Live your life.\\\"

\\\"I guess,\\\" I say. Unfortunately for me, \\\"getting out there\\\" and \\\"meeting new people\\\" are among my least favorite things. I've forgotten how. The years since college have eroded my social skills, and I'm shy to begin with. I prefer the couch. I prefer familiarity.

I prefer Sam.

\\\"Here,\\\" she says. She reaches out for a small tea light candle and lifts it up, the yellow flame spasming, the wick decaying. \\\"Make a wish.\\\"

\\\"You're serious?\\\" I ask her. In this moment, I do regret not going out with Nadia sooner. I bet she's a good friend. She seems like one of those people who are born knowing exactly who they are. Her entire personality written in the stars, set in concrete.

\\\"Yes,\\\" she says. \\\"Quick! Before it burns out!\\\"

I close my eyes and think.

We leave a collection of glasses sweating on the bar, along with a wad of crumpled bills and enough rinds to generously zest a pie. We stagger out into the June night, the air thick, sticky and sweet as syrup. ItÕs going to be a hot summer. For the first time, IÕm sincerely relieved to be leaving the city. I wonÕt miss the humidity, thighs sticking to the seats on the subway, everyone grumpy and perspiring, any amount of deodorant rendered inadequate.

Nadia is on a quest for her favorite pizza slice. It's at some hole-in-the-wall place in the West Village she used to frequent during her \\\"partying days.\\\" If her partying days are behind her, I'm a little curious what they were like, because right now she's saying hello to strangers in a truly horrendous British accent while somehow balancing on the tallest heels I've ever seen. On a cracked asymmetrical sidewalk. While drunk!

This must be a practiced skill.

I scamper behind her, the bumbling sidekick in a pair of practical flats.

\\\"It used to be right here, I swear,\\\" she says as we stand on a side street at the foot of a domestic brownstone. She sighs, and it's interrupted by a single faint hiccup. We're far too drunk for this.

\\\"We should call it,\\\" I say.

\\\"It's ten o'clock,\\\" she says.

I'm assuming by her horrified expression that she thinks ten o'clock is early. I'm of a different opinion. Ten o'clock is bedtime.

\\\"Okay?\\\"

\\\"We're not giving up on pizza,\\\" she says, and hurries down the block, faster than expected, considering her shoes.

I follow her, breaking into a light jog as she disappears around the corner.

\\\"Nadia?\\\"

She's hopping up and down, one set of fingers stuffed in her mouth, while another finger points down the street.

\\\"What is it?\\\" I ask her.

\\\"Look!\\\" she squeals. \\\"We're going.\\\"

I turn my murky drunken gaze in the direction she's pointing. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to focus on what's there. A neon sign floating in a glass window. A crystal ball.

\\\"No,\\\" I say.

She seizes my wrist. \\\"We're getting our palms read.\\\"

\\\"Nope.\\\"

She's laughing. I'm not quite sure why, but she's got a fun laugh. It's loud and melodic.

\\\"Please, please, please! It's probably extra accurate to get read on your birthday.\\\"

\\\"Accurate,\\\" I repeat. Now I'm laughing. I'm laughing so hard I can barely stand; I'm hunched like a wilting flower, arms limp.

\\\"It'll be fun,\\\" she says.

\\\"Famous last words.\\\"

\\\"Annie. Puh-leeeeasssse.\\\" In the orangey glow from the streetlamp, her eyes look crazed and inhuman.

\\\"Okay,\\\" I say. \\\"But if this goes poorly, I'll do nothing about it and suffer in silence.\\\"

\\\"Yay!\\\" she says, clapping and twirling around. The light from the lamp streaks through her black hair, and it looks like lightning threading a dark night sky.

She reaches out for my hand and I give it to her. She swings it back and forth, taking my arm with it. The closer we get, the more I regret agreeing to this. My apprehension quickly mutates into dread. The dread elbows around my chest like a stranger with somewhere to be. By the time we're standing at the door, engulfed in the neon haze from the crystal ball, I'm certain I do not want to do this. Above the crystal ball, there's another neon sign, on but barely functioning, sputtering and pale, that reads Psychic.

It's literally a bad sign.

But it's too late to object. Nadia is already pushing open the door. A bell chimes somewhere above us.

Thick curls of smoke writhe across the room. It smells of incense and antiques, like basement furniture. The smoke stings my eyes and monopolizes my lungs. I try, unsuccessfully, to stifle a series of awkward coughs.

\\\"Hello, hello,\\\" says a disembodied voice. A woman emerges from behind a velvet curtain. She's short and covered in scarves. Her hair is in a chaotic bun. She's older. The deep wrinkles on her forehead remind me of the small, illegible script on historical documents. A constitution or peace treaty.

\\\"Hiiiiii,\\\" Nadia sings. \\\"We're here for readings.\\\"

\\\"Yes,\\\" the woman says. \\\"Welcome. My name is Atlas.\\\"

She looks more like a Linda to me.

\\\"What kind of readings?\\\" she asks us. \\\"I do a fifteen-minute tarot, half an hour, and a full hour. Ten-minute palm. I could also do birth charts, chakras, numerology.\\\"

\\\"Palm,\\\" Nadia says. She turns to me for my approval.

\\\"Sure,\\\" I say.

\\\"Okay,\\\" Atlas says, smiling at us. She's got a gold tooth. I wonder if it's real. \\\"Who's first?\\\"

\\\"She is,\\\" I say, pushing Nadia forward.

She doesn't mind. \\\"Me!\\\" she says, swaying her hips back and forth.

\\\"All right, here we go,\\\" Atlas says, lifting the curtain for Nadia. They both disappear behind it, leaving me alone.

I wasn't aware that a palm reading was a private affair.

The smoke has dispersed, revealing a room of excess. Congested bookcases. Ceramic figurines perched on crooked shelves. The walls are busy with a variety of charts and maps and the signs of the zodiac, various celestial bodies.

I eye the door. I could leave. I could bail. Nadia might get mad, but that doesn't really matter. We're not close, and I'm about to move hours away. We'll probably never see each other again after tonight.

I shouldn't. If it weren't for her, I'd be sitting at home alone on my birthday. My alternate plan was to cry in the fetal position while listening to \\\"Landslide\\\" on repeat.

I can stick it out.

There's a soft noise, like the hum of an invisible bird. Then a sudden ding that sends my shoulders knocking against my ears. I turn around, searching for the source, and find an intricate clock mounted high on the wall. I need to tilt my head back to see its face. Faces. It has two, both enclosed in a tower of carved wood. Despite being pretty tall, I need to stand on my tiptoes to examine further.

The bottom face tells time, but I can't read the top. It's strange and complex, with multiple cogs and golden hands moving in all different directions over a kaleidoscope of colors. Green, orange, yellow, blue, pink. The longer I stare, the more the colors blend together, like in a mood ring. It's purple now. There must be some kind of liquid inside. Mercury? As it morphs, I can almost make out a shape. What's maybe a flower.

\\\"Oooh, cool clock!\\\" Nadia says, popping up behind me. \\\"Your turn.\\\"

\\\"What'd she say?\\\" I ask her.

\\\"That I'm going to be filthy rich!\\\" she says. \\\"Just kidding. I'll tell you after.\\\"

\\\"Through there?\\\" I point to the curtain.

\\\"Yup!\\\"

I lift the curtain back and duck underneath it. There's a short hallway that widens into a circular room. In the center is a round table draped in layers of silky fabric. It's slightly askew on a stack of Persian rugs. Two mismatched wooden chairs are tucked underneath. One of them is occupied by Atlas, who is shuffling a deck of tarot cards.

\\\"Please, have a seat,\\\" she says, gesturing to the other chair.

I'm ready to get this over with. I step onto the rugs and seat myself in the chair. I wonder how many people have sat in it before me and what brought them here. A pushy friend. Spontaneity. Curiosity. Desperation.

Maybe I'm letting my cynicism deprive me of a positive experience. Even if this is nonsense, won't it be a comfort to hear about a future, any future, that could possibly be mine? To temporarily escape the pain of the present and be reminded that one day this will be behind me? That I won't wake up every day feeling like my chest is full of stones. That I won't be constantly thinking about Sam or about everything I might have done to prevent myself from ending up where I am now.

Maybe there's someone or something in my future worth moving toward. A dangling carrot.

Atlas sets the deck of cards aside. She reaches for my hand and I give it to her. She takes a deep breath, her heavily lined eyes closing. They stay closed for a long time. Too long.

Should I be closing my eyes?

Her eyes open. I wish they were still closed. They're gloomy and awful. She's grimacing.

\\\"You have dark energy,\\\" she says.

\\\"Sorry,\\\" I say, because what else?

She unfolds my hand. She squints. She shakes her head.

She pulls my hand closer. Since my hand is connected to my arm, which is connected to the rest of me, something she doesn't seem to realize, my entire body jerks forward, my ribs slamming against the table.

\"},{\"id\":\"82038414T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Fortune

\\\"Annie,\\\" Nadia whines behind me, \\\"you're bumming me out.\\\"

\\\"Sorry,\\\" I say. I contort my mouth into what I think is a smile, but Nadia winces at the sight of it, so I'm guessing the attempt is unsuccessful.

\\\"Girl,\\\" she says, \\\"pull it together! It's your birthday.\\\"

I groan.

\\\"All right, all right,\\\" she says, roping her arm around me. \\\"Let's get you wasted.\\\"

She orders us vodka lemonades and tequila shots.

She teaches biology. She's good at it, too. At school, she doesn't wear a lick of makeup. All the students whisper about how she's the hottest teacher.

It doesn't matter how old you get. A superlative will always be insulting when it's awarded to anyone but you.

The bartender drops the shots in front of us. They're accompanied by a tiny plate with two lime wedges and a crusty saltshaker.

Nadia lifts up one of the shots. \\\"To you. And your new job. Oh, and fuck your ex.\\\"

She takes her shot.

\\\"It's all happening,\\\" Nadia says, snapping her fingers as our cocktails arrive. \\\"New job. New city.\\\"

\\\"It's not a city,\\\" I say. \\\"It's a small town no one's ever heard of.\\\"

\\\"Sounds great,\\\" I say, my voice flat.

She nudges me. \\\"Oh, come on, Annie. Loosen up! Have some fun. It's your birthday!\\\"

I wish she would stop reminding me of that.

I saw myself with Sam. On vacation somewhere. Butchering the French language while attempting to order food at a café in Montmartre, in the shadow of the SacrŽ-Coeur. Or in London contemplating the paintings at the Tate Modern and having cream tea, then smuggling back Cadbury bars in our suitcases. Or a simple weekend trip to the Hudson Valley or Mystic, somewhere we could take the train to and get a nice hotel room with a big tub and laze around in those cozy robes.

\\\"Okay,\\\" she says. \\\"What is it? Is it him? Are you thinking about him? Is it thirty? Because thirty is not old, okay?\\\"

She's twenty-seven.

\\\"It's all of it,\\\" I say. \\\"I'm sorry. It was nice of you to come out with me.\\\"

I prefer Sam.

\\\"Here,\\\" she says. She reaches out for a small tea light candle and lifts it up, the yellow flame spasming, the wick decaying. \\\"Make a wish.\\\"

\\\"Yes,\\\" she says. \\\"Quick! Before it burns out!\\\"

I close my eyes and think.

We leave a collection of glasses sweating on the bar, along with a wad of crumpled bills and enough rinds to generously zest a pie. We stagger out into the June night, the air thick, sticky and sweet as syrup. It's going to be a hot summer. For the first time, I'm sincerely relieved to be leaving the city. I won't miss the humidity, thighs sticking to the seats on the subway, everyone grumpy and perspiring, any amount of deodorant rendered inadequate.

This must be a practiced skill.

I scamper behind her, the bumbling sidekick in a pair of practical flats.

\\\"We should call it,\\\" I say.

\\\"It's ten o'clock,\\\" she says.

I'm assuming by her horrified expression that she thinks ten o'clock is early. I'm of a different opinion. Ten o'clock is bedtime.

\\\"Okay?\\\"

\\\"We're not giving up on pizza,\\\" she says, and hurries down the block, faster than expected, considering her shoes.

I follow her, breaking into a light jog as she disappears around the corner.

\\\"Nadia?\\\"

She's hopping up and down, one set of fingers stuffed in her mouth, while another finger points down the street.

\\\"What is it?\\\" I ask her.

\\\"Look!\\\" she squeals. \\\"We're going.\\\"

I turn my murky drunken gaze in the direction she's pointing. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to focus on what's there. A neon sign floating in a glass window. A crystal ball.

\\\"No,\\\" I say.

She seizes my wrist. \\\"We're getting our palms read.\\\"

\\\"Nope.\\\"

She's laughing. I'm not quite sure why, but she's got a fun laugh. It's loud and melodic.

\\\"Please, please, please! It's probably extra accurate to get read on your birthday.\\\"

\\\"Accurate,\\\" I repeat. Now I'm laughing. I'm laughing so hard I can barely stand; I'm hunched like a wilting flower, arms limp.

\\\"It'll be fun,\\\" she says.

\\\"Famous last words.\\\"

\\\"Annie. Puh-leeeeasssse.\\\" In the orangey glow from the streetlamp, her eyes look crazed and inhuman.

\\\"Okay,\\\" I say. \\\"But if this goes poorly, I'll do nothing about it and suffer in silence.\\\"

\\\"Yay!\\\" she says, clapping and twirling around. The light from the lamp streaks through her black hair, and it looks like lightning threading a dark night sky.

It's literally a bad sign.

But it's too late to object. Nadia is already pushing open the door. A bell chimes somewhere above us.

\\\"Hiiiiii,\\\" Nadia sings. \\\"We're here for readings.\\\"

\\\"Yes,\\\" the woman says. \\\"Welcome. My name is Atlas.\\\"

She looks more like a Linda to me.

\\\"What kind of readings?\\\" she asks us. \\\"I do a fifteen-minute tarot, half an hour, and a full hour. Ten-minute palm. I could also do birth charts, chakras, numerology.\\\"

\\\"Palm,\\\" Nadia says. She turns to me for my approval.

\\\"Sure,\\\" I say.

\\\"Okay,\\\" Atlas says, smiling at us. She's got a gold tooth. I wonder if it's real. \\\"Who's first?\\\"

\\\"She is,\\\" I say, pushing Nadia forward.

She doesn't mind. \\\"Me!\\\" she says, swaying her hips back and forth.

\\\"All right, here we go,\\\" Atlas says, lifting the curtain for Nadia. They both disappear behind it, leaving me alone.

I wasn't aware that a palm reading was a private affair.

I shouldn't. If it weren't for her, I'd be sitting at home alone on my birthday. My alternate plan was to cry in the fetal position while listening to \\\"Landslide\\\" on repeat.

I can stick it out.

\\\"Oooh, cool clock!\\\" Nadia says, popping up behind me. \\\"Your turn.\\\"

\\\"What'd she say?\\\" I ask her.

\\\"That I'm going to be filthy rich!\\\" she says. \\\"Just kidding. I'll tell you after.\\\"

\\\"Through there?\\\" I point to the curtain.

\\\"Yup!\\\"

\\\"Please, have a seat,\\\" she says, gesturing to the other chair.

Maybe there's someone or something in my future worth moving toward. A dangling carrot.

Atlas sets the deck of cards aside. She reaches for my hand and I give it to her. She takes a deep breath, her heavily lined eyes closing. They stay closed for a long time. Too long.

Should I be closing my eyes?

Her eyes open. I wish they were still closed. They're gloomy and awful. She's grimacing.

\\\"You have dark energy,\\\" she says.

\\\"Sorry,\\\" I say, because what else?

She unfolds my hand. She squints. She shakes her head.

\"},{\"id\":\"78075207T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Fortune

\\\"Annie,\\\" Nadia whines behind me, \\\"you're bumming me out.\\\"

\\\"Sorry,\\\" I say. I contort my mouth into what I think is a smile, but Nadia winces at the sight of it, so I'm guessing the attempt is unsuccessful.

\\\"Girl,\\\" she says, \\\"pull it together! It's your birthday.\\\"

I groan.

\\\"All right, all right,\\\" she says, roping her arm around me. \\\"Let's get you wasted.\\\"

She orders us vodka lemonades and tequila shots.

She teaches biology. She's good at it, too. At school, she doesn't wear a lick of makeup. All the students whisper about how she's the hottest teacher.

It doesn't matter how old you get. A superlative will always be insulting when it's awarded to anyone but you.

The bartender drops the shots in front of us. They're accompanied by a tiny plate with two lime wedges and a crusty saltshaker.

Nadia lifts up one of the shots. \\\"To you. And your new job. Oh, and fuck your ex.\\\"

She takes her shot.

\\\"It's all happening,\\\" Nadia says, snapping her fingers as our cocktails arrive. \\\"New job. New city.\\\"

\\\"It's not a city,\\\" I say. \\\"It's a small town no one's ever heard of.\\\"

\\\"Sounds great,\\\" I say, my voice flat.

She nudges me. \\\"Oh, come on, Annie. Loosen up! Have some fun. It's your birthday!\\\"

I wish she would stop reminding me of that.

\\\"Okay,\\\" she says. \\\"What is it? Is it him? Are you thinking about him? Is it thirty? Because thirty is not old, okay?\\\"

She's twenty-seven.

\\\"It's all of it,\\\" I say. \\\"I'm sorry. It was nice of you to come out with me.\\\"

I prefer Sam.

\\\"Here,\\\" she says. She reaches out for a small tea light candle and lifts it up, the yellow flame spasming, the wick decaying. \\\"Make a wish.\\\"

\\\"Yes,\\\" she says. \\\"Quick! Before it burns out!\\\"

I close my eyes and think.

We leave a collection of glasses sweating on the bar, along with a wad of crumpled bills and enough rinds to generously zest a pie. We stagger out into the June night, the air thick, sticky and sweet as syrup. It's going to be a hot summer. For the first time, I'm sincerely relieved to be leaving the city. I won't miss the humidity, thighs sticking to the seats on the subway, everyone grumpy and perspiring, any amount of deodorant rendered inadequate.

This must be a practiced skill.

I scamper behind her, the bumbling sidekick in a pair of practical flats.

\\\"We should call it,\\\" I say.

\\\"It's ten o'clock,\\\" she says.

I'm assuming by her horrified expression that she thinks ten o'clock is early. I'm of a different opinion. Ten o'clock is bedtime.

\\\"Okay?\\\"

\\\"We're not giving up on pizza,\\\" she says, and hurries down the block, faster than expected, considering her shoes.

I follow her, breaking into a light jog as she disappears around the corner.

\\\"Nadia?\\\"

She's hopping up and down, one set of fingers stuffed in her mouth, while another finger points down the street.

\\\"What is it?\\\" I ask her.

\\\"Look!\\\" she squeals. \\\"We're going.\\\"

I turn my murky drunken gaze in the direction she's pointing. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to focus on what's there. A neon sign floating in a glass window. A crystal ball.

\\\"No,\\\" I say.

She seizes my wrist. \\\"We're getting our palms read.\\\"

\\\"Nope.\\\"

She's laughing. I'm not quite sure why, but she's got a fun laugh. It's loud and melodic.

\\\"Please, please, please! It's probably extra accurate to get read on your birthday.\\\"

\\\"Accurate,\\\" I repeat. Now I'm laughing. I'm laughing so hard I can barely stand; I'm hunched like a wilting flower, arms limp.

\\\"It'll be fun,\\\" she says.

\\\"Famous last words.\\\"

\\\"Annie. Puh-leeeeasssse.\\\" In the orangey glow from the streetlamp, her eyes look crazed and inhuman.

\\\"Okay,\\\" I say. \\\"But if this goes poorly, I'll do nothing about it and suffer in silence.\\\"

\\\"Yay!\\\" she says, clapping and twirling around. The light from the lamp streaks through her black hair, and it looks like lightning threading a dark night sky.

It's literally a bad sign.

But it's too late to object. Nadia is already pushing open the door. A bell chimes somewhere above us.

\\\"Hiiiiii,\\\" Nadia sings. \\\"We're here for readings.\\\"

\\\"Yes,\\\" the woman says. \\\"Welcome. My name is Atlas.\\\"

She looks more like a Linda to me.

\\\"What kind of readings?\\\" she asks us. \\\"I do a fifteen-minute tarot, half an hour, and a full hour. Ten-minute palm. I could also do birth charts, chakras, numerology.\\\"

\\\"Palm,\\\" Nadia says. She turns to me for my approval.

\\\"Sure,\\\" I say.

\\\"Okay,\\\" Atlas says, smiling at us. She's got a gold tooth. I wonder if it's real. \\\"Who's first?\\\"

\\\"She is,\\\" I say, pushing Nadia forward.

She doesn't mind. \\\"Me!\\\" she says, swaying her hips back and forth.

\\\"All right, here we go,\\\" Atlas says, lifting the curtain for Nadia. They both disappear behind it, leaving me alone.

I wasn't aware that a palm reading was a private affair.

I shouldn't. If it weren't for her, I'd be sitting at home alone on my birthday. My alternate plan was to cry in the fetal position while listening to \\\"Landslide\\\" on repeat.

I can stick it out.

\\\"Oooh, cool clock!\\\" Nadia says, popping up behind me. \\\"Your turn.\\\"

\\\"What'd she say?\\\" I ask her.

\\\"That I'm going to be filthy rich!\\\" she says. \\\"Just kidding. I'll tell you after.\\\"

\\\"Through there?\\\" I point to the curtain.

\\\"Yup!\\\"

\\\"Please, have a seat,\\\" she says, gesturing to the other chair.

Maybe there's someone or something in my future worth moving toward. A dangling carrot.

Atlas sets the deck of cards aside. She reaches for my hand and I give it to her. She takes a deep breath, her heavily lined eyes closing. They stay closed for a long time. Too long.

Should I be closing my eyes?

Her eyes open. I wish they were still closed. They're gloomy and awful. She's grimacing.

\\\"You have dark energy,\\\" she says.

\\\"Sorry,\\\" I say, because what else?

She unfolds my hand. She squints. She shakes her head.

\"},{\"id\":\"117307627T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"\\\"This witty page-turner put its spell on me! Cackle is a charming and very contemporary story about self-realization-a gal-pal Addams Family, in the best way. Clever and massively enjoyable.\\\" -Zoje Stage, USA Today and internationally bestselling author of Baby Teeth and Getaway

\\\"Reading Cackle was like stumbling upon a candy cottage in a dark wood: utterly surprising, deceptively delightful, and a little bit scary, too. I gobbled it up in a weekend, cackling all the while.\\\"-emily m. danforth, author of Plain Bad Heroines and The Miseducation of Cameron Post

\\\"Cackle delivers a lesson that every woman needs to hear: embrace your inner witch! Sweet, sinister, and 100 percent delightful.\\\" -Alma Katsu, author of The Hunger and The Deep

\\\"Wry, dark, and deliciously witchy. I loved every page of this gripping feminist tale.\\\"-Alexis Henderson, author of The Year of the Witching

\\\"As funny as it is frightening, Cackle by Rachel Harrison is the perfect book to cuddle up with on a crisp fall evening.\\\" -PopSugar

\\\"Cackle is an all-too-relatable story about finding your inner strength even when you're at rock bottom, tackling the realities of post-break-up life with levity and charm. This book is an absolute delight, and everyone needs a friend like Sophie.\\\" - Genevieve Gornichec, Author of The Witch's Heart

\\\"Cackle is that rare book that has it all: a searingly honest portrayal of all-consuming heartbreak, an exploration of the pitfalls of making new friends past thirty, a few revenge fantasies come to life, and a whole lotta witchcraft. Harrison's clever prose will have you laughing and crying at once, and I promise you will never look at spiders the same way again.\\\"-Molly Pohlig, author of The Unsuitable

\\\"It's no surprise that Harrison's latest traffics in witchcraft, but there's nothing predictable about her take. She writes about women's autonomy and how it can be seen as a threat; about heteronormative romance and how it can suppress who women truly are. It's served in a friendship story that showcases Harrison's strength at writing powerful and empowered women with razor-sharp wit and a touch of darkness. This book wonders why this kind of woman is feared; in Harrison's hands, we're totally under their spell.\\\" -- Library Journal (Starred Review)

\\\"Weird, disturbing, creepy, and wonderful, Cackle is one of my favorite books of the year.\\\" -Mystery and Suspense Magazine\"},{\"id\":\"85701893T\",\"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 fantastical tale of friendship and self-realization is as witty and charming as it is dark and wicked! But Cackle is more than just a fun witchy fantasy, it’s an empowering and feminist tale of rising above societal expectations told with a little horror and a lot of laughs. A fun read at under 300 pages, it's easy to devour in one sitting.

\"},{\"id\":\"117307628T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Rachel Harrison was born and raised in the weird state of New Jersey. She received her bachelor's in writing for film and television from Emerson College. After graduating, she worked on TV game shows, in publishing, and for a big bank. She lives in western New York, with her husband and their cat/overlord.

\"},{\"id\":\"82038047T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Rachel Harrison was born and raised in the weird state of New Jersey. She received her bachelor's in writing for film and television from Emerson College. After graduating, she worked on TV game shows, in publishing, and for a big bank. She lives in western New York, with her husband and their cat/overlord.\"},{\"id\":\"73981974T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Rachel Harrison was born and raised in the weird state of New Jersey. She received her bachelor's in writing for film and television from Emerson College. After graduating, she worked on TV game shows, in publishing, and for a big bank. She lives in western New York, with her husband and their cat/overlord.\"}]",{"_45":2793,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":2794},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857570640113","Cackle/Rachel-Harrison",{"_45":2796,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":2797},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857568805105","1138574357",{"_45":2799,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857569558769",{"_45":2801,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":2756},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857568051441",{"_45":2803,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857569886449",{"_45":2805,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":2806},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64355487613169","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"2.8\"}",{"_45":2808,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":910},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64355487580401",{"_1887":1888,"_45":2810,"_75":2811,"_1891":2004,"_834":2812,"_1894":2813,"_1896":2814,"_1898":2815,"_1905":2820,"_1913":63,"_1914":2823,"_1920":2826,"_1942":2835,"_1945":2837,"_1947":2838,"_1949":-5,"_1950":2839},"gid://shopify/Product/8848490627313","Circe","9780316556323","This #1 New York Times bestseller brilliantly reimagines the life of Circe, formidable sorceress of The Odyssey, as she discovers her own power, forges her identity, and challenges the gods who seek to control her. \"[A] bold and subversive retelling of the goddess's story.\" -The New York TimesIn the house of Helios, god of the sun and mightiest of the Titans, a daughter is born. But Circe is a strange child-not powerful, like her father, nor viciously alluring like her mother. Turning to the world of mortals for companionship, she discovers that she does possess power-the power of witchcraft, which can transform rivals into monsters and menace the gods themselves.Threatened, Zeus banishes her to a deserted island, where she hones her occult craft, tames wild beasts and crosses paths with many of the most famous figures in all of mythology, including the Minotaur, Daedalus and his doomed son Icarus, the murderous Medea, and, of course, wily Odysseus.But there is danger, too, for a woman who stands alone, and Circe unwittingly draws the wrath of both men and gods, ultimately finding herself pitted against one of the most terrifying and vengeful of the Olympians. To protect what she loves most, Circe must summon all her strength and choose, once and for all, whether she belongs with the gods she is born from, or the mortals she has come to love.With unforgettably vivid characters, mesmerizing language, and page-turning suspense, Circe is a triumph of storytelling, an intoxicating epic of family rivalry, palace intrigue, love and loss, as well as a celebration of indomitable female strength in a man's world.Named one of the Best Books of the Year by NPR, Washington Post, People, Time, Amazon, Entertainment Weekly, Bustle, Newsweek, A.V. Club, Christian Science Monitor, Refinery 29, Buzzfeed, Paste, Audible, Kirkus Reviews, Publishers Weekly, Thrillist, NYPL, Self, Real Simple, Goodreads, Boston Globe, Electric Literature, BookPage, Guardian, Book Riot, Seattle Times, and Business Insider.","This #1 New York Times bestseller brilliantly reimagines the life of Circe, formidable sorceress of The Odyssey, as she discovers her own power, forges her identity, and challenges the gods who seek to control her.

\"[A] bold and subversive retelling of the goddess's story.\" -The New York Times

In the house of Helios, god of the sun and mightiest of the Titans, a daughter is born. But Circe is a strange child-not powerful, like her father, nor viciously alluring like her mother. Turning to the world of mortals for companionship, she discovers that she does possess power-the power of witchcraft, which can transform rivals into monsters and menace the gods themselves.

Threatened, Zeus banishes her to a deserted island, where she hones her occult craft, tames wild beasts and crosses paths with many of the most famous figures in all of mythology, including the Minotaur, Daedalus and his doomed son Icarus, the murderous Medea, and, of course, wily Odysseus.

But there is danger, too, for a woman who stands alone, and Circe unwittingly draws the wrath of both men and gods, ultimately finding herself pitted against one of the most terrifying and vengeful of the Olympians. To protect what she loves most, Circe must summon all her strength and choose, once and for all, whether she belongs with the gods she is born from, or the mortals she has come to love.

With unforgettably vivid characters, mesmerizing language, and page-turning suspense, Circe is a triumph of storytelling, an intoxicating epic of family rivalry, palace intrigue, love and loss, as well as a celebration of indomitable female strength in a man's world.

Named one of the Best Books of the Year by NPR, Washington Post, People, Time, Amazon, Entertainment Weekly, Bustle, Newsweek, A.V. Club, Christian Science Monitor, Refinery 29, Buzzfeed, Paste, Audible, Kirkus Reviews, Publishers Weekly, Thrillist, NYPL, Self, Real Simple, Goodreads, Boston Globe, Electric Literature, BookPage, Guardian, Book Riot, Seattle Times, and Business Insider.",{"_45":2816,"_58":2817,"_60":2818,"_54":2819,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47460200448241","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780316556323_p0.jpg?v=1785354896",899,1352,{"_1907":2821},{"_1909":2822,"_1911":1912},"19.99",{"_1907":2824,"_1918":2825},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":2827},[2828],{"_45":2829,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":-5,"_714":2830,"_1930":2831,"_1932":2832,"_1934":2833,"_1940":2812,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46246635438321",{"_45":2816,"_58":2817,"_1904":-5,"_60":2818,"_54":2819},{"_1909":2822,"_1911":1912},{"_75":2811,"_834":2812},[2834],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":2836},"[\"Reimaginings & Retellings (p9713)\",\"B|Bestseller|#007C6C (p7858)\",\"BADGE - Best Seller (p7883)\"]",{"_1938":2812},{"_1938":2004},[2840,-5,-5,2843,2845,-5,2847,2849,2852,2855,2858,-5,2860,2862,-5,2864,2866,2868],{"_45":2841,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":2842},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747935371505","[{\"contributorId\":13286203,\"fullName\":\"Madeline Miller\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":2844,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747935666417",{"_45":2846,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747934716145",{"_45":2848,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":2041},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747935731953",{"_45":2850,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":2851},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747936551153","[{\"id\":\"56359149T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":\"Claire Messud\",\"sourceName\":\"The New York Times Book Review\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"…Miller has determined, in her characterization of this most powerful witch, to bring her as close as possible to the human—from the timbre of her voice to her intense maternal instincts. The brutal insouciance of her fellow immortals…proves increasingly alien to this thoughtful and compassionate woman who learns to love unselfishly. It is an unexpected and jolly, if bittersweet, development, and one rather closer to Hans Christian Andersen's The Little Mermaid than to traditional Greek myth…Circe is very pleasurable to read, combining lively versions of familiar tales…and snippets of other, related standards…with a highly psychologized, redemptive and ultimately exculpatory account of the protagonist herself…Circe will surely delight readers new to the witch's stories as it will many who remember her role in the Greek myths of their childhood: Like a good children's book, it engrosses and races along at a clip, eliciting excitement and emotion along the way. The novel's feminist slant also appeals, offering…a reclamation of one of myth's reviled women.\"},{\"id\":\"118443118T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Winner of the 2019 Indie Choice Award

Shortlisted for the 2019 Women's Prize for Fiction

Named one of the 'Best Books of 2018' by NPR, The Washington Post, Buzzfeed, People, Time, Amazon,Entertainment Weekly, Bustle, Newsweek, the A.V. Club, Christian Science Monitor, Southern Living,and Refinery 29.

\\\"Circe,' [is] a bold and subversive retelling of the goddess's story that manages to be both epic and intimate in its scope, recasting the most infamous female figure from the Odyssey as a hero in her own right.\\\"-Alexandra Alter, New York Times

\\\"One of the most amazing qualities of this novel [is]: We know how everything here turns out - we've known it for thousands of years - and yet in Miller's lush reimagining, the story feels harrowing and unexpected. The feminist light she shines on these events never distorts their original shape; it only illuminates details we hadn't noticed before.\\\"-Ron Charles, Washington Post

\\\"[Miller] gives voice to Circe as a multifaceted and evolving character...'Circe' is very pleasurable to read, combining lively versions of familiar tales and snippets of other, related standards with a highly psychologized, redemptive and ultimately exculpatory account of the protagonist herself.\\\"-Claire Messud, New York Times Book Review

\\\"The story of Circe's entanglement with Odysseus lasts far beyond the narrative of \\\"The Odyssey,\\\" making for compelling material to revisit. But ultimately it's as a character that Circe stands apart....Through her elegant, psychologically acute prose, Miller gives us a rich female character who inhabits the spaces in between.\\\"
-Colleen Abel, Minneapolis Star Tribune

\\\"Miller's lush, gold-lit novel - told from the perspective of the witch whose name in Greek has echoes of a hawk and a weaver's shuttle - paints another picture: of a fierce goddess who, yes, turns men into pigs, but only because they deserve it.\\\"-NPR.org

\\\"so vivid, so layered, you could get lost in it... Whether or not you think you like Greek Mythology, this is just great storytelling. It feels cinematic.\\\"-NPR's Here & Now

\\\"Spellbinding..Miller has created a daring feminist take on a classic narrative; although the setting is a mystical world of gods, monsters, and nymphs, the protagonist at its heart is like any of us.\\\"-O Magazine

\\\"Miller's spell builds slowly, but by the last page you'll be in awe. In prose of dreamlike simplicity, she reimagines the myth of Circe.\\\"-People

\\\"Miller, with her academic bona fides and born instinct for storytelling, seamlessly grafts modern concepts of selfhood and independence to her mystical reveries of smoke and silver, nectar and bones.\\\"-Entertainment Weekly

\\\"This telling, in the sorceress's own words, is not the version we think we know.\\\"-New York Times 'T Magazine'

\\\"Miller gives voice to a previously muted perspective in the classics, forging a great romance from the scraps left to us by the ancients....Circe is, instead, a romp, an airy delight, a novel to be gobbled greedily in a single sitting.\\\"-Aida Edemariam, Guardian

\\\"In Madeline Miller's \\\"Circe\\\" - the gorgeous and gimlet-eyed follow-up to her Orange Prize-winning first novel, \\\"The Song of Achilles\\\" - the goddess is young and romantic enough at the start to feel a tiny bit let down that she's not shackled to a rock like her uncle, Prometheus, getting her liver pecked out each day.\\\"
-Laura Collins-Hughes, Boston Globe

Ambitious in scope, Circe is above all the chronicle of an outsider woman who uses her power and wits to protect herself and the people she loves, ultimately looking within to define herself. Readers will savor the message of standing against a hostile world and forging a new way.\\\"-Shelf Awareness

\\\"A retelling of ancient Greek lore gives exhilarating voice to a witch... [Circe is] a sly, petulant, and finally commanding voice that narrates the entirety of Miller's dazzling second novel....Readers will relish following the puzzle of this unpromising daughter of the sun god Helios and his wife, Perse, who had negligible use for their child....Expect Miller's readership to mushroom like one of Circe's spells. Miller makes Homer pertinent to women facing 21st-century monsters.\\\"-Kirkus, Starred Review

\\\"An epic spanning thousands of years that's also a keep-you-up-all-night page turner.\\\"-Ann Patchett, author of Commonwealth

\\\"With lyric beauty of language and melancholy evocative of Keats' \\\"Ode on a Grecian Urn\\\", CIRCE asks all the big questions of existence while framing them in the life story of the famous goddess who had the magic of transformations. A veritable Who's Who of the gods of Olympus and the heroes of ancient Greece, Circe knows them all and we see them through her perceptive eyes. This is as close as you will ever come to entering the world of mythology as a participant. Stunning, touching, and unique.\\\"-Margaret George, author of The Confessions of Young Nero

\\\"Circe bears its own transformative magic, a power enabled by Miller's keen eye for beauty, adventure, and reinvention. Through the charms of a misfit heroine, the world of gods becomes stunningly alive, and the world of our own humanity--its questions, loves, and bonds--is illuminated. This book is an immense gift to anyone who reads to find their own bravery and quest.\\\"-Affinity Konar, author of Mischling

\\\"Madeline Miller, master storyteller, conjures Circe glowing and alive - and makes the Gods, nymphs and heroes of ancient Greece walk forth in all their armored splendor. Richly detailed and written with such breathtaking command of story, you will be held enchanted. A breathtaking novel.\\\"-Helen Simonson, author of The Summer Before the War and Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

\\\"Circe is the utterly captivating, exquisitely written, story of an ordinary, and extraordinary, woman's life\\\"-Eimear McBride, author of A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing

\\\"Written with power and grace, this enchanting, startling, gripping story casts a spell as strong and magical as any created by the sorceress Circe.\\\"-Mary Doria Russell, author of Epitaph

\\\"Madeline Miller's re-imagining of the witch Circe from The Odyssey makes for an intriguing, feminist adventure novel that is perfectly suited for the #TimesUp moment. Circe is also a smart read that has much to say about the long-term consequences of war and a culture that values violence and conquest over compassion and learning...Miller mines intriguing details from the original tale to imagine a rich backstory for Circe that allows readers to re-visit the world of Olympians and Titans in Greek mythology. From the court of the Titans, the reader meets Circe's parents, the god Helios and nymph Perse, and is introduced to a world of supernatural power players that is every bit as back-biting, gossip-filled and vicious as any episode of House of Cards.\\\"-May-Lee Chai, Dallas News

\\\"'Circe' is a sentence-by-sentence miracle\\\";-Michigan Daily\"},{\"id\":\"131479959T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"\\\"Madeline Miller's re-imagining of the witch Circe from The Odyssey makes for an intriguing, feminist adventure novel that is perfectly suited for the #TimesUp moment. Circe is also a smart read that has much to say about the long-term consequences of war and a culture that values violence and conquest over compassion and learning...Miller mines intriguing details from the original tale to imagine a rich backstory for Circe that allows readers to re-visit the world of Olympians and Titans in Greek mythology. From the court of the Titans, the reader meets Circe's parents, the god Helios and nymph Perse, and is introduced to a world of supernatural power players that is every bit as back-biting, gossip-filled and vicious as any episode of House of Cards.\\\"--May-Lee Chai, Dallas News

\\\"In Madeline Miller's \\\"Circe\\\" - the gorgeous and gimlet-eyed follow-up to her Orange Prize-winning first novel, \\\"The Song of Achilles\\\" - the goddess is young and romantic enough at the start to feel a tiny bit let down that she's not shackled to a rock like her uncle, Prometheus, getting her liver pecked out each day.\\\"
--Laura Collins-Hughes, Boston Globe

\\\"Circe is the utterly captivating, exquisitely written, story of an ordinary, and extraordinary, woman's life\\\"--Eimear McBride, author of A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing

\\\"'Circe' is a sentence-by-sentence miracle\\\";--Michigan Daily

\\\"so vivid, so layered, you could get lost in it... Whether or not you think you like Greek Mythology, this is just great storytelling. It feels cinematic.\\\"--NPR's Here & Now

\\\"[Miller] gives voice to Circe as a multifaceted and evolving character...'Circe' is very pleasurable to read, combining lively versions of familiar tales and snippets of other, related standards with a highly psychologized, redemptive and ultimately exculpatory account of the protagonist herself.\\\"--Claire Messud, New York Times Book Review

\\\"A retelling of ancient Greek lore gives exhilarating voice to a witch... [Circe is] a sly, petulant, and finally commanding voice that narrates the entirety of Miller's dazzling second novel....Readers will relish following the puzzle of this unpromising daughter of the sun god Helios and his wife, Perse, who had negligible use for their child....Expect Miller's readership to mushroom like one of Circe's spells. Miller makes Homer pertinent to women facing 21st-century monsters.\\\"--Kirkus, Starred Review

\\\"An epic spanning thousands of years that's also a keep-you-up-all-night page turner.\\\"--Ann Patchett, author of Commonwealth

\\\"Circe bears its own transformative magic, a power enabled by Miller's keen eye for beauty, adventure, and reinvention. Through the charms of a misfit heroine, the world of gods becomes stunningly alive, and the world of our own humanity--its questions, loves, and bonds--is illuminated. This book is an immense gift to anyone who reads to find their own bravery and quest.\\\"--Affinity Konar, author of Mischling

\\\"Circe, ' [is] a bold and subversive retelling of the goddess's story that manages to be both epic and intimate in its scope, recasting the most infamous female figure from the Odyssey as a hero in her own right.\\\"--Alexandra Alter, New York Times

\\\"Madeline Miller, master storyteller, conjures Circe glowing and alive - and makes the Gods, nymphs and heroes of ancient Greece walk forth in all their armored splendor. Richly detailed and written with such breathtaking command of story, you will be held enchanted. A breathtaking novel.\\\"--Helen Simonson, author of The Summer Before the War and Major Pettigrew's Last Stand

\\\"Miller gives voice to a previously muted perspective in the classics, forging a great romance from the scraps left to us by the ancients....Circe is, instead, a romp, an airy delight, a novel to be gobbled greedily in a single sitting.\\\"--Aida Edemariam, Guardian

\\\"Miller, with her academic bona fides and born instinct for storytelling, seamlessly grafts modern concepts of selfhood and independence to her mystical reveries of smoke and silver, nectar and bones.\\\"--Entertainment Weekly

\\\"Miller's lush, gold-lit novel - told from the perspective of the witch whose name in Greek has echoes of a hawk and a weaver's shuttle - paints another picture: of a fierce goddess who, yes, turns men into pigs, but only because they deserve it.\\\"--NPR.org

\\\"Miller's spell builds slowly, but by the last page you'll be in awe. In prose of dreamlike simplicity, she reimagines the myth of Circe.\\\"--People

\\\"One of the most amazing qualities of this novel [is]: We know how everything here turns out - we've known it for thousands of years - and yet in Miller's lush reimagining, the story feels harrowing and unexpected. The feminist light she shines on these events never distorts their original shape; it only illuminates details we hadn't noticed before.\\\"--Ron Charles, Washington Post

\\\"Spellbinding..Miller has created a daring feminist take on a classic narrative; although the setting is a mystical world of gods, monsters, and nymphs, the protagonist at its heart is like any of us.\\\"--O Magazine

\\\"The story of Circe's entanglement with Odysseus lasts far beyond the narrative of \\\"The Odyssey,\\\" making for compelling material to revisit. But ultimately it's as a character that Circe stands apart....Through her elegant, psychologically acute prose, Miller gives us a rich female character who inhabits the spaces in between.\\\"
--Colleen Abel, Minneapolis Star Tribune

\\\"This telling, in the sorceress's own words, is not the version we think we know.\\\"--New York Times 'T Magazine'

\\\"With lyric beauty of language and melancholy evocative of Keats' \\\"Ode on a Grecian Urn\\\", CIRCE asks all the big questions of existence while framing them in the life story of the famous goddess who had the magic of transformations. A veritable Who's Who of the gods of Olympus and the heroes of ancient Greece, Circe knows them all and we see them through her perceptive eyes. This is as close as you will ever come to entering the world of mythology as a participant. Stunning, touching, and unique.\\\"--Margaret George, author of The Confessions of Young Nero

\\\"Written with power and grace, this enchanting, startling, gripping story casts a spell as strong and magical as any created by the sorceress Circe.\\\"--Mary Doria Russell, author of Epitaph

Ambitious in scope, Circe is above all the chronicle of an outsider woman who uses her power and wits to protect herself and the people she loves, ultimately looking within to define herself. Readers will savor the message of standing against a hostile world and forging a new way.\\\"--Shelf Awareness

Winner of the 2019 Indie Choice Award
Shortlisted for the 2019 Women's Prize for Fiction
Named one of the 'Best Books of 2018' by NPR, The Washington Post, Buzzfeed, People, Time, Amazon, Entertainment Weekly, Bustle, Newsweek, the A.V. Club, Christian Science Monitor, Southern Living, and Refinery 29.
\"},{\"id\":\"72502876T\",\"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 journey to self-discovery of epic proportions, Circe is a retelling from the queen of mythology herself: Madeline Miller. A lyrical, action-packed dive into the origin of an unforgettable and unparalleled woman, Circe cements herself in the pantheon of stories that must not be missed. Circe shares her scars, her broken parts, and in doing so, speaks to the humanity we all share: “That is one thing gods and mortals share: when we are young, we think ourselves the first to have each feeling in the world.”

\"},{\"id\":\"100134861T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

\"},{\"id\":\"119925004T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Madeline Miller is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of two novels: The Song of Achilles, which won the Orange Women's Prize for Fiction 2012, and Circe, which was short-listed for the Women's Prize for Fiction 2019. Her books have been translated into over thirty two languages. Miller holds an MA in Classics from Brown University, studied in the Dramaturgy department at Yale School of Drama, where she focused on the adaptation of classical texts to modern forms, and taught Latin, Greek, and Shakespeare to high school students for over a decade.

\"},{\"id\":\"90963616T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Madeline Miller is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of two novels: The Song of Achilles, which won the Orange Women’s Prize for Fiction 2012, and Circe, which was short-listed for the Women’s Prize for Fiction 2019. Her books have been translated into over thirty two languages. Miller holds an MA in Classics from Brown University, studied in the Dramaturgy department at Yale School of Drama, where she focused on the adaptation of classical texts to modern forms, and taught Latin, Greek, and Shakespeare to high school students for over a decade.\"},{\"id\":\"90958031T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Madeline Miller is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of two novels: The Song of Achilles, which won the Orange Women’s Prize for Fiction 2012, and Circe, which was short-listed for the Women’s Prize for Fiction 2019. Her books have been translated into over thirty two languages. Miller holds an MA in Classics from Brown University, studied in the Dramaturgy department at Yale School of Drama, where she focused on the adaptation of classical texts to modern forms, and taught Latin, Greek, and Shakespeare to high school students for over a decade.\"},{\"id\":\"118443119T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"53008558T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Madeline Miller is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of two novels: The Song of Achilles, which won the Orange Women’s Prize for Fiction 2012, and Circe, which was short-listed for the Women’s Prize for Fiction 2019. Her books have been translated into over thirty two languages. Miller holds an MA in Classics from Brown University, studied in the Dramaturgy department at Yale School of Drama, where she focused on the adaptation of classical texts to modern forms, and taught Latin, Greek, and Shakespeare to high school students for over a decade.\"},{\"id\":\"108776915T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"6\",\"text\":\"Madeline Miller was born in Boston and attended Brown University where she earned her BA and MA in Classics. She lives in Narbeth, PA with her husband and two children. The Song of Achilles was awarded the Orange Prize for Fiction and has been translated into twenty-five languages.\"}]",{"_45":2853,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":2854},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747936190705","Circe/Madeline-Miller",{"_45":2856,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":2857},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747934290161","1028697822",{"_45":2859,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747935600881",{"_45":2861,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":2836},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747936780529",{"_45":2863,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":2812},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747931898097",{"_45":2865,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747935797489",{"_45":2867,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":2304},"gid://shopify/Metafield/61325497172209",{"_45":2869,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":2870},"gid://shopify/Metafield/61325497139441","50",{"_30":78,"_79":14,"_58":2872},"https://www.barnesandnoble.com/blog/13-witchy-books-to-read-this-fall-2","13 Witchy Books to Read this Fall",{"_37":2875,"_30":1030,"_1020":2876,"_75":3174},"8f221da33db5",{"_1023":2877,"_1032":223,"_1409":1410,"_1411":1412,"_105":-5,"_58":3172},[2878,2937,2995,3055,3114],{"_1887":1888,"_45":2879,"_75":2880,"_1891":2881,"_834":2882,"_1894":2883,"_1896":2884,"_1898":2885,"_1905":2890,"_1913":63,"_1914":2892,"_1920":2895,"_1942":2904,"_1945":2906,"_1947":2907,"_1949":2908,"_1950":2910},"gid://shopify/Product/9487125250289","Peck & Peck: A Novel (Signed B&N Exclusive Edition)","Signed Exclusive","9781668260425","This Barnes & Noble Exclusive Edition includes bonus content, designed endpapers, deckled edges, and is signed by the author.The #1 New York Times bestselling author of Lessons in Chemistry returns with an irresistible, delightful, and tender story about a young man whose life turns upside down when he is hired by the most prestigious, secretive, and dysfunctional poetry journal in the world: the renowned Peck & Peck of New York City.Batter Gray is worried about his future. Even when he was eleven, his classmates seemed to have settled on a goal: doctor, lawyer, broker, engineer. Good jobs that automatically command respect, security, 401Ks. Now Batter is in his early 20s, living in New York City, and he wants something different; something that alienates some readers and bores most. Poetry. And yet—to him and exactly thirty-nine editors at a company called Peck & Peck—poetry not only represents the power of humanity but holds the key to its survival.Batter is named after his mother's heroic dog. An identical twin who lost his brother at birth, he finds himself confronted by the everyday dualities that make up life: right vs. wrong, truth vs. lies, rejection vs. acceptance. It's almost as if his dead brother is a reminder: there are always two sides to every story.No, wait. Make that three.","

This Barnes & Noble Exclusive Edition includes bonus content, designed endpapers, deckled edges, and is signed by the author.

The #1 New York Times bestselling author of Lessons in Chemistry returns with an irresistible, delightful, and tender story about a young man whose life turns upside down when he is hired by the most prestigious, secretive, and dysfunctional poetry journal in the world: the renowned Peck & Peck of New York City.

Batter Gray is worried about his future. Even when he was eleven, his classmates seemed to have settled on a goal: doctor, lawyer, broker, engineer. Good jobs that automatically command respect, security, 401Ks. Now Batter is in his early 20s, living in New York City, and he wants something different; something that alienates some readers and bores most. Poetry. And yet—to him and exactly thirty-nine editors at a company called Peck & Peck—poetry not only represents the power of humanity but holds the key to its survival.

Batter is named after his mother's heroic dog. An identical twin who lost his brother at birth, he finds himself confronted by the everyday dualities that make up life: right vs. wrong, truth vs. lies, rejection vs. acceptance. It's almost as if his dead brother is a reminder: there are always two sides to every story.

No, wait. Make that three.

",{"_45":2886,"_58":2887,"_60":2888,"_54":2889,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/48787875922161","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781668260425_p0.jpg?v=1773783050",1321,1996,{"_1907":2891},{"_1909":1910,"_1911":1912},{"_1907":2893,"_1918":2894},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":2896},[2897],{"_45":2898,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":-5,"_714":2899,"_1930":2900,"_1932":2901,"_1934":2902,"_1940":2882,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47827267780849",{"_45":2886,"_58":2887,"_1904":-5,"_60":2888,"_54":2889},{"_1909":1910,"_1911":1912},{"_75":2880,"_834":2882},[2903],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":2905},"[\"Barnes & Noble Exclusives (p6314)\",\"B|Signed Edition|#956F2D|#4C3E1B (p7859)\",\"Special Editions (p10264)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"Signed Books at BN.com (p311)\",\"Barnes & Noble Holiday Gift Guide (p5430)\",\"Mental Health Awareness (p9392)\"]",{"_1938":2882},{"_1938":2881},{"_1938":2909},"[{\"Key\":\"formatChicletOverlay\",\"Value\":\"Signed Exclusive\"}]",[2911,-5,-5,2914,2916,-5,2918,2920,2923,2926,2929,-5,2931,2933,-5,2935,-5,-5],{"_45":2912,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":2913},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76941592232177","[{\"contributorId\":23591023,\"fullName\":\"Bonnie Garmus\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":2915,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76941592592625",{"_45":2917,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":2881},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76941591904497",{"_45":2919,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":1967},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76941592658161",{"_45":2921,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":2922},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76941593313521","[{\"id\":\"124942636T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

After the global sensation Lessons in Chemistry, Bonnie Garmus delivers a charming and funny novel about a young man searching for his place in the world. When he stumbles into a job at an unconventional New York City poetry journal, Batter Gray discovers the transformative power of language and a community he never knew he needed.

\"},{\"id\":\"124180205T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

\"},{\"id\":\"124942640T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Bonnie Garmus is a coffee-dependent American novelist. Her debut novel, Lessons in Chemistry, was a Good Morning America Book Club Pick, a Goodreads Choice Best Book of the Year, spent nearly two years on the New York Times bestseller list and was named by Times readers as one of the top 100 books of the 21st Century. Translated into forty-four languages, Lessons in Chemistry was honored with sixteen international literary awards and made into an Apple TV limited series. Peck & Peck is her second novel.

\"},{\"id\":\"124942639T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

\"}]",{"_45":2924,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":2925},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76941593051377","Peck-Peck/Bonnie-Garmus",{"_45":2927,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":2928},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76941591773425","1149552676",{"_45":2930,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76941592527089",{"_45":2932,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":2905},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76942000193777",{"_45":2934,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":2882},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76941590823153",{"_45":2936,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76941592723697",{"_1887":1888,"_45":2938,"_75":2939,"_1891":1892,"_834":2940,"_1894":2941,"_1896":2942,"_1898":2943,"_1905":2946,"_1913":63,"_1914":2948,"_1920":2952,"_1942":2962,"_1945":2964,"_1947":2965,"_1949":-5,"_1950":2966},"gid://shopify/Product/9477021499633","Partita: A Novel","9780063577541","From the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Demon Copperhead, a story of a brief, passionate, life-changing love affair, wrapped up in what might be the greatest romance of all: our eternal human longing for art and beauty.Livia Cable has made her peace with her marriage and modest livelihood in the farm country where she grew up, until a shocking phone call from an old lover shakes her to the core. Decades earlier, this man knew her as Livia Bohusz, a music conservatory student estranged from her home and family, uncertain of anything except her passion for music and promise as an extraordinary pianist. His request, now, to see her again stirs up ghosts she's kept at bay for a lifetime.Shifting between past and present, Livia's decision to meet or reject the reunion means confronting step by step, in memories framed as musical dances, the experiences of childhood loss, abandonment, self-immolating passion, and perilous attachment to a man who broke her belief in love and ruptured the course of her life.With razor-sharp acuity and deep affection, Pulitzer Prize winner Barbara Kingsolver's unforgettable new novel reflects on class barriers, the risks of ambition, and the timeless, life-changing power of art.","

From the Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Demon Copperhead, a story of a brief, passionate, life-changing love affair, wrapped up in what might be the greatest romance of all: our eternal human longing for art and beauty.

Livia Cable has made her peace with her marriage and modest livelihood in the farm country where she grew up, until a shocking phone call from an old lover shakes her to the core. Decades earlier, this man knew her as Livia Bohusz, a music conservatory student estranged from her home and family, uncertain of anything except her passion for music and promise as an extraordinary pianist. His request, now, to see her again stirs up ghosts she's kept at bay for a lifetime.

Shifting between past and present, Livia's decision to meet or reject the reunion means confronting step by step, in memories framed as musical dances, the experiences of childhood loss, abandonment, self-immolating passion, and perilous attachment to a man who broke her belief in love and ruptured the course of her life.

With razor-sharp acuity and deep affection, Pulitzer Prize winner Barbara Kingsolver's unforgettable new novel reflects on class barriers, the risks of ambition, and the timeless, life-changing power of art.

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\\\"A brilliantly prismatic story. . . . Kingsolver is one of the finest living writers, and her latest will join Demon Copperhead and The Poisonwood Bible as another modern classic.\\\" - Library Journal (starred review)

\\\"Brilliant, affecting work from one of contemporary literature's masters. . . . A fierce belief that great art is for everyone joins Kingsolver's familiar preoccupations with class distinctions, social injustice, and the complex bonds of family and community in a tender denouement.\\\" - Kirkus (starred review)

\\\"Kingsolver presents an enrapturing, brilliantly plotted, deeply personal, and profoundly insightful celebration of the life of the land, the skills and struggles of farmers, and the transcendent power of art to bring us together, make us feel 'more alive,' and make us whole.\\\" - Booklist

\\\"An engrossing story. . . . Kingsolver shines in her character work. . . . This tragic story of long-held secrets will keep readers turning pages.\\\" - Publishers Weekly (Top 10 Fall Fiction)

\\\"Wrestles with the questions that have fueled [Kingsolver's] whole career--namely, who is art for, what makes it good, and what can it actually accomplish?\\\" --The New Yorker

\"},{\"id\":\"133719735T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"125255275T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Pulitzer Prize winner Barbara Kingsolver returns for an unforgettable story of resilience, possibility and the transformative power of music. Melodies shape memories of heartbreak and loss in this expansive novel that follows a pianist who confronts unexpected ghosts from her past.

\"},{\"id\":\"123767616T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Barbara Kingsolver is the author of ten bestselling works of fiction, including the novels Unsheltered, The Bean Trees, and The Poisonwood Bible, as well as books of poetry, essays, creative nonfiction, and Coyote's Wild Home, a children's book co-authored with Lily Kingsolver. She also collaborated with family members on the influential Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life. Kingsolver's work has been translated into more than thirty languages and has earned a devoted readership at home and abroad. She is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and has received numerous awards and honors including the 2023 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for her novel, Demon Copperhead, the National Humanities Medal, and most recently, the National Book Foundation's Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. She lives with her husband on a farm in southern Appalachia.

\"},{\"id\":\"124995779T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

Barbara Kingsolver is the author of ten bestselling works of fiction, including the novels Unsheltered, The Bean Trees, and The Poisonwood Bible, as well as books of poetry, essays, creative nonfiction, and Coyote’s Wild Home, a children’s book co-authored with Lily Kingsolver. She also collaborated with family members on the influential Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life. Kingsolver’s work has been translated into more than thirty languages and has earned a devoted readership at home and abroad. She is a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and has received numerous awards and honors including the 2023 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for her novel, Demon Copperhead, the National Humanities Medal, and most recently, the National Book Foundation's Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters and its Lifetime Achievement Award. She lives with her husband on a farm in southern Appalachia.

\"}]",{"_45":2980,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":2981},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76614994886897","Partita/Barbara-Kingsolver",{"_45":2983,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":2984},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76614992527601","1149465352",{"_45":2986,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76614993805553",{"_45":2988,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":2963},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76713670803697",{"_45":2990,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":2940},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76614990889201",{"_45":2992,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76614994264305",{"_45":2994,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":2119},"gid://shopify/Metafield/93704370422001",{"_1887":1888,"_45":2996,"_75":2997,"_1891":1892,"_834":2998,"_1894":2999,"_1896":3000,"_1898":3001,"_1905":3004,"_1913":63,"_1914":3006,"_1920":3009,"_1942":3019,"_1945":3021,"_1947":3022,"_1949":-5,"_1950":3023},"gid://shopify/Product/9412282745073","Exit Party: A Novel","9780593321461","The award-winning, bestselling author of Station Eleven and Sea of Tranquility returns with a breathtaking novel of doubles, shadow worlds, and fractured timelines as a man disappears from a glittering Los Angeles party, and a woman-a gunrunner, an art collector, an operative of the State-searches for answers.Los Angeles, 2031: The first spring after the collapse of the United States, peacekeeping troops withdraw from the city, the Jacaranda trees blossom, and the curfew is finally lifted. Ari Waker and her roommate pass the gauntlet of bomb-sniffing dogs, the shanty towns, and the Red Cross tents as they walk across Silverlake to a party. The mood is ecstatic inside the apartment, people drink and dance, a woman wears a silver dress, pleated like tinfoil. And then: A shift. A bewildered twin, an uncanny doppelganger stumbles through the crowd and out into the night, and Kareem, the party's host, vanishes into thin air.As Ari Waker unravels the mystery of this inexplicable night, Emily St. John Mandel unfurls a story that takes us from a future America splintered by civil war to the seaside cliffs of Greece where weapons dealers hide in an elegant resort, and from the domed city of Paris to a colony on the moon. An unforgettable literary feat, Exit Party is a novel about the price of safety, the perils of the surveillance state, a requiem for a world not unlike our own, and a breathtaking story of resilience in the face of cataclysmic change.","The award-winning, bestselling author of Station Eleven and Sea of Tranquility returns with a breathtaking novel of doubles, shadow worlds, and fractured timelines as a man disappears from a glittering Los Angeles party, and a woman-a gunrunner, an art collector, an operative of the State-searches for answers.

Los Angeles, 2031: The first spring after the collapse of the United States, peacekeeping troops withdraw from the city, the Jacaranda trees blossom, and the curfew is finally lifted. Ari Waker and her roommate pass the gauntlet of bomb-sniffing dogs, the shanty towns, and the Red Cross tents as they walk across Silverlake to a party. The mood is ecstatic inside the apartment, people drink and dance, a woman wears a silver dress, pleated like tinfoil. And then: A shift. A bewildered twin, an uncanny doppelganger stumbles through the crowd and out into the night, and Kareem, the party's host, vanishes into thin air.

As Ari Waker unravels the mystery of this inexplicable night, Emily St. John Mandel unfurls a story that takes us from a future America splintered by civil war to the seaside cliffs of Greece where weapons dealers hide in an elegant resort, and from the domed city of Paris to a colony on the moon. An unforgettable literary feat, Exit Party is a novel about the price of safety, the perils of the surveillance state, a requiem for a world not unlike our own, and a breathtaking story of resilience in the face of cataclysmic change.",{"_45":3002,"_58":3003,"_60":2317,"_54":1903,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/48340213956849","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593321461_p0.jpg?v=1767762170",{"_1907":3005},{"_1909":2583,"_1911":1912},{"_1907":3007,"_1918":3008},{"_1909":2950,"_1911":1912},{"_1909":2950,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":3010},[3011],{"_45":3012,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":3013,"_714":3014,"_1930":3015,"_1932":3016,"_1934":3017,"_1940":2998,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47588913447153",{"_1909":2950,"_1911":1912},{"_45":3002,"_58":3003,"_1904":-5,"_60":2317,"_54":1903},{"_1909":2583,"_1911":1912},{"_75":2997,"_834":2998},[3018],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":3020},"[\"BADGE - $3 OFF (p7877)\",\"B|$3 Off|#DD2A27|#701F15 (p7847)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"Recently Reviewed (p10276)\",\"Retail Price fixing (p261)\"]",{"_1938":2998},{"_1938":1892},[3024,-5,-5,3027,3029,-5,3031,3033,3036,3039,3042,-5,3044,3046,-5,3048,3050,3052],{"_45":3025,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":3026},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633969598705","[{\"contributorId\":10413319,\"fullName\":\"Emily St. John Mandel\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3028,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633969991921",{"_45":3030,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633969271025",{"_45":3032,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":1967},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633970057457",{"_45":3034,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":3035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74634583671025","[{\"id\":\"126798933T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"\\\"Exit Party feels like the culmination of Mandel's career so far, combining the thrills and mysteries of the author's early crime novels with the expansive premises and speculative ruminations of later novels like Station Eleven. . . . Exit Party raises important questions about who people are when not just personal but societal circumstances change. As the narrator pointedly asks near the novel's close, 'Who will you be at the end of the world?'\\\"
-The New York Times

\\\"The only world-builder more efficient than Mandel may be God. . . . With the inventiveness of some crafty survivalist in our future, she welds together noir mysteries, classic sci-fi, spy thrillers, and poignant family dramas. . . . It's 1984 woven through a Möbius strip of her own boundless ingenuity. But for all those dimensional hijinks, what lingers is Mandel's poignant sympathy with these people lost in their world - or another's. . . . Exit Party is the kind of novel you'll be desperate to talk about.\\\"
-Ron Charles

\\\"Terrific. . . . A book that will move you. . . . The story deepens and expands in unexpected ways, across generations, into marriages, betrayals and rare acts of decency. . . . In the world of Exit Party, through all of its tragic turns, we find Mandel at her best.\\\"
-The Boston Globe

\\\"Ingenious. . . . There's comfort in Mandel's arresting vision here of a universe in which time is porous and people are duplicated in somewhat altered form. In such a universe, maybe another America is waiting to be born, too.\\\"
-NPR

\\\"An elegant, gracefully written crime story with sci-fi shadings. . . . Mandel's characters are attuned to beauty, in nature and in fine art, and her sentences share this aesthetic orientation. . . . I gulped the book down.\\\"
-Katy Waldman, The New Yorker

\\\"The world is in chaos in Exit Party, and so are the constructs of reality and linear time. From this welter of disorder, Ms. Mandel seamlessly engineers a pair of . . . Rube Goldberg-style plots. . . . Ari and her counterpart are smart, resilient, personable women who, for all their wrongdoing, have a gift for finding happiness in the midst of breakdown. The hope they represent is the stabilizing force that bridges Ms. Mandel's enterprising fiction.\\\"
-The Wall Street Journal

\\\"Breathtaking. . . . Spanning centuries and continents, this elegant, eerie puzzlebox of a novel is both a page-turner and a sharp look at the funhouse-mirror distortions of authoritarianism and political chaos. Easter egg connections to Mandel's earlier novels (including her landmark Station Eleven) will thrill devoted fans.\\\"
-Oprah Daily

\\\"This urgent, unsettling novel is an addictive puzzle that maps the twinship of authoritarianism and chaos.\\\"
-People

\\\"Intricately built, dazzlingly expansive . . . . Exit Party is a hopeful novel that understands the vast, oceanic nature of possibility. In the face of nearly cataclysmic events, the primary characters endure to varying degrees. Art matters. Existence remains mysterious-unsolvable as we know it to be. Will we continue to make meaning if our country faces one of the two potential futures Mandel sets out? Her answer is yes.\\\"
-Alta

\\\"Once again, Emily St. John Mandel shows us how it's done. . . . There is a depth of character development that rivals much of her best work. . . . What really matters in this novel is people, emotions, and what it means to live a good life. . . . Whether or not you've read any Mandel, consider taking a deep dive into this.\\\"
-The Brooklyn Rail

\\\"Exit Party is an original and perceptive reflection on our current world, and surely a novel everyone will be talking about this year.\\\"
-Town & Country

\\\"In this captivating read . . . it's 2031 Los Angeles and the first spring after the fall of the United States. The mood is exuberant, as troops have left the city and a curfew has finally been lifted. Ari and her roommate go to a party, but their host vanishes. While Ari tries to piece together what happened that night, a gripping narrative unfolds, spanning the globe and asking fascinating questions about resilience in a fractured world.\\\"
-Real Simple

\\\"The collapse of an entire society-its politics, its rhythms of daily life-doesn't happen overnight. It comes progressively, in overlapping waves, until a culture becomes unrecognizable-a brutal truth at the heart of Emily St. John Mandel's masterpiece novel, Exit Party.\\\"
-Sierra Magazine

\\\"An Emily St. John Mandel novel is always cause for excitement. . . . Another kaleidoscopic, genre-and-planet-spanning jewel of a book. I'll let her take me everywhere and anywhere.
-Emily Temple, LitHub

\\\"Masterful. . . . Mandel's assured tale offers bracing commentary on the dangers of divisiveness and surveillance. . . . Propulsive. . . . A tour de force.\\\"
-Publishers Weekly (starred review)

\\\"A glittering puzzle box of a novel. . . . [The] novel brilliantly ties the notion of parallel timelines to a political theme, positing a dark twinship between chaos and totalitarianism. . . . This is [Mandel's] best novel since Station Eleven, a cause for rejoicing among her fans and an inspiration for newbies to dive into the backlist. Both a thrilling read and a virtuoso demonstration of the moral and philosophical possibilities of speculative fiction.\\\"
-Kirkus (starred review)

\\\"As ever in her own wholly original and singular way, Mandel offers up a completely compelling, richly rendered yarn that's sure to generate both major interest and discussion.\\\"
-Booklist (starred review)

\\\"Mandel always writes with clarity and precision. Her perceptive new dystopian novel explores what is lost in a rush to safety; it's a hymn to what falls when the center doesn't hold.\\\"
-Library Journal (starred review)

\\\"With Exit Party, Mandel has once again delivered the kind of book that will fold itself around you like a blanket, offering comfort, warmth and diverting strangeness through its unsettling vision of the world. . . . Her resonant emotional clarity makes Exit Party a must read, whether it's your first Mandel novel or just your latest visit to one of her worlds.\\\"
-BookPage (starred review)
\"},{\"id\":\"133556957T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"\\\"Exit Party feels like the culmination of Mandel's career so far, combining the thrills and mysteries of the author's early crime novels with the expansive premises and speculative ruminations of later novels like Station Eleven. . . . Exit Party raises important questions about who people are when not just personal but societal circumstances change. As the narrator pointedly asks near the novel's close, 'Who will you be at the end of the world?'\\\"
--The New York Times

\\\"The only world-builder more efficient than Mandel may be God. . . . With the inventiveness of some crafty survivalist in our future, she welds together noir mysteries, classic sci-fi, spy thrillers, and poignant family dramas. . . . It's 1984 woven through a Möbius strip of her own boundless ingenuity. But for all those dimensional hijinks, what lingers is Mandel's poignant sympathy with these people lost in their world -- or another's. . . . Exit Party is the kind of novel you'll be desperate to talk about.\\\"
--Ron Charles

\\\"Terrific. . . . A book that will move you. . . . The story deepens and expands in unexpected ways, across generations, into marriages, betrayals and rare acts of decency. . . . In the world of Exit Party, through all of its tragic turns, we find Mandel at her best.\\\"
--The Boston Globe

\\\"Ingenious. . . . There's comfort in Mandel's arresting vision here of a universe in which time is porous and people are duplicated in somewhat altered form. In such a universe, maybe another America is waiting to be born, too.\\\"
--NPR

\\\"An elegant, gracefully written crime story with sci-fi shadings. . . . Mandel's characters are attuned to beauty, in nature and in fine art, and her sentences share this aesthetic orientation. . . . I gulped the book down.\\\"
--Katy Waldman, The New Yorker

\\\"The world is in chaos in Exit Party, and so are the constructs of reality and linear time. From this welter of disorder, Ms. Mandel seamlessly engineers a pair of . . . Rube Goldberg-style plots. . . . Ari and her counterpart are smart, resilient, personable women who, for all their wrongdoing, have a gift for finding happiness in the midst of breakdown. The hope they represent is the stabilizing force that bridges Ms. Mandel's enterprising fiction.\\\"
--The Wall Street Journal

\\\"Breathtaking. . . . Spanning centuries and continents, this elegant, eerie puzzlebox of a novel is both a page-turner and a sharp look at the funhouse-mirror distortions of authoritarianism and political chaos. Easter egg connections to Mandel's earlier novels (including her landmark Station Eleven) will thrill devoted fans.\\\"
--Oprah Daily

\\\"This urgent, unsettling novel is an addictive puzzle that maps the twinship of authoritarianism and chaos.\\\"
--People

\\\"Intricately built, dazzlingly expansive . . . . Exit Party is a hopeful novel that understands the vast, oceanic nature of possibility. In the face of nearly cataclysmic events, the primary characters endure to varying degrees. Art matters. Existence remains mysterious--unsolvable as we know it to be. Will we continue to make meaning if our country faces one of the two potential futures Mandel sets out? Her answer is yes.\\\"
--Alta

\\\"Once again, Emily St. John Mandel shows us how it's done. . . . There is a depth of character development that rivals much of her best work. . . . What really matters in this novel is people, emotions, and what it means to live a good life. . . . Whether or not you've read any Mandel, consider taking a deep dive into this.\\\"
--The Brooklyn Rail

\\\"Exit Party is an original and perceptive reflection on our current world, and surely a novel everyone will be talking about this year.\\\"
--Town & Country

\\\"In this captivating read . . . it's 2031 Los Angeles and the first spring after the fall of the United States. The mood is exuberant, as troops have left the city and a curfew has finally been lifted. Ari and her roommate go to a party, but their host vanishes. While Ari tries to piece together what happened that night, a gripping narrative unfolds, spanning the globe and asking fascinating questions about resilience in a fractured world.\\\"
--Real Simple

\\\"The collapse of an entire society--its politics, its rhythms of daily life--doesn't happen overnight. It comes progressively, in overlapping waves, until a culture becomes unrecognizable--a brutal truth at the heart of Emily St. John Mandel's masterpiece novel, Exit Party.\\\"
--Sierra Magazine

\\\"An Emily St. John Mandel novel is always cause for excitement. . . . Another kaleidoscopic, genre-and-planet-spanning jewel of a book. I'll let her take me everywhere and anywhere.
--Emily Temple, LitHub

\\\"Masterful. . . . Mandel's assured tale offers bracing commentary on the dangers of divisiveness and surveillance. . . . Propulsive. . . . A tour de force.\\\"
--Publishers Weekly (starred review)

\\\"A glittering puzzle box of a novel. . . . [The] novel brilliantly ties the notion of parallel timelines to a political theme, positing a dark twinship between chaos and totalitarianism. . . . This is [Mandel's] best novel since Station Eleven, a cause for rejoicing among her fans and an inspiration for newbies to dive into the backlist. Both a thrilling read and a virtuoso demonstration of the moral and philosophical possibilities of speculative fiction.\\\"
--Kirkus (starred review)

\\\"As ever in her own wholly original and singular way, Mandel offers up a completely compelling, richly rendered yarn that's sure to generate both major interest and discussion.\\\"
--Booklist (starred review)

\\\"Mandel always writes with clarity and precision. Her perceptive new dystopian novel explores what is lost in a rush to safety; it's a hymn to what falls when the center doesn't hold.\\\"
--Library Journal (starred review)

\\\"With Exit Party, Mandel has once again delivered the kind of book that will fold itself around you like a blanket, offering comfort, warmth and diverting strangeness through its unsettling vision of the world. . . . Her resonant emotional clarity makes Exit Party a must read, whether it's your first Mandel novel or just your latest visit to one of her worlds.\\\"
--BookPage (starred review)
\"},{\"id\":\"123985738T\",\"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 dystopian novel of resilience and uncertainty is from Station Eleven author Emily St. John Mandel. The story begins in future America, where society is crumbling, and a bewildering mystery unravels after a man vanishes during a house party.

\"},{\"id\":\"124179646T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

\"},{\"id\":\"121115815T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

EMILY ST. JOHN MANDEL is the author of six novels, most recently Sea of Tranquility, which has been translated into 25 languages and was selected by President Barack Obama as one of his favorite books of 2022. Her previous novels include The Glass Hotel, which was also on Obama's list, was shortlisted for the Scotiabank Giller Prize, and has been translated into 26 languages; and Station Eleven, which was a finalist for a National Book Award and the PEN/Faulkner Award, won the 2015 Arthur C. Clarke Award among other honors, has been translated into 36 languages, and aired as a limited series on HBO Max. She lives in New York City and Los Angeles.

\"},{\"id\":\"124179649T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

EMILY ST. JOHN MANDEL is the author of six novels, most recently Sea of Tranquility, which has been translated into 25 languages and was selected by President Barack Obama as one of his favorite books of 2022. Her previous novels include The Glass Hotel, which was also on Obama’s list, was shortlisted for the Scotiabank Giller Prize, and has been translated into 26 languages; and Station Eleven, which was a finalist for a National Book Award and the PEN/Faulkner Award, won the 2015 Arthur C. Clarke Award among other honors, has been translated into 36 languages, and aired as a limited series on HBO Max. She lives in New York City and Los Angeles.

\"},{\"id\":\"123793583T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"

\"}]",{"_45":3037,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":3038},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633970581745","Exit-Party/Emily-St-John-Mandel",{"_45":3040,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":3041},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633969139953","1148963734",{"_45":3043,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633969893617",{"_45":3045,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":3020},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75222799909105",{"_45":3047,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":2998},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633968255217",{"_45":3049,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633970122993",{"_45":3051,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":2304},"gid://shopify/Metafield/79667273138417",{"_45":3053,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":3054},"gid://shopify/Metafield/79667273105649","8",{"_1887":1888,"_45":3056,"_75":3057,"_1891":2881,"_834":3058,"_1894":3059,"_1896":3060,"_1898":3061,"_1905":3064,"_1913":63,"_1914":3066,"_1920":3069,"_1942":3078,"_1945":3080,"_1947":3081,"_1949":3082,"_1950":3083},"gid://shopify/Product/9491699728625","Taipei Story: A Novel (Signed B&N Exclusive Book)","9780063579828","This Signed B&N Exclusive Edition will include a bonus essay from the author.From R.F. Kuang, the acclaimed #1 New York Times bestselling author of Katabasis and Yellowface, comes a wryly humorous and profoundly moving coming-of-age novel that grapples with grief, language, and culture shock—all set against the backdrop of an unforgettable summer in Taipei.College freshman Lily Chen is off to spend the summer in Taipei at an intensive language program like so many Chinese American students before her, hoping to connect with the culture she inherited but never fully understood. But a promising start quickly unravels. Her classes are grueling, her roommate is driving her insane, and a reckless trip to the hot springs with a guy she barely knows soon has her classmates viciously gossiping. She feels adrift, a foreigner in a country she thought would feel like home.Then shocking news arrives: Lily's grandfather has passed away. The loss forces her to grapple with now-unanswerable questions about her family history. As Lily grieves, she's drawn into a journey of self-discovery—piecing together memories, stories, and silences over a series of hilarious and devastating attempts at connection.Taipei Story asks: What if the diaspora fantasy of homecoming never comes true? What if learning a language can't bring you any closer to the people you're trying to reach? What if you search for your family's history, but your family doesn't want to share? What if you wait too long to ask the right questions? As Lily struggles for answers, her summer becomes a poignant search for understanding—of herself, her family, and the meaning of home.","

This Signed B&N Exclusive Edition will include a bonus essay from the author.

From R.F. Kuang, the acclaimed #1 New York Times bestselling author of Katabasis and Yellowface, comes a wryly humorous and profoundly moving coming-of-age novel that grapples with grief, language, and culture shock—all set against the backdrop of an unforgettable summer in Taipei.

College freshman Lily Chen is off to spend the summer in Taipei at an intensive language program like so many Chinese American students before her, hoping to connect with the culture she inherited but never fully understood. But a promising start quickly unravels. Her classes are grueling, her roommate is driving her insane, and a reckless trip to the hot springs with a guy she barely knows soon has her classmates viciously gossiping. She feels adrift, a foreigner in a country she thought would feel like home.

Then shocking news arrives: Lily's grandfather has passed away. The loss forces her to grapple with now-unanswerable questions about her family history. As Lily grieves, she's drawn into a journey of self-discovery—piecing together memories, stories, and silences over a series of hilarious and devastating attempts at connection.

Taipei Story asks: What if the diaspora fantasy of homecoming never comes true? What if learning a language can't bring you any closer to the people you're trying to reach? What if you search for your family's history, but your family doesn't want to share? What if you wait too long to ask the right questions? As Lily struggles for answers, her summer becomes a poignant search for understanding—of herself, her family, and the meaning of home.

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“A spellbinding and poignant story that had me riveted to the pages, R.F. Kuang’s Katabasis is more than a novel to savor. This book is an experience. I envy those who get to read it for the first time.” - Rebecca Ross, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Divine Rivals

\\\"Her magnificent novel uses satire to shine a light on systemic racial discrimination and the truth that often hides behind the twisted narratives constructed by those in power.\\\" - Booklist (starred review) of Yellowface

\\\"Hard to put down, harder to forget.” - Stephen King on Yellowface

“Viciously satisfying…addictive.” - New York Times Book Review on Yellowface

\\\"Reading Yellowface felt like being inside a wild, brutal, psychological knife fight with a deranged clown. A merciless satire that left me screaming inside... from both its horror and humor.\\\" - Constance Wu, star of Crazy Rich Asians and author of Making a Scene

\\\"Rich with allusion and illusion, Kuang crafts a witty, gory, harrowing ride that thoroughly roasts the perils and power structures of academia, while never losing sight of what it means to have a fragile, human heart.\\\" - #1 New York Times bestselling author, Leigh Bardugo on Katabasis

“‘Katabasis’ shines with devastatingly real characters and absorbing world building.” - New York Times

\"},{\"id\":\"124384199T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

What was supposed to be a summer to remember quickly starts off as one Lily might rather forget. R. F. Kuang delivers a witty and moving tale about a young Chinese American woman discovering herself and piecing together her family’s mysterious past in a world that doesn’t always play fair.

\"},{\"id\":\"124282646T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Rebecca F. Kuang is the #1 New York Times and #1 Sunday Times bestselling author of the Poppy War trilogy, Babel: An Arcane History, Yellowface, and Katabasis. Her work has won the Nebula, Locus, Crawford, and British Book Awards. A Marshall Scholar, she has an MPhil in Chinese Studies from Cambridge and an MSc in Contemporary Chinese Studies from Oxford. She is now pursuing a PhD in East Asian Languages and Literatures at Yale, where she studies diaspora, contemporary Sinophone literature, and Asian American literature.

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\"}]",{"_45":3097,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":3098},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77105586045169","Taipei-Story/R-F-Kuang",{"_45":3100,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":3101},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77105585258737","1149008782",{"_45":3103,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77105585717489",{"_45":3105,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":3079},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77105586307313",{"_45":3107,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":3058},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77105584767217",{"_45":3109,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77105585815793",{"_45":3111,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":2059},"gid://shopify/Metafield/82306942959857",{"_45":3113,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":2119},"gid://shopify/Metafield/82306942927089",{"_1887":1888,"_45":3115,"_75":3116,"_1891":1892,"_834":3117,"_1894":3118,"_1896":3119,"_1898":3120,"_1905":3123,"_1913":63,"_1914":3125,"_1920":3129,"_1942":3139,"_1945":3141,"_1947":3142,"_1949":-5,"_1950":3143},"gid://shopify/Product/9422743240945","American Hagwon","9781538752036","The National Book Award finalist and New York Times bestselling author of Pachinko returns with a breathtaking contemporary epic: a masterpiece by turns sweeping and intimate, that reckons with ambition and moderation, lust and loyalty, personal dreams and familial duty.Min Jin Lee brings grand ambition, fierce heart, and the tenderest hope to a novel I didn't want to end.\" -Roxane Gay, bestselling author of Bad Feminist and HungerIn schools and churches, hotel rooms and nail salons, law firms and fried-fish shops; in cramped, dingy apartments and luxury, gated communities, the men, women, and children in American Hagwon struggle to find satisfaction and meaning in a world that seems to grow less forgiving with each passing year. Once comfortably middle class in Korea, John and Helen Koh and their three children-Bo, DH, and Mido-find their lives upended, first by a shocking betrayal by John's oldest friend, then by the 1997 Asian financial crisis.Desperately striving to regain their footing, they leave Seoul for Sydney and eventually settle in Southern California-where new vistas of opportunity open up for the children as their parents, strangers in a strange land, must adjust to a new life in which their experience and education mean little, and they set their sights on whatever it takes to provide for their children's futures. The Kohs, their friends, relatives, and even their foes move in and out of each other's lives as they navigate new courses across the years, always nursing the almost all-consuming faith that education will lead the next generation to success and security.In American Hagwon, Min Jin Lee has crafted an unforgettable, panoramic novel where the smallest of gestures can have enormous repercussions, where the bonds of family and of memory twist and fray but rarely break, and where willful self-sacrifice-for the benefit of loved ones and even strangers-is a kind of prayer.An immersive, engrossing novel ... this is panorama told in brilliant detail.\"-Colm Tóibín, bestselling author ofLong IslandandBrooklyn","The National Book Award finalist and New York Times bestselling author of Pachinko returns with a breathtaking contemporary epic: a masterpiece by turns sweeping and intimate, that reckons with ambition and moderation, lust and loyalty, personal dreams and familial duty.

Min Jin Lee brings grand ambition, fierce heart, and the tenderest hope to a novel I didn't want to end.\" -Roxane Gay, bestselling author of Bad Feminist and Hunger

In schools and churches, hotel rooms and nail salons, law firms and fried-fish shops; in cramped, dingy apartments and luxury, gated communities, the men, women, and children in American Hagwon struggle to find satisfaction and meaning in a world that seems to grow less forgiving with each passing year. Once comfortably middle class in Korea, John and Helen Koh and their three children-Bo, DH, and Mido-find their lives upended, first by a shocking betrayal by John's oldest friend, then by the 1997 Asian financial crisis.

Desperately striving to regain their footing, they leave Seoul for Sydney and eventually settle in Southern California-where new vistas of opportunity open up for the children as their parents, strangers in a strange land, must adjust to a new life in which their experience and education mean little, and they set their sights on whatever it takes to provide for their children's futures. The Kohs, their friends, relatives, and even their foes move in and out of each other's lives as they navigate new courses across the years, always nursing the almost all-consuming faith that education will lead the next generation to success and security.

In American Hagwon, Min Jin Lee has crafted an unforgettable, panoramic novel where the smallest of gestures can have enormous repercussions, where the bonds of family and of memory twist and fray but rarely break, and where willful self-sacrifice-for the benefit of loved ones and even strangers-is a kind of prayer.

An immersive, engrossing novel ... this is panorama told in brilliant detail.\"-Colm Tóibín, bestselling author ofLong IslandandBrooklyn",{"_45":3121,"_58":3122,"_60":2317,"_54":1903,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/48337659396337","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781538752036_p0.jpg?v=1771594547",{"_1907":3124},{"_1909":2323,"_1911":1912},{"_1907":3126,"_1918":3128},{"_1909":3127,"_1911":1912},"36.0",{"_1909":3127,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":3130},[3131],{"_45":3132,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":3133,"_714":3134,"_1930":3135,"_1932":3136,"_1934":3137,"_1940":3117,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47621455249649",{"_1909":3127,"_1911":1912},{"_45":3121,"_58":3122,"_1904":-5,"_60":2317,"_54":1903},{"_1909":2323,"_1911":1912},{"_75":3116,"_834":3117},[3138],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":3140},"[\"B|$5 Off|#DD2A27|#701F15 (p7848)\",\"BADGE - $5 OFF (p7876)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"Recently Reviewed (p10276)\",\"Retail Price fixing (p261)\",\"Barnes & Noble Holiday Gift Guide (p5430)\",\"Mental Health Awareness (p9392)\"]",{"_1938":3117},{"_1938":1892},[3144,-5,-5,3147,3149,-5,3151,3153,3156,3159,3162,-5,3164,3166,-5,3168,-5,3170],{"_45":3145,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":3146},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871812784369","[{\"contributorId\":5241143,\"fullName\":\"Min Jin Lee\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3148,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871812915441",{"_45":3150,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871812620529",{"_45":3152,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":1967},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871812948209",{"_45":3154,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":3155},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74872136892657","[{\"id\":\"130259445T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"\\\"American Hagwon is astonishing in its ability to do so many things at once. It is an enthralling family saga rich with intrigue, secrets, and betrayal. It is a literary triumph written in the most exquisite prose. It is a profound and moving meditation on the question of what it means to live a meaningful life. This book, this story, and these characters will remain with me forever. American Hagwon confirms what has long been true: Min Jin Lee is one of the best writers of our time.\\\"--Clint Smith, author of Above Ground and How the Word Is Passed

\\\"After 600 pages, how could I want more? And yet I did, and that is the magic of Min Jin Lee.\\\"--Tahmima Anam, author of Uprising

\\\"An absolutely propulsive read. If your faith in either humanity or storytelling has dimmed, American Hagwon will make it blaze again.\\\"--Kamila Shamsie, author of Best of Friends and Home Fire

\\\"Enchanting and elegant, American Hagwon had me completely absorbed. A novel as subtle as it is sweeping, as dazzlingly intelligent as it is emotionally breathtaking. I adored it.\\\"--Elif Shafak, author of There Are Rivers in the Sky

\\\"In this immersive masterpiece, Lee takes on Korea's all-consuming obsession with education...Beyond irresistible storytelling, Lee expertly confronts broken systems, familial expectations, and peripatetic identities with empathy and brilliance.\\\"--Booklist (starred)

\\\"Min Jin Lee delivers a masterpiece of contemporary intergenerational storytelling...From Seoul to Sydney to Southern California, the storyline explores the intimate, familial, and cultural changes that affect a family and its communities...Intensely compelling with lovingly crafted character arcs, Lee's latest cements her place in the literary pantheon.\\\"--Library Journal (starred)

\\\"Min Jin Lee's intimate epic of family, sacrifice, and fortune creates a world that will become as real to you as your own. It's about education and the rice-cooker pressure families face when opportunities run scarce. It's about capitalism, globalization, and human disposability. It's about family and the strange forms love takes when the abyss of insecurity nears. It's about immigrant pain and the truth beneath facile narratives of uplift. In our age of affordability crises, immigration rages, downward mobility, and anxiety about our children's inheritance, there couldn't be a more relevant novel--nor one that so movingly captures what it feels like to be a person today and to struggle.\\\"--Anand Giridharadas, author of Man in the Mirror and Winners Take All

\\\"Readers of American Hagwon will feel as though they know the vibrant and irrepressible Kohs, whose interwoven journeys invite us to reconsider and reflect on the meaning of home, labor, achievement, and belonging across generations and continents. Their challenges are great and their successes hard-earned, yet it is their deep love and ultimate acceptance of one another that makes Lee's characters unforgettable. Their story beautifully captures what it means to find both meaning and refuge in community; to be humbled at times, but never defeated; to make choices that reflect who we truly are; to find good in the unexpected. It shows us that to believe in the next generation is to possess an unquenchable hope for the future. This book is a gift for students of all ages, for those who care for and hope alongside them, and for all of us who are blessed to read and learn from Min Jin Lee.\\\"--Nicole Chung, author of A Living Remedy and All You Can Ever Know

\\\"Readers of Min Jin Lee's Pachinko won't be disappointed by the compulsively readable American Hagwon. American Hagwon follows the lives of the Koh family from Korea, Australia, and America, with the breadth and urgency of a saga and the intimacy of a short story. Lee explores essential questions such as the role of education, the nature of love, and the conditions of immigrant life, but to appreciate American Hagwon by its themes alone is to limit what it really is. It is, ultimately, a fully realized vision of compassion, passion, and wisdom.\\\"--Krys Lee, author of Drifting House and How I Became a North Korean

\\\"Through masterfully controlled storytelling, Lee patiently explores how her large group of characters' fortunes are shaped by forces from without and within: the powerful lure of sex, the sucking vacuum of greed, the insidiousness of racism, the obligations between parents and children. What makes a good life? The author's wisdom is a gift to her readers.\\\"--Kirkus Reviews (starred)

\\\"American Hagwon is a compelling, moving epic of family life across continents and generations. It asks how we learn--and how we learn who we are or who we can be--by drawing us close to heart-warming, heart-breaking characters who will stay with us long after the last page is turned.\\\"--Erica Wagner, author of Gravity and Wash

\\\"With her gift for wonderfully empathetic storytelling, this is a profoundly generous and humane novel about duty, family, and the dream of a better life. In this multi-layered portrait of immigrants and expatriates, Min Jin Lee conveys so much human warmth while capturing the stifling pressures of the Korean educational system. I was fully absorbed by the fates of the Koh family and, as the novel worked its cumulative magic, deeply moved by this masterful tale of sacrifice, familial devotion, and, ultimately, acceptance.\\\"--Douglas Stuart, author of John of John and Shuggie Bain, winner of the Booker Prize

\\\"American Hagwon is an immersive, engrossing novel. As the Koh family, brilliantly imagined by Min Jin Lee, moves between South Korea, Australia and California, they each have a fierce and fascinating individuality. This is panorama told in brilliant detail.\\\"--Colm Toibin, author of The Master and Brooklyn

\\\"I love American Hagwon so much. Min Jin Lee is phenomenally the real thing. I was completely not ready for the brilliance of this book and the way she captured the essence of so many of our lived experiences through the members of the Koh family. I read huge swaths of this book with my heart in my throat and found myself cheering. This book is brilliant.\\\"--Jacqueline Woodson, author of Red at the Bone and Brown Girl Dreaming, winner of the National Book Award

\\\"What can I say? American Hagwon is all of the things. A masterful social novel sweeping in scope and at the same time nuanced and devastating in its precision. An incisive examination of what we value as individuals, as parents, as a society. A book that crosses oceans and cultures and generations to tell an intricate and compulsively entertaining tale of class, ambition, friendship, family, love, sex and, of course, education. Min Jin Lee is a writer in full command of her craft and what she has crafted is a timeless and universal story of people dreaming and striving for a better life, a story of greed and betrayal, grief and heartbreak but also sacrifice and kindness and grace. These characters live and breathe and will stay with me. A vital and important work.\\\"--Charles Yu, author of Interior Chinatown, winner of the National Book Award

\\\"American Hagwon is a stunning novel, following three generations of families of the Korean diaspora across four continents. Lee's explorations of education, class and gender are finely wrought as each character must find his or her sense of purpose--and anchor that purpose in love as well as labor--notwithstanding the cruelties of economic crises and the disorientations of displacement. Bound together by faith, tradition, and origin, the moral universe of the novel's characters is brilliant with Lee's ever present ethical clarity and deep sensitivity. Yearning and forbearance, grace and devastation, course through these pages, in a story that is both epic and intimate. Yet again, Lee has written a novel that both speaks to the world and illuminates Korean history and culture. Indeed, she makes clear that it is a history we all would do well to learn and heed.\\\"--Imani Perry, author of Black In Blues and South to America, winner of the National Book Award

\\\"Min Jin Lee has written another masterpiece. American Hagwon is, at once, an intimate story that spans three continents of the Koh family's love, loss, and disappointments. It is also a story of how the ongoing demand for success can distort how we live and love. In this sense, the novel relentlessly criticizes a world defined by material gain, consumption, and status. The Koh family finds itself caught up in the whirlwind of it all. Despite the devastation wrought by the burden of achievement, faith and a gentle and unshakable love remain. Something we all need to remember and feel in these dark days.\\\"--Eddie S. Glaude Jr., author of America, U.S.A.

\\\"A novel of extraordinary ambition. Min Jin Lee has constructed a world so rich and intricate that you forget you're reading--you're simply living alongside the Kohs as they navigate betrayal, displacement, and the shifting promises of a better future. A stunning achievement.\\\"--Tara Westover, author of Educated

\\\"Magnificent--a deep education from a master storyteller. Surfacing stirring questions about diaspora and striving and the burdens we place on the shoulders of parents and children alike, American Hagwon is among the very best novels of immigration. A work of grace and beauty that unspools one thread at a time, much like life itself.\\\"--Matthew Desmond, author of Poverty, by America and Evicted, winner of the Pulitzer Prize

\\\"There are meticulous, beautifully crafted layers to Min Jin Lee's latest novel, American Hagwon. It is, on the surface, an engrossing story about a Korean family and their resilience as forces beyond the control alter the trajectory of their lives. But it is, at its core, a story about striving, the complexities of the hagwon system, and a cultural pressure to succeed at any cost. As Lee's story unfolds, and we get to know a sprawling cast of characters across three continents, the impressive scope and scale of this new epic reveals itself in astonishing ways. She brings grand ambition, fierce heart, and the tenderest hope to a novel I didn't want to end.\\\"--Roxane Gay, author of Bad Feminist\"},{\"id\":\"124006290T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"\\\"After 600 pages, how could I want more? And yet I did, and that is the magic of Min Jin Lee.\\\"-Tahmima Anam, author of Uprising

\\\"Readers of American Hagwon will feel as though they know the vibrant and irrepressible Kohs, whose interwoven journeys invite us to reconsider and reflect on the meaning of home, labor, achievement, and belonging across generations and continents. Their challenges are great and their successes hard-earned, yet it is their deep love and ultimate acceptance of one another that makes Lee's characters unforgettable. Their story beautifully captures what it means to find both meaning and refuge in community; to be humbled at times, but never defeated; to make choices that reflect who we truly are; to find good in the unexpected. It shows us that to believe in the next generation is to possess an unquenchable hope for the future. This book is a gift for students of all ages, for those who care for and hope alongside them, and for all of us who are blessed to read and learn from Min Jin Lee.\\\"-Nicole Chung, author of A Living Remedy and All You Can Ever Know

\\\"Magnificent-a deep education from a master storyteller. Surfacing stirring questions about diaspora and striving and the burdens we place on the shoulders of parents and children alike, American Hagwon is among the very best novels of immigration. A work of grace and beauty that unspools one thread at a time, much like life itself.\\\"-Matthew Desmond, author of Poverty, by America and Evicted, winner of the Pulitzer Prize

\\\"There are meticulous, beautifully crafted layers to Min Jin Lee's latest novel, American Hagwon. It is, on the surface, an engrossing story about a Korean family and their resilience as forces beyond the control alter the trajectory of their lives. But it is, at its core, a story about striving, the complexities of the hagwon system, and a cultural pressure to succeed at any cost. As Lee's story unfolds, and we get to know a sprawling cast of characters across three continents, the impressive scope and scale of this new epic reveals itself in astonishing ways. She brings grand ambition, fierce heart, and the tenderest hope to a novel I didn't want to end.\\\"-Roxane Gay, author of Bad Feminist

\\\"Min Jin Lee's intimate epic of family, sacrifice, and fortune creates a world that will become as real to you as your own. It's about education and the rice-cooker pressure families face when opportunities run scarce. It's about capitalism, globalization, and human disposability. It's about family and the strange forms love takes when the abyss of insecurity nears. It's about immigrant pain and the truth beneath facile narratives of uplift. In our age of affordability crises, immigration rages, downward mobility, and anxiety about our children's inheritance, there couldn't be a more relevant novel-nor one that so movingly captures what it feels like to be a person today and to struggle.\\\"-Anand Giridharadas, author of Man in the Mirror and Winners Take All

\\\"Min Jin Lee has written another masterpiece. American Hagwon is, at once, an intimate story that spans three continents of the Koh family's love, loss, and disappointments. It is also a story of how the ongoing demand for success can distort how we live and love. In this sense, the novel relentlessly criticizes a world defined by material gain, consumption, and status. The Koh family finds itself caught up in the whirlwind of it all. Despite the devastation wrought by the burden of achievement, faith and a gentle and unshakable love remain. Something we all need to remember and feel in these dark days.\\\"-Eddie S. Glaude Jr., author of America, U.S.A.

\\\"Readers of Min Jin Lee's Pachinko won't be disappointed by the compulsively readable American Hagwon. American Hagwon follows the lives of the Koh family from Korea, Australia, and America, with the breadth and urgency of a saga and the intimacy of a short story. Lee explores essential questions such as the role of education, the nature of love, and the conditions of immigrant life, but to appreciate American Hagwon by its themes alone is to limit what it really is. It is, ultimately, a fully realized vision of compassion, passion, and wisdom.\\\"-Krys Lee, author of Drifting House and How I Became a North Korean

\\\"American Hagwon is a stunning novel, following three generations of families of the Korean diaspora across four continents. Lee's explorations of education, class and gender are finely wrought as each character must find his or her sense of purpose-and anchor that purpose in love as well as labor-notwithstanding the cruelties of economic crises and the disorientations of displacement. Bound together by faith, tradition, and origin, the moral universe of the novel's characters is brilliant with Lee's ever present ethical clarity and deep sensitivity. Yearning and forbearance, grace and devastation, course through these pages, in a story that is both epic and intimate. Yet again, Lee has written a novel that both speaks to the world and illuminates Korean history and culture. Indeed, she makes clear that it is a history we all would do well to learn and heed.\\\"-Imani Perry, author of Black In Blues and South to America, winner of the National Book Award

\\\"Enchanting and elegant, American Hagwon had me completely absorbed. A novel as subtle as it is sweeping, as dazzlingly intelligent as it is emotionally breathtaking. I adored it.\\\"-Elif Shafak, author of There Are Rivers in the Sky

\\\"An absolutely propulsive read. If your faith in either humanity or storytelling has dimmed, American Hagwon will make it blaze again.\\\"-Kamila Shamsie, author of Best of Friends and Home Fire

\\\"American Hagwon is astonishing in its ability to do so many things at once. It is an enthralling family saga rich with intrigue, secrets, and betrayal. It is a literary triumph written in the most exquisite prose. It is a profound and moving meditation on the question of what it means to live a meaningful life. This book, this story, and these characters will remain with me forever. American Hagwon confirms what has long been true: Min Jin Lee is one of the best writers of our time.\\\"-Clint Smith, author of Above Ground and How the Word Is Passed

\\\"With her gift for wonderfully empathetic storytelling, this is a profoundly generous and humane novel about duty, family, and the dream of a better life. In this multi-layered portrait of immigrants and expatriates, Min Jin Lee conveys so much human warmth while capturing the stifling pressures of the Korean educational system. I was fully absorbed by the fates of the Koh family and, as the novel worked its cumulative magic, deeply moved by this masterful tale of sacrifice, familial devotion, and, ultimately, acceptance.\\\"-Douglas Stuart, author of John of John and Shuggie Bain, winner of the Booker Prize

\\\"American Hagwon is an immersive, engrossing novel. As the Koh family, brilliantly imagined by Min Jin Lee, moves between South Korea, Australia and California, they each have a fierce and fascinating individuality. This is panorama told in brilliant detail.\\\"-Colm Toibin, author of The Master and Brooklyn

\\\"American Hagwon is a compelling, moving epic of family life across continents and generations. It asks how we learn-and how we learn who we are or who we can be-by drawing us close to heart-warming, heart-breaking characters who will stay with us long after the last page is turned.\\\"-Erica Wagner, author of Gravity and Wash

\\\"A novel of extraordinary ambition. Min Jin Lee has constructed a world so rich and intricate that you forget you're reading-you're simply living alongside the Kohs as they navigate betrayal, displacement, and the shifting promises of a better future. A stunning achievement.\\\"-Tara Westover, author of Educated

\\\"I love American Hagwon so much. Min Jin Lee is phenomenally the real thing. I was completely not ready for the brilliance of this book and the way she captured the essence of so many of our lived experiences through the members of the Koh family. I read huge swaths of this book with my heart in my throat and found myself cheering. This book is brilliant.\\\"-Jacqueline Woodson, author of Red at the Bone and Brown Girl Dreaming, winner of the National Book Award

\\\"What can I say? American Hagwon is all of the things. A masterful social novel sweeping in scope and at the same time nuanced and devastating in its precision. An incisive examination of what we value as individuals, as parents, as a society. A book that crosses oceans and cultures and generations to tell an intricate and compulsively entertaining tale of class, ambition, friendship, family, love, sex and, of course, education. Min Jin Lee is a writer in full command of her craft and what she has crafted is a timeless and universal story of people dreaming and striving for a better life, a story of greed and betrayal, grief and heartbreak but also sacrifice and kindness and grace. These characters live and breathe and will stay with me. A vital and important work.\\\"-Charles Yu, author of Interior Chinatown, winner of the National Book Award

\\\"In this immersive masterpiece, Lee takes on Korea's all-consuming obsession with education...Beyond irresistible storytelling, Lee expertly confronts broken systems, familial expectations, and peripatetic identities with empathy and brilliance.\\\"-Booklist (starred)

\\\"Through masterfully controlled storytelling, Lee patiently explores how her large group of characters' fortunes are shaped by forces from without and within: the powerful lure of sex, the sucking vacuum of greed, the insidiousness of racism, the obligations between parents and children. What makes a good life? The author's wisdom is a gift to her readers.\\\"-Kirkus Reviews (starred)

\\\"Min Jin Lee delivers a masterpiece of contemporary intergenerational storytelling...From Seoul to Sydney to Southern California, the storyline explores the intimate, familial, and cultural changes that affect a family and its communities...Intensely compelling with lovingly crafted character arcs, Lee's latest cements her place in the literary pantheon.\\\"-Library Journal (starred)\"},{\"id\":\"132808740T\",\"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 acclaimed, bestselling author of Pachinko returns with a modern classic about ambition and love, family and finding home. Spanning decades and continents, Lee’s latest is at once epic and intimate; a story of who we are and who we’re becoming.

\"},{\"id\":\"124181186T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

From the master storyteller behind Pachinko comes a moving, multi-generational tale of one Korean family with a dream. Min Jin Lee’s layered story follows the Kohs as they navigate love, ambition, obligation and betrayal across continents, all while striving to secure a better life for future generations.

\"},{\"id\":\"131642257T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

\"},{\"id\":\"121572892T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Min Jin Lee is the author of the novels Free Food for Millionaires and Pachinko, a finalist for the National Book Award, runner-up for the Dayton Literary Peace Prize, and a New York Times \\\"100 Best Books of the Century.\\\" She serves as the New York State Author Laureate from 2025 through 2027. She is the 2024 recipient of The Fitzgerald Prize for Literary Excellence. Lee has received the Manhae Grand Prize for Literature, the Bucheon Diaspora Literary Award, and the Samsung Happiness for Tomorrow Award for Creativity from South Korea. She is the recipient of fellowships in Fiction from the Guggenheim Foundation, the Harvard Radcliffe Institute, and the New York Foundation for the Arts. Lee is an inductee of the New York Foundation for the Arts Hall of Fame and the New York State Writers Hall of Fame. She lives in Harlem with her family.

\"},{\"id\":\"131642263T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

Min Jin Lee is the author of the novels Free Food for Millionaires and Pachinko, a finalist for the National Book Award, runner-up for the Dayton Literary Peace Prize, and a New York Times “100 Best Books of the Century.” She serves as the New York State Author Laureate from 2025 through 2027. She is the 2024 recipient of The Fitzgerald Prize for Literary Excellence. Lee has received the Manhae Grand Prize for Literature, the Bucheon Diaspora Literary Award, and the Samsung Happiness for Tomorrow Award for Creativity from South Korea. She is the recipient of fellowships in Fiction from the Guggenheim Foundation, the Harvard Radcliffe Institute, and the New York Foundation for the Arts. Lee is an inductee of the New York Foundation for the Arts Hall of Fame and the New York State Writers Hall of Fame. She lives in Harlem with her family.

\"},{\"id\":\"121955112T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Min Jin Lee is the author of the novels Free Food for Millionaires and Pachinko, a finalist for the National Book Award, runner-up for the Dayton Literary Peace Prize, and a New York Times “100 Best Books of the Century.” She serves as the New York State Author Laureate from 2025 through 2027. She is the 2024 recipient of The Fitzgerald Prize for Literary Excellence. Lee has received the Manhae Grand Prize for Literature, the Bucheon Diaspora Literary Award, and the Samsung Happiness for Tomorrow Award for Creativity from South Korea. She is the recipient of fellowships in Fiction from the Guggenheim Foundation, the Harvard Radcliffe Institute, and the New York Foundation for the Arts. Lee is an inductee of the New York Foundation for the Arts Hall of Fame and the New York State Writers Hall of Fame. She lives in Harlem with her family.\"},{\"id\":\"123344231T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"123852869T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Min Jin Lee is the author of the novels Free Food for Millionaires and Pachinko, a finalist for the National Book Award, runner-up for the Dayton Literary Peace Prize, and a New York Times “100 Best Books of the Century.” She serves as the New York State Author Laureate from 2025 through 2027. She is the 2024 recipient of The Fitzgerald Prize for Literary Excellence. Lee has received the Manhae Grand Prize for Literature, the Bucheon Diaspora Literary Award, and the Samsung Happiness for Tomorrow Award for Creativity from South Korea. She is the recipient of fellowships in Fiction from the Guggenheim Foundation, the Harvard Radcliffe Institute, and the New York Foundation for the Arts. Lee is an inductee of the New York Foundation for the Arts Hall of Fame and the New York State Writers Hall of Fame. She lives in Harlem with her family.\"}]",{"_45":3157,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":3158},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871813210353","American-Hagwon/Min-Jin-Lee",{"_45":3160,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":3161},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871812554993","1149052260",{"_45":3163,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871812882673",{"_45":3165,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":3140},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75058542575857",{"_45":3167,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":3117},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871812063473",{"_45":3169,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871812980977",{"_45":3171,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":2119},"gid://shopify/Metafield/94089637626097",{"_30":78,"_79":14,"_58":3173},"https://www.barnesandnoble.com/blog/the-biggest-books-of-fall-2026-fiction-edition","The Biggest Books of Fall 2026: Fiction Edition",{"_37":3176,"_30":1030,"_1020":3177,"_75":3466},"91e733703d3a",{"_1023":3178,"_1032":223,"_1409":1410,"_1411":1412,"_105":-5,"_58":3464},[3179,3235,3292,3351,3407],{"_1887":1888,"_45":3180,"_75":3181,"_1891":1892,"_834":3182,"_1894":3183,"_1896":3184,"_1898":3185,"_1905":3188,"_1913":63,"_1914":3190,"_1920":3194,"_1942":3204,"_1945":3206,"_1947":3207,"_1949":-5,"_1950":3208},"gid://shopify/Product/9412282974449","Redwood: The Untold Story of the Cold War's Most Extraordinary Spy","9780593728123","From the bestselling author of The Spy and the Traitor comes the ultimate true-life Cold War thriller: a \"page-turning masterpiece\" (The Guardian) about a Russian double agent with a desperate secret-and the key to stopping a nuclear apocalypse.\"Ben Macintyre has a rare ability to turn history and espionage upside down and give us true, colorful stories that astound us as they draw us in. Redwood might be his best.\"-John GrishamIn 1981, KGB Major Vladimir Kuzichkin, codenamed \"Redwood,\" was the best Soviet officer in Iran, running spies in the wake of the Islamic revolution and working with a hidden network of Iranian communists to undermine the new regime. But Kuzichkin had a problem, a sexual secret that, if revealed, would humiliate him with his colleagues, cost him his job, and send him into exile. Desperate for a solution, he reached out to the only place he believed could help: Britain's MI6.So begins one of the most astounding true spy stories of the Cold War, set against the terrifying prospect of nuclear armageddon. Taking readers through shadowy back alleys of Tehran, across bloody streets and into cloistered intelligence offices, Ben Macintyre unfolds a world in turmoil, where no one's motive is what it seems, and exposure means death. As Kuzichkin helps the Soviet leadership plot an overthrow of the Ayatollah's fledgling regime-and the American government secretly contemplates a nuclear response if they do-it falls on MI6's resourceful young undercover officer Ian McCredie to spirit Kuzichkin's vital information back to the West. But when both Iranian intelligence and the KGB close in on the Russian double-agent, McCredie must design an improbable high-stakes escape plan for Kuzichkin, in which failure is almost certain and the direction of the Cold War hangs in the balance.This is the gripping tale of one man's courage, and its extraordinary unintended consequences that still shape our world today. It's about a moving friendship between spies on opposite sides of the global conflict; about marriage, loyalty, and betrayal. Drawing on never-before-seen archival material and revealing interviews with the participants, Redwood plunges readers back into the world of The Spy and the Traitor, where the fate of millions turns on the split-second decisions of spies under pressure.","From the bestselling author of The Spy and the Traitor comes the ultimate true-life Cold War thriller: a \"page-turning masterpiece\" (The Guardian) about a Russian double agent with a desperate secret-and the key to stopping a nuclear apocalypse.

\"Ben Macintyre has a rare ability to turn history and espionage upside down and give us true, colorful stories that astound us as they draw us in. Redwood might be his best.\"-John Grisham

In 1981, KGB Major Vladimir Kuzichkin, codenamed \"Redwood,\" was the best Soviet officer in Iran, running spies in the wake of the Islamic revolution and working with a hidden network of Iranian communists to undermine the new regime. But Kuzichkin had a problem, a sexual secret that, if revealed, would humiliate him with his colleagues, cost him his job, and send him into exile. Desperate for a solution, he reached out to the only place he believed could help: Britain's MI6.

So begins one of the most astounding true spy stories of the Cold War, set against the terrifying prospect of nuclear armageddon. Taking readers through shadowy back alleys of Tehran, across bloody streets and into cloistered intelligence offices, Ben Macintyre unfolds a world in turmoil, where no one's motive is what it seems, and exposure means death. As Kuzichkin helps the Soviet leadership plot an overthrow of the Ayatollah's fledgling regime-and the American government secretly contemplates a nuclear response if they do-it falls on MI6's resourceful young undercover officer Ian McCredie to spirit Kuzichkin's vital information back to the West. But when both Iranian intelligence and the KGB close in on the Russian double-agent, McCredie must design an improbable high-stakes escape plan for Kuzichkin, in which failure is almost certain and the direction of the Cold War hangs in the balance.

This is the gripping tale of one man's courage, and its extraordinary unintended consequences that still shape our world today. It's about a moving friendship between spies on opposite sides of the global conflict; about marriage, loyalty, and betrayal. Drawing on never-before-seen archival material and revealing interviews with the participants, Redwood plunges readers back into the world of The Spy and the Traitor, where the fate of millions turns on the split-second decisions of spies under pressure.",{"_45":3186,"_58":3187,"_60":1902,"_54":1903,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/49384249131249","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593728123_p0.jpg?v=1783566741",{"_1907":3189},{"_1909":2950,"_1911":1912},{"_1907":3191,"_1918":3193},{"_1909":3192,"_1911":1912},"35.0",{"_1909":3192,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":3195},[3196],{"_45":3197,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":3198,"_714":3199,"_1930":3200,"_1932":3201,"_1934":3202,"_1940":3182,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47588913676529",{"_1909":3192,"_1911":1912},{"_45":3186,"_58":3187,"_1904":-5,"_60":1902,"_54":1903},{"_1909":2950,"_1911":1912},{"_75":3181,"_834":3182},[3203],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":3205},"[\"BADGE - $3 OFF (p7877)\",\"B|$3 Off|#DD2A27|#701F15 (p7847)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"Recently Reviewed (p10276)\",\"Retail Price fixing (p261)\",\"Barnes & Noble Holiday Gift Guide (p5430)\"]",{"_1938":3182},{"_1938":1892},[3209,-5,-5,3212,3214,-5,3216,3218,3221,3224,3227,-5,3229,3231,-5,3233,-5,-5],{"_45":3210,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":3211},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633979855089","[{\"contributorId\":170136,\"fullName\":\"Ben Macintyre\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3213,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633980182769",{"_45":3215,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633979625713",{"_45":3217,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":1967},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633980248305",{"_45":3219,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":3220},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74634584326385","[{\"id\":\"132431612T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"1

Elite Forces

At the age of twenty-two, Vladimir Andreevich Kuzichkin discovered he was not who he thought he was.

Kuzichkin's childhood was privileged, by Moscow standards. His father Andrei was a KGB officer, undistinguished and disgruntled, but enjoying the benefits that came from membership in the Soviet Union's all-powerful intelligence and security service. His mother, Elisabeta, was an office typist. Born in 1947, Vladimir was principally raised by his maternal grandmother, who spoiled him. Despite the privations of postwar Russia, the family had enough to eat, clothing coupons, and holidays in a state dacha. When Vladimir was seven, they moved into a three-room apartment in a cooperative block in the Leningrad District, surrounded by a high fence to keep out the poor from the slums. An only child, little Volodya considered this a life of \\\"luxury.\\\"

But the family had a streak of violent unhappiness running through it, fueled by vodka. Andrei Kuzichkin was a vicious alcoholic. He beat Elisabeta on the weekend and whenever he drank during the week, which was usually. She suffered repeated miscarriages. This added to Andrei's fury. He hit his son, too, until the boy grew big enough to defend himself. By the age of fourteen, Vladimir was already over six feet tall.

Intelligent and sensitive, Vladimir had hated his father for as long as he could remember. One summer in the dacha, he befriended a domesticated pig named Vasili, feeding the animal leftovers and teaching it to come when he whistled. At the end of the holiday Andrei sternly summoned Vladimir to the barn and insisted the boy watch as he killed his pet with a hatchet. Ten-year-old Volodya wept for a week, but not in front of his father. Like many abused children, fear and hatred brought complex secret feelings of guilt and self-loathing. \\\"What kind of a person am I that I detest the man I came from?\\\" he wondered. Sometimes he imagined killing his father, with an axe.

The boy rebelled, insofar as that was possible in Soviet Russia of the 1960s. He ran with a gang of street toughs and got into fights. His height made him a target. To defy his father, he refused to join Komsomol, the communist youth league. He listened to bootleg pop music from Britain and America and aped the forbidden fashions of the capitalist West. He also discovered the songs of Vladimir Vysotsky, an unruly star of the new Moscow folk underground. With a cousin and two friends, he formed a rock band called The Brothers. At the age of eighteen, wearing flares and two-inch home-adapted Cuban heels, Vladimir Kuzichkin imagined himself as a gigantic Russian version of Cliff Richard or Paul McCartney. \\\"We are going to be the Russian Beatles,\\\" he declared. Andrei Kuzichkin said his son's music was rubbish and that The Brothers would never amount to anything. He was right.

Vladimir Kuzichkin finished school with good grades, a reputation for fistfights, a taste for Western pop, a damaged soul, and no ambition. Called up for three years' military service, he was sent to Hagenow in East Germany as a radio operator in a nuclear missile launching unit, the front line of the Cold War. \\\"In the event of war,\\\" he recalled, \\\"the division's task was to annihilate Hamburg with six tactical nuclear missiles\\\" and then be obliterated in turn, in accordance with the logic of mutually assured destruction (MAD). The naïve young conscript was not overly concerned by his assigned role in nuclear Armageddon. He was very bored.

One morning, Kuzichkin was summoned to the commander's office to take an urgent telephone call from his mother. \\\"Your father is dead,\\\" Elisabeta Kuzichkina said, her voice hoarse. \\\"You must come home.\\\" Granted two days' compassionate leave, on the train to Moscow he wondered at his own lack of grief. He was unable to cry. His overwhelming feeling was not grief, but relief. \\\"Now I don't have to hate myself so much,\\\" he reflected.

Opening the apartment front door, he found Andrei Kuzichkin seated at the table, very much alive, and drunk. The older man picked up his bottle without a word and retreated to the bedroom. Between sobs, Elisabeta confessed her lie.

Vladimir's father was not Andrei Kuzichkin, but Georgi Alexandreevich Larkin, a tall, good-looking construction engineer of Irish ancestry, hence his unusual surname. Elisabeta and Georgi met after the war, and she had become pregnant. They intended to marry. But then he was sent to Siberia to build a steel factory. Georgi urged her to come too. She refused. What would she do there? Moscow was the only world she knew. Larkin never returned from the east. For a few years Elisabeta struggled on as an unmarried working mother, while her mother cared for the child. Her sister was married to a KGB officer, who introduced her to his brother, also in the KGB. Andrei Kuzichkin was boozy and rough, but he had a good job. Andrei offered a future. He even reluctantly agreed to adopt her child.

And now Georgi Larkin, the only man she had ever loved, was dead from a heart attack on a bear-hunting expedition in the Siberian wilderness. It was four hours before they discovered his body in the snow.

Vladimir Kuzichkin was baffled and furious. \\\"How could she deceive me all these years?\\\" he wondered. He ignored Andrei from that day on. And yet the discovery explained everything: the dislocation he had always felt; his hatred for the man who had pretended to be his father and beaten that untruth into him. More prosaically, it explained his height and coloring. To his friends, bandmates, and army comrades, he was still Kuzichkin, the lanky would-be pop star, but inside, secretly, he was Larkin. The discovery of a real father, now invested with imaginary qualities Georgi had never possessed in life, awoke the possibility of making himself into someone else. So that is what he did.

To begin that transformation, he decided, he would need some higher education. Back at the Hagenow base, he plunged into the officers' library and began reading ravenously. He joined the Communist Party (an unshakable requirement for anyone with ambition in Soviet Russia), but without much conviction. He had recited the mantras of Marxism from his earliest childhood, and believed them, along with everyone else. The discovery of his real father made him question everything he had grown up with, including communism. He did not share these heretical thoughts with anyone else. He barely admitted them to himself.

After three years in uniform, Kuzichkin applied to study at the Institute of Asian and African Countries in Moscow, a specialist university teaching Oriental and African languages. Mastery of a foreign tongue \\\"raised the probability of future work abroad.\\\" Reading down the list of language options, from Arabic to Zulu, he settled on Persian (or Farsi), the language of Iran. It sounded intriguing, and the course was undersubscribed. A model Soviet citizen with good academic grades and a clean military record, Kuzichkin was told to report to the Institute on September 1, 1970.

In addition to Iran's language, culture, and history, the six-year course included a substantial ideological component: Communist Party history, dialectical materialism, Marxism-Leninism, philosophy, and political economy. Each student was required to learn an additional Western language: he chose English. If he was deemed suitable, the fourth year (1973-1974) would be spent in Iran.

Located on Karl Marx Prospekt opposite the Kremlin, the Institute was controlled by the International Department of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU). Like every other organ of state, its primary function was to bolster communism and spread the doctrine of revolution worldwide. Kuzichkin was now \\\"in the fast lane of Soviet society,\\\" he reflected, a student at a top university with a bright future: \\\"There was nothing to bar my progress.\\\"

Kuzichkin was a shy, awkward young man, as tall people sometimes are. Except when drunk. Alcohol brought out the extrovert in him. In social situations he tended to drink fast and deeply, before seizing a guitar and bursting into song. Women were drawn to this gentle, melodious giant with bright blue eyes and a shock of fair hair. In October, at a party thrown by a friend of his flatmate, Kuzichkin plucked up and soaked up enough Dutch courage to ask a girl to dance. Her name was Galina Lvovna Kokosova, a petite, pale, sweet-faced woman two years his junior. They swayed to bootlegged Rolling Stones records, her head on his chest, tiny in his arms.

Galina, known as Galya to friends and family, could not understand how such a handsome man could be attracted to her. \\\"I was a very sad and lonely 22-year-old girl: I wasn't in love with anyone; I didn't have any particularly close friends; and, after my dad departed, everything in my life went almost catastrophically wrong. The period from 1965, when my father passed away, until I met Volodya, were the saddest years of my existence.\\\" He gave her a confidence she had never felt before.\"},{\"id\":\"132431422T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"1

Elite Forces

At the age of twenty-two, Vladimir Andreevich Kuzichkin discovered he was not who he thought he was.

Kuzichkin's childhood was privileged, by Moscow standards. His father Andrei was a KGB officer, undistinguished and disgruntled, but enjoying the benefits that came from membership in the Soviet Union's all-powerful intelligence and security service. His mother, Elisabeta, was an office typist. Born in 1947, Vladimir was principally raised by his maternal grandmother, who spoiled him. Despite the privations of postwar Russia, the family had enough to eat, clothing coupons, and holidays in a state dacha. When Vladimir was seven, they moved into a three-room apartment in a cooperative block in the Leningrad District, surrounded by a high fence to keep out the poor from the slums. An only child, little Volodya considered this a life of \\\"luxury.\\\"

But the family had a streak of violent unhappiness running through it, fueled by vodka. Andrei Kuzichkin was a vicious alcoholic. He beat Elisabeta on the weekend and whenever he drank during the week, which was usually. She suffered repeated miscarriages. This added to Andrei's fury. He hit his son, too, until the boy grew big enough to defend himself. By the age of fourteen, Vladimir was already over six feet tall.

Intelligent and sensitive, Vladimir had hated his father for as long as he could remember. One summer in the dacha, he befriended a domesticated pig named Vasili, feeding the animal leftovers and teaching it to come when he whistled. At the end of the holiday Andrei sternly summoned Vladimir to the barn and insisted the boy watch as he killed his pet with a hatchet. Ten-year-old Volodya wept for a week, but not in front of his father. Like many abused children, fear and hatred brought complex secret feelings of guilt and self-loathing. \\\"What kind of a person am I that I detest the man I came from?\\\" he wondered. Sometimes he imagined killing his father, with an axe.

The boy rebelled, insofar as that was possible in Soviet Russia of the 1960s. He ran with a gang of street toughs and got into fights. His height made him a target. To defy his father, he refused to join Komsomol, the communist youth league. He listened to bootleg pop music from Britain and America and aped the forbidden fashions of the capitalist West. He also discovered the songs of Vladimir Vysotsky, an unruly star of the new Moscow folk underground. With a cousin and two friends, he formed a rock band called The Brothers. At the age of eighteen, wearing flares and two-inch home-adapted Cuban heels, Vladimir Kuzichkin imagined himself as a gigantic Russian version of Cliff Richard or Paul McCartney. \\\"We are going to be the Russian Beatles,\\\" he declared. Andrei Kuzichkin said his son's music was rubbish and that The Brothers would never amount to anything. He was right.

Vladimir Kuzichkin finished school with good grades, a reputation for fistfights, a taste for Western pop, a damaged soul, and no ambition. Called up for three years' military service, he was sent to Hagenow in East Germany as a radio operator in a nuclear missile launching unit, the front line of the Cold War. \\\"In the event of war,\\\" he recalled, \\\"the division's task was to annihilate Hamburg with six tactical nuclear missiles\\\" and then be obliterated in turn, in accordance with the logic of mutually assured destruction (MAD). The naïve young conscript was not overly concerned by his assigned role in nuclear Armageddon. He was very bored.

One morning, Kuzichkin was summoned to the commander's office to take an urgent telephone call from his mother. \\\"Your father is dead,\\\" Elisabeta Kuzichkina said, her voice hoarse. \\\"You must come home.\\\" Granted two days' compassionate leave, on the train to Moscow he wondered at his own lack of grief. He was unable to cry. His overwhelming feeling was not grief, but relief. \\\"Now I don't have to hate myself so much,\\\" he reflected.

Opening the apartment front door, he found Andrei Kuzichkin seated at the table, very much alive, and drunk. The older man picked up his bottle without a word and retreated to the bedroom. Between sobs, Elisabeta confessed her lie.

Vladimir's father was not Andrei Kuzichkin, but Georgi Alexandreevich Larkin, a tall, good-looking construction engineer of Irish ancestry, hence his unusual surname. Elisabeta and Georgi met after the war, and she had become pregnant. They intended to marry. But then he was sent to Siberia to build a steel factory. Georgi urged her to come too. She refused. What would she do there? Moscow was the only world she knew. Larkin never returned from the east. For a few years Elisabeta struggled on as an unmarried working mother, while her mother cared for the child. Her sister was married to a KGB officer, who introduced her to his brother, also in the KGB. Andrei Kuzichkin was boozy and rough, but he had a good job. Andrei offered a future. He even reluctantly agreed to adopt her child.

And now Georgi Larkin, the only man she had ever loved, was dead from a heart attack on a bear-hunting expedition in the Siberian wilderness. It was four hours before they discovered his body in the snow.

Vladimir Kuzichkin was baffled and furious. \\\"How could she deceive me all these years?\\\" he wondered. He ignored Andrei from that day on. And yet the discovery explained everything: the dislocation he had always felt; his hatred for the man who had pretended to be his father and beaten that untruth into him. More prosaically, it explained his height and coloring. To his friends, bandmates, and army comrades, he was still Kuzichkin, the lanky would-be pop star, but inside, secretly, he was Larkin. The discovery of a real father, now invested with imaginary qualities Georgi had never possessed in life, awoke the possibility of making himself into someone else. So that is what he did.

To begin that transformation, he decided, he would need some higher education. Back at the Hagenow base, he plunged into the officers' library and began reading ravenously. He joined the Communist Party (an unshakable requirement for anyone with ambition in Soviet Russia), but without much conviction. He had recited the mantras of Marxism from his earliest childhood, and believed them, along with everyone else. The discovery of his real father made him question everything he had grown up with, including communism. He did not share these heretical thoughts with anyone else. He barely admitted them to himself.

After three years in uniform, Kuzichkin applied to study at the Institute of Asian and African Countries in Moscow, a specialist university teaching Oriental and African languages. Mastery of a foreign tongue \\\"raised the probability of future work abroad.\\\" Reading down the list of language options, from Arabic to Zulu, he settled on Persian (or Farsi), the language of Iran. It sounded intriguing, and the course was undersubscribed. A model Soviet citizen with good academic grades and a clean military record, Kuzichkin was told to report to the Institute on September 1, 1970.

In addition to Iran's language, culture, and history, the six-year course included a substantial ideological component: Communist Party history, dialectical materialism, Marxism-Leninism, philosophy, and political economy. Each student was required to learn an additional Western language: he chose English. If he was deemed suitable, the fourth year (1973-1974) would be spent in Iran.

Located on Karl Marx Prospekt opposite the Kremlin, the Institute was controlled by the International Department of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union (CPSU). Like every other organ of state, its primary function was to bolster communism and spread the doctrine of revolution worldwide. Kuzichkin was now \\\"in the fast lane of Soviet society,\\\" he reflected, a student at a top university with a bright future: \\\"There was nothing to bar my progress.\\\"

Kuzichkin was a shy, awkward young man, as tall people sometimes are. Except when drunk. Alcohol brought out the extrovert in him. In social situations he tended to drink fast and deeply, before seizing a guitar and bursting into song. Women were drawn to this gentle, melodious giant with bright blue eyes and a shock of fair hair. In October, at a party thrown by a friend of his flatmate, Kuzichkin plucked up and soaked up enough Dutch courage to ask a girl to dance. Her name was Galina Lvovna Kokosova, a petite, pale, sweet-faced woman two years his junior. They swayed to bootlegged Rolling Stones records, her head on his chest, tiny in his arms.

Galina, known as Galya to friends and family, could not understand how such a handsome man could be attracted to her. \\\"I was a very sad and lonely 22-year-old girl: I wasn't in love with anyone; I didn't have any particularly close friends; and, after my dad departed, everything in my life went almost catastrophically wrong. The period from 1965, when my father passed away, until I met Volodya, were the saddest years of my existence.\\\" He gave her a confidence she had never felt before.\"},{\"id\":\"127897052T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"\\\"I grab each new book by Ben Macintyre and read it as fast as possible. He has a rare ability to turn history and espionage upside down and give us true, colorful stories that astound us as they draw us in. Redwood might be his best. Given the current war in Iran, it is certainly his most timely.\\\"-John Grisham

\\\"Redwood lives up to the attention-grabbing opening scene; I devoured it in a single sitting . . . By all means give Redwood to your father for Christmas, but make sure you read it yourself first: it's superb.\\\"-The Guardian

\\\"A crackerjack spy story that only Ben Macintyre could tell so well. He seems to have talked to everyone, and cracked every file, that might shed new light on this remarkable tale. But a word of advice: before starting to read, settle into a comfortable chair and have snacks close to hand, because you won't be going anywhere for a while.\\\"-Scott Anderson, author of King of Kings: The Iranian Revolution: A Story of Hubris, Delusion and Catastrophic Miscalculation

\\\"Few writers make intelligence history as readable as Ben Macintyre. His latest book follows Soviet intelligence officer Vladimir Kuzichkin, whose defection during the Cold War exposed secrets that rippled through Moscow, Tehran and the West during one of the most dangerous periods of the nuclear age. Macintyre has built a reputation for transforming archival research into page-turning nonfiction, and Redwood appears poised to continue that streak.\\\"-Military

\\\"An author of thrilling spy histories par excellence, Macintyre takes readers into post-Revolutionary Iran where Islamists and leftists, once allies against imperialism, turn on each other-and where a Russian agent, unable to perform in the bedroom, turns to British intelligence for a cure. The consequences are deadly.\\\"-The New York Times

\\\"A tangled tale of spy versus spy . . . As ever, Macintyre delivers an improbable but impeccable tale of true espionage.\\\"-Kirkus Reviews

\"},{\"id\":\"130247273T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"\\\"I grab each new book by Ben Macintyre and read it as fast as possible. He has a rare ability to turn history and espionage upside down and give us true, colorful stories that astound us as they draw us in. Redwood might be his best. Given the current war in Iran, it is certainly his most timely.\\\"--John Grisham

\\\"Redwood lives up to the attention-grabbing opening scene; I devoured it in a single sitting . . . By all means give Redwood to your father for Christmas, but make sure you read it yourself first: it's superb.\\\"--The Guardian

\\\"A crackerjack spy story that only Ben Macintyre could tell so well. He seems to have talked to everyone, and cracked every file, that might shed new light on this remarkable tale. But a word of advice: before starting to read, settle into a comfortable chair and have snacks close to hand, because you won't be going anywhere for a while.\\\"--Scott Anderson, author of King of Kings: The Iranian Revolution: A Story of Hubris, Delusion and Catastrophic Miscalculation

\\\"Few writers make intelligence history as readable as Ben Macintyre. His latest book follows Soviet intelligence officer Vladimir Kuzichkin, whose defection during the Cold War exposed secrets that rippled through Moscow, Tehran and the West during one of the most dangerous periods of the nuclear age. Macintyre has built a reputation for transforming archival research into page-turning nonfiction, and Redwood appears poised to continue that streak.\\\"--Military

\\\"An author of thrilling spy histories par excellence, Macintyre takes readers into post-Revolutionary Iran where Islamists and leftists, once allies against imperialism, turn on each other--and where a Russian agent, unable to perform in the bedroom, turns to British intelligence for a cure. The consequences are deadly.\\\"--The New York Times

\\\"A tangled tale of spy versus spy . . . As ever, Macintyre delivers an improbable but impeccable tale of true espionage.\\\"--Kirkus Reviews

\"},{\"id\":\"133592439T\",\"type\":\"Award Note\",\"linkText\":\"Award Note\",\"typeId\":\"1036\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"2026 The Baillie Gifford Prize, Long-listed
\"},{\"id\":\"128651742T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

He revealed the Kremlin’s secret plot and prevented Armageddon. This gripping account of an unsung hero brings the hidden world of Cold War espionage to life.

\"},{\"id\":\"121116298T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Ben Macintyre is a writer-at-large for The Times (UK) and the bestselling author of Agent Sonya, The Spy and the Traitor, A Spy Among Friends, Double Cross, Operation Mincemeat, Agent Zigzag, Rogue Heroes, Prisoners of the Castle, and The Siege, among other books. Macintyre has also written and presented BBC documentaries of his work.

\"},{\"id\":\"122263818T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

\"}]",{"_45":3222,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":3223},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633980707057","Redwood/Ben-Macintyre",{"_45":3225,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":3226},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633979494641","1148963735",{"_45":3228,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633980084465",{"_45":3230,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":3205},"gid://shopify/Metafield/78682087293169",{"_45":3232,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":3182},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633978642673",{"_45":3234,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633980313841",{"_1887":1888,"_45":3236,"_75":3237,"_1891":1892,"_834":3238,"_1894":3239,"_1896":3240,"_1898":3241,"_1905":3245,"_1913":63,"_1914":3247,"_1920":3251,"_1942":3261,"_1945":3263,"_1947":3264,"_1949":-5,"_1950":3265},"gid://shopify/Product/9513304621297","Simply Ina: A Barefoot Contessa Cookbook","9780593234174","A brand-new collection of 85 easy yet impressive recipes for every meal of the day, from make-ahead lunches to effortless appetizers and showstopping dinners, from America's favorite home cookThrough her years of experience as a home cook, Ina Garten has learned that the best food is often the simplest. With just a little thought and a few good ingredients, you can make truly impressive dishes without spending hours in the kitchen. Simply Ina celebrates the delicious results of streamlined cooking, sharing Ina's expert tips and tricks for achieving the best flavor with the least amount of effort.Each recipe in this book has a secret that makes preparing it easier than you thought. Some dishes rely on smart store-bought shortcuts-like Mashed Potato & Leek Soup so delicious no one will ever guess it's made with packaged mashed potatoes and Bourbon Baked Beans that dress up canned baked beans with smoked bacon, maple syrup, and good bourbon-because sometimes store-bought really is just fine! For seamless gatherings, Ina's deeply flavorful Provencal Chicken with Olives & Capers can be made ahead and reheated in its Dutch oven before dinner, and the crispy oatmeal topping on her Cherry Berry Crumble can be prepped in advance for easy assembly in the moment. Elegant dishes like Endive & Avocado Salad and Irish Coffee Affogato involve little more than assembling ingredients, allowing you to serve something special without really cooking at all.Whether you're feeding unexpected guests, pulling together a Tuesday night dinner after work, or hosting a dinner party and don't want to miss all the fun cooped up in the kitchen, you'll be happy to have these simple, satisfying, and completely doable recipes to turn to. Because simple food shouldn't just save you time; it should let you enjoy the people you love.","A brand-new collection of 85 easy yet impressive recipes for every meal of the day, from make-ahead lunches to effortless appetizers and showstopping dinners, from America's favorite home cook

Through her years of experience as a home cook, Ina Garten has learned that the best food is often the simplest. With just a little thought and a few good ingredients, you can make truly impressive dishes without spending hours in the kitchen. Simply Ina celebrates the delicious results of streamlined cooking, sharing Ina's expert tips and tricks for achieving the best flavor with the least amount of effort.

Each recipe in this book has a secret that makes preparing it easier than you thought. Some dishes rely on smart store-bought shortcuts-like Mashed Potato & Leek Soup so delicious no one will ever guess it's made with packaged mashed potatoes and Bourbon Baked Beans that dress up canned baked beans with smoked bacon, maple syrup, and good bourbon-because sometimes store-bought really is just fine! For seamless gatherings, Ina's deeply flavorful Provencal Chicken with Olives & Capers can be made ahead and reheated in its Dutch oven before dinner, and the crispy oatmeal topping on her Cherry Berry Crumble can be prepped in advance for easy assembly in the moment. Elegant dishes like Endive & Avocado Salad and Irish Coffee Affogato involve little more than assembling ingredients, allowing you to serve something special without really cooking at all.

Whether you're feeding unexpected guests, pulling together a Tuesday night dinner after work, or hosting a dinner party and don't want to miss all the fun cooped up in the kitchen, you'll be happy to have these simple, satisfying, and completely doable recipes to turn to. Because simple food shouldn't just save you time; it should let you enjoy the people you love.",{"_45":3242,"_58":3243,"_60":3244,"_54":1903,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/49009024598257","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593234174_p0.jpg?v=1773974830",1522,{"_1907":3246},{"_1909":3192,"_1911":1912},{"_1907":3248,"_1918":3250},{"_1909":3249,"_1911":1912},"40.0",{"_1909":3249,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":3252},[3253],{"_45":3254,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":3255,"_714":3256,"_1930":3257,"_1932":3258,"_1934":3259,"_1940":3238,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47902022598897",{"_1909":3249,"_1911":1912},{"_45":3242,"_58":3243,"_1904":-5,"_60":3244,"_54":1903},{"_1909":3192,"_1911":1912},{"_75":3237,"_834":3238},[3260],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":3262},"[\"B|$5 Off|#DD2A27|#701F15 (p7848)\",\"BADGE - $5 OFF (p7876)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"Retail Price fixing (p261)\",\"Barnes & Noble Holiday Gift Guide (p5430)\"]",{"_1938":3238},{"_1938":1892},[3266,-5,-5,3269,3271,-5,3273,3275,3278,3281,3284,-5,3286,3288,-5,3290,-5,-5],{"_45":3267,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":3268},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77699988062449","[{\"contributorId\":1864721,\"fullName\":\"Ina Garten\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3270,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77699988422897",{"_45":3272,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77699987734769",{"_45":3274,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":1967},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77699988488433",{"_45":3276,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":3277},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77699989176561","[{\"id\":\"133866726T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Introduction

Simple Not Fancy Food

It's not easy to make something simple (and delicious).

When I first started cooking, I thought that to be great, food had to be complicated. When I was teaching myself to cook by working my way through Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking I struggled with fancy techniques like \\\"cook in a bain-marie,\\\" long prep lists, and recipes with ingredients that were recipes in themselves-I thought surely those were the secrets to impressive meals. But after decades of cooking, I've learned something far more important: the best food is often the simplest. Truly delicious dishes don't require hours of hands-on time in the kitchen. They just need a little thought and a few good ingredients, preferably in season.

This book is all about cooking simply, making the kind of food that fits into your real life. Whether you're making dinner after a long day at work, hosting friends for a cozy weekend supper, or pulling together a last-minute meal because plans changed (and they always do!), I want you to feel completely confident that you can cook something delicious without a fuss and it won't just be fine, it will be wonderful.

Simple doesn't necessarily mean you can just slap together a few ingredients and put them on the table, though. It's about cooking with intentionality, investing your time, money, and effort where it counts most so you can focus on the things that really matter, like making your guests feel welcome.

The opposite of cooking simply is what I often see on social media, with people throwing in one ingredient after another to create BIG flavor. It may seem more sophisticated, but for me, it's just confusing; do all those additions actually make the dish taste better? Good food is a little like a gorgeous dress; if the fabric and the cut are beautiful, it doesn't need a lot of sequins, ruffles, and bows. It just is beautiful.

That's why I'm always looking for ways to simplify my cooking. Every recipe in every book goes through the same drill: Does each ingredient earn its place in the recipe? Is the ingredient important enough to the final dish for me to buy it, prep it, and add it? Does it enhance the star ingredient, or does it compete with it? And is there an easier way to create the flavor and texture I'm looking for?

Over the past thirty years that I've been writing cookbooks, I've found many ways to simplify a recipe. I buy best-in-class ingredients that don't need a lot of enhancement to taste amazing. I rely on kitchen tools like a stick blender and a rice cooker that save so much work. And instead of constantly fiddling with something cooking on the stovetop, I put it in the oven, set a timer, and just forget about it.

Each recipe in this book has a secret that makes preparing it easier than you thought. I've labeled them to highlight their superpowers, whether it can be made or prepped ahead; assembled using a good store-bought ingredient; made in a single bowl or pot to make cleanup easy; or cooked really, really quickly. Some are so easy I've actually labeled them \\\"barely cooking\\\"! In a world where everyone is overbooked, overstressed, and communicating via screens all day rather than in person, connecting around a beautifully set table with delicious, simple food can be the most healing thing you can do for the people you love.

Some recipes in this book come together especially quickly with little or no time spent at the stove. My Cheddar & Chive Omelet (page 80) has a short ingredient list and cooks in just minutes. The Roasted Halibut with Potato Chip Crust (page 119), which looks and tastes more like a restaurant meal, goes from pantry to table in less than half an hour. And if you don't consider toasting bread cooking, my Fig, Blue Cheese & Prosciutto Tartines (page 68) and Strawberries Romanoff (page 172) don't require any cooking at all!

In other cases, I rely on prepared products from the grocery store, like pasta sauce or mashed potatoes, to jump-start a recipe. (There really are times when I think that \\\"store-bought is just fine.\\\") When I do, though, I often use them as an ingredient, not as a final product. For example, when I add slowly cooked garlic, half-and-half, and lots of seasoning to store-bought prepared mashed potatoes, they taste like they were made from scratch-and I haven't peeled a single potato!

My Cabbage & Sprout Slaw (page 160) starts with a bag of shredded coleslaw mix plus a bag of shredded Brussels sprouts, so not only do you not have to cut up the veggies, you aren't left with half a cabbage knocking around in your refrigerator drawer. And because the recipe is made in one bowl, you don't end up with a sink full of dishes and graters, either. Roast Duck Legs with Cherry Sauce (page 105) starts with cooked confit duck legs that I order online and keep in the freezer. All I need to do is reheat the duck so the skin is nice and crispy, and I make a sauce with basically three ingredients-mustard, red currant jelly, and dried cherries. Voilà! Dinner is served.

I even figured out how this would work for dessert. My Raspberry Cheesecake (page 194) starts with a cheesecake from a bakery that I top with fresh raspberries and a shortcut raspberry sauce that is thickened with a jar of good jam! No need to spend anxious minutes staring at the oven door wondering whether the cheesecake is done so it doesn't crater in the middle when it cools!

I should add that using store-bought shortcuts isn't a universal silver bullet. There were a lot of dishes that didn't make the cut. Baking mixes always taste like baking mixes; their texture and flavor cannot be masked even by adding good chocolate and pure vanilla extract to the batter. I tried all the brands of mashed potatoes, from boxed flakes to refrigerated prepared potatoes, to find the brand that has the best flavor. I did the experimenting so you don't have to, and you'll find my choices right there in the recipes. It wasn't always easy, but it was so much fun to test them all. I've listed some of my favorite store-bought ingredients on page 20 so you can keep your fridge and pantry stocked just like I do.

The recipes that I find myself using over and over again are those you can make entirely ahead of time, or that can be prepped and assembled in advance, then finished right before serving. And that is actually the secret to a great dinner party-when the hosts are having as much fun as the guests.\"},{\"id\":\"127706515T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

America’s beloved home cook is back with more delicious recipes to share with friends and family. From Ina Garten’s newest cookbook to your table, mouth-watering meals in her signature style await.

\"},{\"id\":\"131642822T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

\"},{\"id\":\"125090749T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Ina Garten is a #1 New York Times bestselling author and the host of Be My Guest and Barefoot Contessa on Food Network and HBO Max, for which she has won five Emmy Awards and three James Beard Awards. She lives in East Hampton, New York, with her husband, Jeffrey.

\"}]",{"_45":3279,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":3280},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77699988914417","Simply-Ina/Ina-Garten",{"_45":3282,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":3283},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77699987538161","1149724863",{"_45":3285,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77699988357361",{"_45":3287,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":3262},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77699989242097",{"_45":3289,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":3238},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77699986292977",{"_45":3291,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77699988521201",{"_1887":1888,"_45":3293,"_75":3294,"_1891":1892,"_834":3295,"_1894":3296,"_1896":3297,"_1898":3298,"_1905":3301,"_1913":63,"_1914":3303,"_1920":3307,"_1942":3317,"_1945":3318,"_1947":3319,"_1949":-5,"_1950":3320},"gid://shopify/Product/9430588752113","The Rush: California Gold, the Civil War, and the Making of the Modern World","9780525562238","A New York Times Most Anticipated Nonfiction Book of 2026 · A Los Angeles Times Best Book of the Fall National Book Award winner and Pulitzer Prize finalist Nathaniel Philbrick, author of In the Heart of the Sea and Mayflower, reveals how California's Gold Rush forged the modern United States-and lit the long fuse to civil warIn January 1848, a carpenter spotted flecks of gold in a shallow stream at Sutter's Mill in California, triggering the greatest voluntary migration in U.S. history, as hundreds of thousands raced west in pursuit of sudden wealth, reinvention, and power. From the feverish gold-mining camps of the Sierra Nevada mountains to the wharves and vigilance committees of San Francisco, Nathaniel Philbrick renders a combustible, all-world society: Chilean brothers reinventing themselves to outrun prejudice; Native communities navigating dispossession and violence; the merchant-showman Samuel Brannan, drawn into the center of early vigilantism; and the politicians vying for control of California's future-the ambitious Free-Soil political boss David Broderick, who squared off against William Gwin, the Southern power broker intent on tilting the state toward slavery and the Confederacy.In The Rush, Nathaniel Philbrick transforms the Gold Rush from a tale of sudden riches into the origin story of America's modern contradictions-capital consolidated at dizzying speed, democracy in thrall to private power, xenophobia weaponized in the name of liberty-and a stubborn belief in the American experiment that refuses to die. This is the story of a nation tearing at the seams and a republic tested by its own ideals. Not until ayear after the outbreak of the Civil War, when President Lincoln signed legislation that would unite the nation east to west by building a transcontinental railroad, was California's loyalty secured.Philbrick follows the gold as it moves from riverbed to countinghouse to the halls of power, revealing how vigilantism hardened into law and how debates over slavery in the West tipped the balance in Washington. The result is a clear, human story of how a scramble for wealth reshaped ideas of freedom, labor, and belonging-and how California's rise helped push a fractured nation toward war. The Rush is alive with characters whose choices still reverberate: a searing, panoramic epic that captures both the fury and the promise of America.","A New York Times Most Anticipated Nonfiction Book of 2026 · A Los Angeles Times Best Book of the Fall

National Book Award winner and Pulitzer Prize finalist Nathaniel Philbrick, author of In the Heart of the Sea and Mayflower, reveals how California's Gold Rush forged the modern United States-and lit the long fuse to civil war

In January 1848, a carpenter spotted flecks of gold in a shallow stream at Sutter's Mill in California, triggering the greatest voluntary migration in U.S. history, as hundreds of thousands raced west in pursuit of sudden wealth, reinvention, and power. From the feverish gold-mining camps of the Sierra Nevada mountains to the wharves and vigilance committees of San Francisco, Nathaniel Philbrick renders a combustible, all-world society: Chilean brothers reinventing themselves to outrun prejudice; Native communities navigating dispossession and violence; the merchant-showman Samuel Brannan, drawn into the center of early vigilantism; and the politicians vying for control of California's future-the ambitious Free-Soil political boss David Broderick, who squared off against William Gwin, the Southern power broker intent on tilting the state toward slavery and the Confederacy.

In The Rush, Nathaniel Philbrick transforms the Gold Rush from a tale of sudden riches into the origin story of America's modern contradictions-capital consolidated at dizzying speed, democracy in thrall to private power, xenophobia weaponized in the name of liberty-and a stubborn belief in the American experiment that refuses to die. This is the story of a nation tearing at the seams and a republic tested by its own ideals. Not until ayear after the outbreak of the Civil War, when President Lincoln signed legislation that would unite the nation east to west by building a transcontinental railroad, was California's loyalty secured.

Philbrick follows the gold as it moves from riverbed to countinghouse to the halls of power, revealing how vigilantism hardened into law and how debates over slavery in the West tipped the balance in Washington. The result is a clear, human story of how a scramble for wealth reshaped ideas of freedom, labor, and belonging-and how California's rise helped push a fractured nation toward war. The Rush is alive with characters whose choices still reverberate: a searing, panoramic epic that captures both the fury and the promise of America.",{"_45":3299,"_58":3300,"_60":2317,"_54":1903,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/48719730901233","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780525562238_p0.jpg?v=1784257831",{"_1907":3302},{"_1909":3192,"_1911":1912},{"_1907":3304,"_1918":3306},{"_1909":3305,"_1911":1912},"38.0",{"_1909":3305,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":3308},[3309],{"_45":3310,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":3311,"_714":3312,"_1930":3313,"_1932":3314,"_1934":3315,"_1940":3295,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47651702669553",{"_1909":3305,"_1911":1912},{"_45":3299,"_58":3300,"_1904":-5,"_60":2317,"_54":1903},{"_1909":3192,"_1911":1912},{"_75":3294,"_834":3295},[3316],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":1944},{"_1938":3295},{"_1938":1892},[3321,-5,-5,3324,3326,-5,3328,3330,3333,3336,3339,-5,3341,3343,-5,3345,3347,3349],{"_45":3322,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":3323},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75088810541297","[{\"contributorId\":282913,\"fullName\":\"Nathaniel Philbrick\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3325,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75088810868977",{"_45":3327,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75088810377457",{"_45":3329,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":1967},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75088810934513",{"_45":3331,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":3332},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75090707939569","[{\"id\":\"126068527T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"\\\"In The Rush, Nathaniel Philbrick takes the old maxim 'follow the money' to an engaging and revelatory extreme. Through an intricate skein of little-known stories, he shows how the discovery of gold in California drove tectonic shifts in the way Americans thought about wealth, and about each other-and in the process fueled the Civil War and today's mad rush toward who knows what.\\\"
-Erik Larson, author of The Demon of Unrest: A Saga of Hubris, Heartbreak, and Heroism at the Dawn of the Civil War

\\\"Like a concentrated beam of light refracted into a brilliant spectrum, Nathaniel Philbrick masterfully illuminates the forces great and small unleashed by the 1848 gold strike at Sutter's Mill. This richly researched, vividly told narrative captures the rapacious, lawless quest for land and treasure that helped destabilized a fractured Union-and the astonishing human drama that came with it. Philbrick shows how the explosion of the frontier transformed the West, propelled a divided nation toward civil war, and opened a door through which an entire world rushed in. With an extraordinary cast-including a Chilean fortune seeker, an escaped slave, and a Southern sympathizer who rose to become a U.S. Senator from California-he gives voice to the people who were discarded, remade, and occasionally redeemed in one of the most consequential eras in American history.\\\"
-Doris Kearns Goodwin, Pulitzer Prize-winning historian and author of Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln

\\\"Nathaniel Philbrick, our master storyteller, sees in the Gold Rush a Rosetta Stone for pre-Civil War America. It is a confounding and encouraging chronicle told from a myriad of perspectives, a bottom-up, epic tale of an inevitable rush toward profit and near-national suicide.\\\"
-Ken Burns, filmmaker

\\\"Nathaniel Philbrick has long been one of our most elegant narrative historians, and he's back at it again, writing at the height of his powers. The Rush brings new energy and insight to a massively consequential event we only thought we knew. In a richly pleasing weave, he gives us the micro and macro, the intimate and sweeping, and makes us care about an engaging cast of characters who sought a new life in California's riches. Along the way, Philbrick considers how the gold rush sped up everything it touched and led directly to the restless, frenetic, hyper-adrenalized culture of today's America.\\\"
-Hampton Sides, New York Times bestselling author of Blood and Thunder and The Wide Wide Sea

\\\"With characteristic eloquence and insight, Nathaniel Philbrick has given us an illuminating and absorbing account of the California Gold Rush, bringing that tumultuous, thrilling, and complex moment to vivid life. Peopled with memorable figures and paced like a great novel, The Rush is a terrific work of history.\\\"
-Jon Meacham, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of And There Was Light

\\\"With an eye for the perfect detail (sidewalks paved with beef jerky!) and a gift for the panoramic, Nathaniel Philbrick has pinned the Gold Rush, in all its wild color, to the page. Better yet, he follows it across time and across the country, to the slavery debate, the Civil War, and the transcontinental railroad. A sweeping, deeply satisfying narrative, pulsing with frontier energy.\\\"
-Stacy Schiff, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of The Revolutionary: Samuel Adams

\\\"A rush of a narrative that will leave you giddy and full of wonder, turning pages with all the fever of a hopeful prospector. The true gold here is in the pathos beneath the glittering surface: the stories of real people; their brutal contests and conquests; and the breaching and the breaking of the natural terrain. A thrilling and valuable story of the making of America from the maestro of narrative nonfiction.\\\"
-Ilyon Woo, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Master Slave Husband Wife

\\\"A gripping account of the California dreaming that propelled America forward, for better or worse.\\\"
-Publishers Weekly (starred review)

\\\"[The Rush is] an exploration of the California Gold Rush, linking it with attempts to join the state to the Confederacy. . . . As ever, Philbrick untangles this complex story and makes of it an elegant narrative. . . . A lucid, lively melding of economic and political history that casts new light on the Golden State.\\\"
-Kirkus Reviews

\\\"A panoramic look at the California gold rush, California and the Civil War, and how their events shaped the modern world.\\\"
-Booklist (starred review)
\"},{\"id\":\"131342601T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"\\\"In The Rush, Nathaniel Philbrick takes the old maxim 'follow the money' to an engaging and revelatory extreme. Through an intricate skein of little-known stories, he shows how the discovery of gold in California drove tectonic shifts in the way Americans thought about wealth, and about each other--and in the process fueled the Civil War and today's mad rush toward who knows what.\\\"
--Erik Larson, author of The Demon of Unrest: A Saga of Hubris, Heartbreak, and Heroism at the Dawn of the Civil War

\\\"Like a concentrated beam of light refracted into a brilliant spectrum, Nathaniel Philbrick masterfully illuminates the forces great and small unleashed by the 1848 gold strike at Sutter's Mill. This richly researched, vividly told narrative captures the rapacious, lawless quest for land and treasure that helped destabilized a fractured Union--and the astonishing human drama that came with it. Philbrick shows how the explosion of the frontier transformed the West, propelled a divided nation toward civil war, and opened a door through which an entire world rushed in. With an extraordinary cast--including a Chilean fortune seeker, an escaped slave, and a Southern sympathizer who rose to become a U.S. Senator from California--he gives voice to the people who were discarded, remade, and occasionally redeemed in one of the most consequential eras in American history.\\\"
--Doris Kearns Goodwin, Pulitzer Prize-winning historian and author of Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln

\\\"Nathaniel Philbrick, our master storyteller, sees in the Gold Rush a Rosetta Stone for pre-Civil War America. It is a confounding and encouraging chronicle told from a myriad of perspectives, a bottom-up, epic tale of an inevitable rush toward profit and near-national suicide.\\\"
--Ken Burns, filmmaker

\\\"Nathaniel Philbrick has long been one of our most elegant narrative historians, and he's back at it again, writing at the height of his powers. The Rush brings new energy and insight to a massively consequential event we only thought we knew. In a richly pleasing weave, he gives us the micro and macro, the intimate and sweeping, and makes us care about an engaging cast of characters who sought a new life in California's riches. Along the way, Philbrick considers how the gold rush sped up everything it touched and led directly to the restless, frenetic, hyper-adrenalized culture of today's America.\\\"
--Hampton Sides, New York Times bestselling author of Blood and Thunder and The Wide Wide Sea

\\\"With characteristic eloquence and insight, Nathaniel Philbrick has given us an illuminating and absorbing account of the California Gold Rush, bringing that tumultuous, thrilling, and complex moment to vivid life. Peopled with memorable figures and paced like a great novel, The Rush is a terrific work of history.\\\"
--Jon Meacham, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of And There Was Light

\\\"With an eye for the perfect detail (sidewalks paved with beef jerky!) and a gift for the panoramic, Nathaniel Philbrick has pinned the Gold Rush, in all its wild color, to the page. Better yet, he follows it across time and across the country, to the slavery debate, the Civil War, and the transcontinental railroad. A sweeping, deeply satisfying narrative, pulsing with frontier energy.\\\"
--Stacy Schiff, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of The Revolutionary: Samuel Adams

\\\"A rush of a narrative that will leave you giddy and full of wonder, turning pages with all the fever of a hopeful prospector. The true gold here is in the pathos beneath the glittering surface: the stories of real people; their brutal contests and conquests; and the breaching and the breaking of the natural terrain. A thrilling and valuable story of the making of America from the maestro of narrative nonfiction.\\\"
--Ilyon Woo, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Master Slave Husband Wife

\\\"A gripping account of the California dreaming that propelled America forward, for better or worse.\\\"
--Publishers Weekly (starred review)

\\\"[The Rush is] an exploration of the California Gold Rush, linking it with attempts to join the state to the Confederacy. . . . As ever, Philbrick untangles this complex story and makes of it an elegant narrative. . . . A lucid, lively melding of economic and political history that casts new light on the Golden State.\\\"
--Kirkus Reviews

\\\"A panoramic look at the California gold rush, California and the Civil War, and how their events shaped the modern world.\\\"
--Booklist (starred review)
\"},{\"id\":\"128650630T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Following the path of the gold, Nathaniel Philbrick vividly brings to life the Westerly migration that changed the United States forever, propelling it into a new era of expansion and conflict.

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Nathaniel Philbrick is the author of In the Heart of the Sea, winner of the National Book Award; Mayflower, finalist for the Pulitzer Prize; Valiant Ambition, winner of the George Washington Prize; Bunker Hill, winner of the New England Book Award; Travels with George; Away Off Shore; Second Wind; Sea of Glory; and The Last Stand.

\"},{\"id\":\"124240461T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

\"}]",{"_45":3334,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":3335},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75088811458801","The-Rush/Nathaniel-Philbrick",{"_45":3337,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":3338},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75088810311921","1149136766",{"_45":3340,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75088810803441",{"_45":3342,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":1944},"gid://shopify/Metafield/78682068713713",{"_45":3344,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":3295},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75088809820401",{"_45":3346,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75088811000049",{"_45":3348,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":1996},"gid://shopify/Metafield/83370376921329",{"_45":3350,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":900},"gid://shopify/Metafield/83370376888561",{"_1887":1888,"_45":3352,"_75":3353,"_1891":2242,"_834":3354,"_1894":3355,"_1896":3356,"_1898":3357,"_1905":3360,"_1913":63,"_1914":3362,"_1920":3365,"_1942":3375,"_1945":3377,"_1947":3378,"_1949":3379,"_1950":3380},"gid://shopify/Product/9607087784177","I'll Believe in Anything: The Making of Heated Rivalry Season 1 (The Annotated Scripts) (B&N Exclusive Edition)","9780316616324","This Barnes & Noble Exclusive Edition will feature an exclusive cover colorway and additional exclusive content, including an annotated playlist of songs featured in the Heated Rivalry series.From Jacob Tierney, the creator of Heated Rivalry, in partnership with Brendan Brady and Accent Aigu, comes I'll Believe in Anything, an official and complete collection of annotated scripts for the biggest cultural sensation of the year, with all new exclusive behind-the-scenes content.Based on Rachel Reid's blockbuster Game Changers book series, Heated Rivalry premiered on Crave and HBO in late 2025 and immediately took the world by storm. I'll Believe in Anything takes readers behind the curtain, showing how Tierney, his producing partner Brendan Brady, and the entire Accent Aigu team drew on a deep reverence for Reid's work, impeccable casting, clever sets and costume design, and thoughtful sex scene choreography to both rewrite the playbook for adapting romance novels to the screen and obliterate the long-held misconception that queer love stories have limited appeal.I'll Believe in Anything answers all the questions fans of this groundbreaking series have been asking. How did Tierney interweave Ilya and Shane's rivalry with Scott and Kip's love story to create the ultimate television moment? Where did the idea for that incredible Canadian Olympic fleece originate? And what does it look like for a full team, led by Tierney and Brady, to plan, choreograph, and film some of the best sex scenes in television history? Featuring annotations on scene directions, intimacy choreography, costume insights, and more, alongside Tierney's never-before-seen scripts, this book gives fans a brand-new way to come to the cottage!","

This Barnes & Noble Exclusive Edition will feature an exclusive cover colorway and additional exclusive content, including an annotated playlist of songs featured in the Heated Rivalry series.

From Jacob Tierney, the creator of Heated Rivalry, in partnership with Brendan Brady and Accent Aigu, comes I'll Believe in Anything, an official and complete collection of annotated scripts for the biggest cultural sensation of the year, with all new exclusive behind-the-scenes content.

Based on Rachel Reid's blockbuster Game Changers book series, Heated Rivalry premiered on Crave and HBO in late 2025 and immediately took the world by storm. I'll Believe in Anything takes readers behind the curtain, showing how Tierney, his producing partner Brendan Brady, and the entire Accent Aigu team drew on a deep reverence for Reid's work, impeccable casting, clever sets and costume design, and thoughtful sex scene choreography to both rewrite the playbook for adapting romance novels to the screen and obliterate the long-held misconception that queer love stories have limited appeal.

I'll Believe in Anything answers all the questions fans of this groundbreaking series have been asking. How did Tierney interweave Ilya and Shane's rivalry with Scott and Kip's love story to create the ultimate television moment? Where did the idea for that incredible Canadian Olympic fleece originate? And what does it look like for a full team, led by Tierney and Brady, to plan, choreograph, and film some of the best sex scenes in television history? Featuring annotations on scene directions, intimacy choreography, costume insights, and more, alongside Tierney's never-before-seen scripts, this book gives fans a brand-new way to come to the cottage!

",{"_45":3358,"_58":3359,"_60":2317,"_54":1903,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/49795695673585","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780316616324_p0.jpg?v=1780405390",{"_1907":3361},{"_1909":2583,"_1911":1912},{"_1907":3363,"_1918":3364},{"_1909":2950,"_1911":1912},{"_1909":2950,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":3366},[3367],{"_45":3368,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":3369,"_714":3370,"_1930":3371,"_1932":3372,"_1934":3373,"_1940":3354,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/48226705735921",{"_1909":2950,"_1911":1912},{"_45":3358,"_58":3359,"_1904":-5,"_60":2317,"_54":1903},{"_1909":2583,"_1911":1912},{"_75":3353,"_834":3354},[3374],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":3376},"[\"Barnes & Noble Exclusives (p6314)\",\"BADGE - $3 OFF (p7877)\",\"Special Editions (p10264)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"B|B&N Exclusive|#956F2D|#4C3E1B (p7920)\",\"Retail Price fixing (p261)\",\"Barnes & Noble Holiday Gift Guide (p5430)\",\"BADGE - Best Seller (p7883)\"]",{"_1938":3354},{"_1938":2242},{"_1938":2270},[3381,-5,-5,3384,3386,-5,3388,3390,3393,3396,3399,-5,3401,3403,-5,3405,-5,-5],{"_45":3382,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":3383},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856020779249","[{\"contributorId\":4581402,\"fullName\":\"Jacob Tierney\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3385,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856020975857",{"_45":3387,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":2242},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856020615409",{"_45":3389,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":1967},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856021008625",{"_45":3391,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":3392},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856022155505","[{\"id\":\"127320408T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

I’ll Believe Anything: The Making of Heated Rivalry by director Jacob Tierney features behind-the-scenes photos, stories and annotated scripts from the show inspired by Rachel Reid’s Game Changers series. Featuring never-before-seen content, this book deserves a spot at the cottage.

\"},{\"id\":\"127320410T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Jacob Tierney is an acclaimed film and television creator and co-president of Accent Aigu Entertainment, the production company he co-founded in 2023. A visionary showrunner, he created, wrote, directed, and executive produced the internationally celebrated, award-winning Crave original series Heated Rivalry. The series has earned the prestigious Peabody Award and won the GLAAD Award for Outstanding New Television Series. It has also garnered 18 Canadian Screen Award nominations, including Best Writing, Best Direction, and Best Drama Series, among numerous other accolades. Jacob is next set to write, direct, and executive produce Alexander for Netflix. He also served as an executive producer on The Traitors Canada for its first three seasons.

Jacob co-developed, co-wrote and directed every episode of the hit series Letterkenny and directed the first two seasons of its spinoff Shoresy, earning 10 Canadian Screen Awards and cementing his reputation as a defining voice in television. Before his rise as a powerhouse in TV, Tierney wrote and directed four feature films, including Twist (Venice Film Festival premiere), The Trotsky (Genie Award for Best Original Screenplay) and the cult classic, Good Neighbours. He also executive produced the 2023 feature War Pony, which won the prestigious Caméra d'Or Award for Best Feature at the Cannes Film Festival.

Recognized for both his creative impact and cultural influence, Jacob is the recipient of the Cultural Innovator Award from the Departure Festival + Conference and the Cultural Impact Award from The NYC LGBT Community Center.

\"},{\"id\":\"127320409T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Jacob Tierney is an acclaimed film and television creator and co-president of Accent Aigu Entertainment, the production company he co-founded in 2023. A visionary showrunner, he created, wrote, directed, and executive produced the internationally celebrated, award-winning Crave original series Heated Rivalry. The series has earned the prestigious Peabody Award and won the GLAAD Award for Outstanding New Television Series. It has also garnered 18 Canadian Screen Award nominations, including Best Writing, Best Direction, and Best Drama Series, among numerous other accolades. Jacob is next set to write, direct, and executive produce Alexander for Netflix. He also served as an executive producer on The Traitors Canada for its first three seasons.

\"}]",{"_45":3394,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":3395},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856021893361","Ill-Believe-in-Anything/Jacob-Tierney",{"_45":3397,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":3398},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856020517105","1149919571",{"_45":3400,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856020943089",{"_45":3402,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":3376},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856022188273",{"_45":3404,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":3354},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856019828977",{"_45":3406,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856021041393",{"_1887":1888,"_45":3408,"_75":3409,"_1891":1892,"_834":3410,"_1894":3411,"_1896":3412,"_1898":3413,"_1905":3416,"_1913":63,"_1914":3419,"_1920":3423,"_1942":3433,"_1945":3435,"_1947":3436,"_1949":-5,"_1950":3437},"gid://shopify/Product/8833970045169","The Steps: A Memoir","9780063443914","A gritty, inspiring, heart-wrenching memoir by the Academy Award-winning legend and icon Sylvester Stallone, about his unlikely path to stardom and the creation of the greatest underdog story ever told. In the fifty years since Sylvester Stallone ran up the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum, he and those steps have become symbols of resilience and determination, and have inspired millions from all over the world to pursue their dreams. In The Steps, Stallone recounts how he pursued his own dreams. A culmination of decades of reflection, Stallone shares where he came from-a difficult birth, an even more difficult childhood, years of struggle in school being misunderstood-and he explains how the real story of a successful life is built by facing, embracing, and ultimately overcoming our challenges. It's found in the distances we are willing to go and the steps we must take to get from where we are to where we want to go. In a narrative framed between his arrival in New York City in 1969 and the triumph of Rocky at the 1977 Academy Awards, Stallone weaves a vivid and propulsive portrait of struggle, subsistence, and ultimately success. He writes of his early days and later years, too, and the persistence, creativity, and resilience that led not only to the creation of Rocky but to a career filled with remarkably iconic roles. The Steps is a testament to Stallone's extraordinary life and a profound meditation on the importance of vision and willpower and hard work.","

A gritty, inspiring, heart-wrenching memoir by the Academy Award-winning legend and icon Sylvester Stallone, about his unlikely path to stardom and the creation of the greatest underdog story ever told.

In the fifty years since Sylvester Stallone ran up the steps of the Philadelphia Art Museum, he and those steps have become symbols of resilience and determination, and have inspired millions from all over the world to pursue their dreams. In The Steps, Stallone recounts how he pursued his own dreams. A culmination of decades of reflection, Stallone shares where he came from-a difficult birth, an even more difficult childhood, years of struggle in school being misunderstood-and he explains how the real story of a successful life is built by facing, embracing, and ultimately overcoming our challenges. It's found in the distances we are willing to go and the steps we must take to get from where we are to where we want to go.

In a narrative framed between his arrival in New York City in 1969 and the triumph of Rocky at the 1977 Academy Awards, Stallone weaves a vivid and propulsive portrait of struggle, subsistence, and ultimately success. He writes of his early days and later years, too, and the persistence, creativity, and resilience that led not only to the creation of Rocky but to a career filled with remarkably iconic roles. The Steps is a testament to Stallone's extraordinary life and a profound meditation on the importance of vision and willpower and hard work.

",{"_45":3414,"_58":3415,"_60":2317,"_54":1903,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47637521465585","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780063443914_p0.jpg?v=1768988713",{"_1907":3417},{"_1909":3418,"_1911":1912},"27.5",{"_1907":3420,"_1918":3422},{"_1909":3421,"_1911":1912},"32.5",{"_1909":3421,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":3424},[3425],{"_45":3426,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":3427,"_714":3428,"_1930":3429,"_1932":3430,"_1934":3431,"_1940":3410,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46229940338929",{"_1909":3421,"_1911":1912},{"_45":3414,"_58":3415,"_1904":-5,"_60":2317,"_54":1903},{"_1909":3418,"_1911":1912},{"_75":3409,"_834":3410},[3432],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":3434},"[\"B|$5 Off|#DD2A27|#701F15 (p7848)\",\"The Most Anticipated Books of 2026 (p10335)\",\"BADGE - $5 OFF (p7876)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"BADGE - 15% OFF (p7872)\",\"Retail Price fixing (p261)\",\"Barnes & Noble Holiday Gift Guide (p5430)\"]",{"_1938":3410},{"_1938":1892},[3438,-5,-5,3441,3443,-5,3445,3447,3450,3453,3456,-5,3458,3460,-5,3462,-5,-5],{"_45":3439,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":3440},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39044557275377","[{\"contributorId\":303924,\"fullName\":\"Sylvester Stallone\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3442,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39044557865201",{"_45":3444,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39044556620017",{"_45":3446,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":1967},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39044557963505",{"_45":3448,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":3449},"gid://shopify/Metafield/67529648242929","[{\"id\":\"128276535T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Actor, award-winner, and icon Sylvester Stallone brings his story to life in this powerful memoir, chronicling his tumultuous early life, his rise to fame and the struggles of stardom that followed.

\"},{\"id\":\"115311547T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Actor, award-winner, and icon Sylvester Stallone brings his story to life in this powerful memoir, chronicling his tumultuous early life, his rise to fame and the struggles of stardom that followed.

\"},{\"id\":\"128276541T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

SYLVESTER STALLONE is the creative force behind some of the most lasting and iconic characters in film, including Rocky Balboa in the Academy Award-winning Rocky, and John Rambo in First Blood as well as the blockbuster franchise The Expendables. In addition to being a prolific writer and director, he is the only actor to open a number one film across six decades. He currently stars in the critically acclaimed hit TV series Tulsa King, where he also acts as executive producer and writer. He and his wife Jennifer share three beautiful daughters, Sophia, Sistine, and Scarlet.

\"},{\"id\":\"128276543T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"SYLVESTER STALLONE is the creative force behind some of the most lasting and iconic characters in film, including Rocky Balboa in the Academy Award—winning Rocky, and John Rambo in First Blood as well as the blockbuster franchise The Expendables. In addition to being a prolific writer and director, he is the only actor to open a number one film across six decades. He currently stars in the critically acclaimed hit TV series Tulsa King, where he also acts as executive producer and writer. He and his wife Jennifer share three beautiful daughters, Sophia, Sistine, and Scarlet.

\"},{\"id\":\"128276542T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"128276546T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"SYLVESTER STALLONE is the creative force behind some of the most lasting and iconic characters in film, including Rocky Balboa in the Academy Award—winning Rocky, and John Rambo in First Blood as well as the blockbuster franchise The Expendables. In addition to being a prolific writer and director, he is the only actor to open a number one film across six decades. He currently stars in the critically acclaimed hit TV series Tulsa King, where he also acts as executive producer and writer. He and his wife Jennifer share three beautiful daughters, Sophia, Sistine, and Scarlet.

\"}]",{"_45":3451,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":3452},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39044558553329","The-Steps/Sylvester-Stallone",{"_45":3454,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":3455},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39044556194033","1148277546",{"_45":3457,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39044557766897",{"_45":3459,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":3434},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39044558946545",{"_45":3461,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":3410},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39044553834737",{"_45":3463,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39044558061809",{"_30":78,"_79":14,"_58":3465},"https://www.barnesandnoble.com/blog/the-biggest-books-of-fall-2026-nonfiction-edition","The Biggest Books of Fall 2026: Nonfiction Edition",{"_37":3468,"_30":1030,"_1020":3469,"_75":3783},"453af951f7ff",{"_1023":3470,"_1032":223,"_1409":1410,"_1411":1412,"_105":-5,"_58":3781},[3471,3533,3598,3660,3718],{"_1887":1888,"_45":3472,"_75":3473,"_1891":1892,"_834":3474,"_1894":3475,"_1896":3476,"_1898":3477,"_1905":3481,"_1913":63,"_1914":3484,"_1920":3487,"_1942":3497,"_1945":3499,"_1947":3500,"_1949":-5,"_1950":3501},"gid://shopify/Product/8853223932145","Remain: A Supernatural Love Story","9798217154043","#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER * A one-of-a-kind novel that grapples with the supernatural mysteries of life, death, and human connection-an unprecedented collaboration between the globally bestselling author of love stories like The Notebook and the renowned writer and director of blockbuster thrillers like The Sixth SenseCOMING SOON AS A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE DIRECTED BY M. NIGHT SHYAMALAN AND STARRING JAKE GYLLENHAAL AND PHOEBE DYNEVORThe stunning hardcover of Remain features a premium dust jacket, beautiful endpapers, and a deluxe case stamped with replica images of the authors' signatures! These stamped \"signatures\" are reproduced in gold foil.When New York architect Tate Donovan arrives in Cape Cod to design his best friend's summer home, he is hoping to make a fresh start. Recently discharged from an upscale psychiatric facility where he was treated for acute depression, he is still wrestling with the pain of losing his beloved sister. Sylvia's deathbed revelation-that she can see spirits who are still tethered to the living world, a gift that runs in their family-sits uneasily with Tate, who struggles to believe in more than what reason can explain. But when he takes up residence at a historic bed-and-breakfast on the Cape, he encounters a beautiful young woman named Wren who will challenge every assumption he has about his logical and controlled world.Tate and Wren find themselves forging an immediate connection, one that neither has ever experienced before. But Tate gradually discovers that below the surface of Wren's idyllic small-town life, hatred, jealousy, and greed are festering, threatening their fragile relationship just as it begins to blossom. Tate realizes that in order to free Wren from an increasingly desperate fate, he will need to unearth the truth about her past before time runs out . . . a quest that will make him doubt whether we can ever believe the stories we tell about ourselves, and the laws that govern our existence. Love-while transformative-can sometimes be frightening.A story about the power of transcendent emotion, Remain asks us all: Can love set us free not only from our greatest sorrows, but even from the boundaries of life and death?","#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER * A one-of-a-kind novel that grapples with the supernatural mysteries of life, death, and human connection-an unprecedented collaboration between the globally bestselling author of love stories like The Notebook and the renowned writer and director of blockbuster thrillers like The Sixth Sense

COMING SOON AS A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE DIRECTED BY M. NIGHT SHYAMALAN AND STARRING JAKE GYLLENHAAL AND PHOEBE DYNEVOR

The stunning hardcover of Remain features a premium dust jacket, beautiful endpapers, and a deluxe case stamped with replica images of the authors' signatures! These stamped \"signatures\" are reproduced in gold foil.

When New York architect Tate Donovan arrives in Cape Cod to design his best friend's summer home, he is hoping to make a fresh start. Recently discharged from an upscale psychiatric facility where he was treated for acute depression, he is still wrestling with the pain of losing his beloved sister. Sylvia's deathbed revelation-that she can see spirits who are still tethered to the living world, a gift that runs in their family-sits uneasily with Tate, who struggles to believe in more than what reason can explain. But when he takes up residence at a historic bed-and-breakfast on the Cape, he encounters a beautiful young woman named Wren who will challenge every assumption he has about his logical and controlled world.

Tate and Wren find themselves forging an immediate connection, one that neither has ever experienced before. But Tate gradually discovers that below the surface of Wren's idyllic small-town life, hatred, jealousy, and greed are festering, threatening their fragile relationship just as it begins to blossom. Tate realizes that in order to free Wren from an increasingly desperate fate, he will need to unearth the truth about her past before time runs out . . . a quest that will make him doubt whether we can ever believe the stories we tell about ourselves, and the laws that govern our existence. Love-while transformative-can sometimes be frightening.

A story about the power of transcendent emotion, Remain asks us all: Can love set us free not only from our greatest sorrows, but even from the boundaries of life and death?",{"_45":3478,"_58":3479,"_60":3480,"_54":1903,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47637314142449","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9798217154043_p0.jpg?v=1768972727",1325,{"_1907":3482},{"_1909":3483,"_1911":1912},"21.0",{"_1907":3485,"_1918":3486},{"_1909":1910,"_1911":1912},{"_1909":1910,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":3488},[3489],{"_45":3490,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":3491,"_714":3492,"_1930":3493,"_1932":3494,"_1934":3495,"_1940":3474,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46251647566065",{"_1909":1910,"_1911":1912},{"_45":3478,"_58":3479,"_1904":-5,"_60":3480,"_54":1903},{"_1909":3483,"_1911":1912},{"_75":3473,"_834":3474},[3496],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":3498},"[\"BADGE - 30% off (p7865)\",\"The Best Gifts Under $30 (p6693)\",\"Page & Screen (p4180)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"Halloween Books & Spooky Stories Collection (p5292)\",\"B|30% Off|#DD2A27|#701F15 (p7837)\",\"Retail Price fixing (p261)\"]",{"_1938":3474},{"_1938":1892},[3502,-5,-5,3505,3507,-5,3509,3511,3514,3517,3520,-5,3522,3524,-5,3526,3528,3530],{"_45":3503,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":3504},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39979889164529","[{\"contributorId\":653118,\"fullName\":\"Nicholas Sparks\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1},{\"contributorId\":2525369,\"fullName\":\"M. Night Shyamalan\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":2}]",{"_45":3506,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39979890180337",{"_45":3508,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39979888115953",{"_45":3510,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":1967},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39979890344177",{"_45":3512,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":3513},"gid://shopify/Metafield/59748453056753","[{\"id\":\"116236421T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Chapter 1

Cape Cod in May stirs hope in the hearts of previously frozen New Yorkers, its verdant lawns and ocean breezes holding the promise of summer days just around the corner. As I rolled down the window of my car, breathing in the scent of growing things, I marveled at how distant the chilly gray skies and rain-flooded gutters of city life felt. Here, at least, winter had long since retreated and the dream of slower, sun-drenched days felt close enough to touch.

I had visited the Cape a few times before, but never this particular town. A quieter, smaller cousin to the nearby magnet of Provincetown, Heatherington seemed to revel in its classic 1950s vibe. Cruising down its main thoroughfare, Pleasant Street, I took note of the quaint, upscale stores selling antiques, gourmet ice cream, wooden toys, and brick oven pizza, as well as the parents pushing expensive strollers on brick-paved sidewalks. Day-trippers ducked in and out of shops, while beneath a large old-fashioned clock, a pair of older gentlemen in baseball caps conferred on a wooden bench. Idling at an intersection to allow some musicians with guitars strapped to their backs to cross, I spotted a retro-style pharmacy and soda shop on the corner; inside, a group of teenagers sat at a counter, sipping shakes out of long straws.

I smiled, thinking the scene was almost too perfect to be real, but upon reflection it made sense that my best friend, Oscar, the offspring of immigrant parents who'd run a deli in Boston, would seek out a slice of the mythic American ideal. As traffic began to move again, I caught glimpses of neatly kept Colonials and clapboard homes with white picket fences on the side streets to my left and right. Heatherington was picturesque, I had to admit, and as if on cue, the clouds overhead suddenly cleared, giving way to a blue sky so intense that it made me squint.

It was Monday, the typical beginning of a new workweek, and I was in town to help Oscar and his wife, Lorena, design and build their vacation home, although until now I'd only seen photographs of the plot of land they'd bought. I was looking forward to hearing what they had in mind, as today would be our first real conversation about the project. Following the directions they'd given me and keeping an eye on my GPS, I turned off Pleasant Street, heading for the house's future site, where we planned to meet. On the outskirts of town, I passed a sprawling fairground with performance stages in various states of construction. Dusty pickup trucks filled the gravel parking lot while workers toiled in the distance. It was a hive of activity, frantic preparations under way for the upcoming Mask and Music Festival on Memorial Day weekend at the end of the month. I'd heard about the festival while trying and failing to find a place to stay; in the end, I'd had to enlist Oscar's help to find accommodations. Apparently forty or fifty bands would be descending on the town for the long weekend, and as many as twenty thousand people were expected to attend. When I asked about the kind of music being showcased, Oscar had merely snorted. \\\"How would I know? It's probably weird Gen Z music.\\\"

A few minutes later, I turned off the road onto a grassy track that climbed to what I assumed was a bluff overlooking the ocean. I drove slowly, following the tread marks of previous vehicles, my Aston Martin bouncing and shimmying as the grass gave way to dirt. On either side, arching birch and elm and maple trees formed a canopy overhead until I emerged into a clearing at the top.

It was a flat and grassy plateau, ringed with majestic oak trees and a panoramic view of an ocean the color of dark sapphires. Butterflies floated above a small patch of dandelions, and the air was briny, conjuring my own memories of summers at the beach. Over the sound of the engine, I could hear vibrant birdcalls drifting from the trees, and when I looked up, I glimpsed a Cooper's hawk circling. I marveled that this lot had somehow escaped development.

Soon a substantial wooden structure came into sight: a city-size playset that looked as if it had been dropped from the sky, complete with swings, hanging bars, sandbox, multiple slides, and a fort crowned with a multicolor awning. All five of Oscar's kids swarmed over the structure while he and Lorena watched from a nearby picnic table. As usual, Oscar was wearing a throwback football jersey from the early 1960s, this one from the Cleveland Browns.

Not long after graduating from NYU, Oscar had secured funding to purchase franchise rights from the NFL, NBA, NHL, and MLB for the purpose of manufacturing and selling apparel. His concept was to put current players' names and numbers on vintage-style jerseys. He was meticulous about design and quality, making sure each garment felt ultrasoft and appeared appropriately distressed. He was also extremely savvy when it came to promoting and marketing on social media, and while the jerseys were popular from the start, sales exploded when a prominent rapper began wearing them at concerts and trendy influencers began posting regularly about them. Eventually, private equity firms started sniffing around and Oscar sold the company for nearly a billion dollars. It was the ultimate success story. His parents, whom I regarded almost as foster parents of my own, could barely contain their pride and wore matching jerseys whenever they went out, bragging to their many relatives in the U.S. and back in India about their son's success. Oscar humored his parents, but the money hadn't fundamentally changed him or Lorena.

I parked next to their matching Cadillac Escalades, which made my car look like a toy, and Oscar approached with his arms opened wide for a hug. Like the rest of his family, he was a hugger, and I'm pretty sure he hugged everyone, including grocery store clerks, the guy who cleaned his pool, even IRS auditors. I'd long given up any WASP-like resistance and embraced him in return. He slapped my back before we separated.

\\\"You made it,\\\" he said, with a wide grin. \\\"What do you think?\\\"

\\\"It's incredible,\\\" I admitted. \\\"Even better than the photos you sent.\\\"

Oscar looked around with a faint air of wonder. \\\"I still can't believe I was able to close on this place. I was bidding against one of those hedge fund bros and you know how much they hate to lose.\\\"

He nodded in the direction of the picnic table. \\\"Come on. Lorena has been asking about you nonstop.\\\"

As we started toward her, I tilted my head at the playset. \\\"What's with that?\\\"

\\\"I had it installed last week. I figure that once we start building, it'll keep the kids occupied when we visit the site to check on the progress.\\\"

\\\"Remind me how old they all are now?\\\"

\\\"Leo is seven. Lalita and Lakshmi are six. Logesh is five, and Luca just turned four. I know it's a lot of Ls, but on the plus side, I get to say things like, 'Get the L out here!' or 'Shut the L up!' or 'Sit the L down!' \\\"

\\\"I'll bet Lorena loves that.\\\"

\\\"Not so much,\\\" he said with a chuckle. \\\"But the whole their-first-names-should-start-with-L thing was her idea, and they think it's hilarious.\\\"

By then, Lorena was standing. She shook her dark bangs out of her eyes and hurried over. A gregarious Italian American dynamo, she possessed unyielding strength and stamina that even Oscar couldn't match. Like him, she was a hugger, and her embrace felt like being enveloped in a down comforter. After pulling back, she continued to hold my hands.

\\\"How are you doing?\\\" she asked, her expressive brown eyes searching my face. \\\"I've been so worried about you.\\\"

\\\"I'm better,\\\" I answered with what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

\\\"Did you get my care package?\\\"

Halfway through my recent stay at the hospital, a giant basket had arrived filled with snacks, candy bars, and Jolly Ranchers, and accompanied by a rather large plush toy penguin. For some reason-maybe because I'd once enthused about the documentary March of the Penguins-Lorena believed that I was particularly fond of emperor penguins, and I'd never bothered to correct her.

\\\"I did. Thank you. I hope you don't mind that I shared those goodies with some of the other patients.\\\"

\\\"Not at all,\\\" she said, finally letting go of my hands and appraising me. \\\"You look good. More . . . rested than the last time I saw you.\\\"

\\\"I feel more rested,\\\" I agreed. \\\"How are the kids?\\\"

\\\"Wild as ever.\\\" She sighed, waving in the direction of the playset with a rueful smile. \\\"I never should have let Oscar talk me into a fifth. All standards and rules had fallen by the wayside by the time Luca arrived. He gets away with murder.\\\"

She laughed good-naturedly. An economics major whom Oscar had met at NYU, Lorena had helped him build his business until the twins arrived, at which point she stepped back to tend to their growing brood. Their home, like Oscar's had been, was messy and loud, a constant buzz of energy coursing through the walls and hallways. Yet Lorena took the chaos in stride. Never once had I seen her frazzled or impatient.\"},{\"id\":\"115312321T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Chapter 1

Cape Cod in May stirs hope in the hearts of previously frozen New Yorkers, its verdant lawns and ocean breezes holding the promise of summer days just around the corner. As I rolled down the window of my car, breathing in the scent of growing things, I marveled at how distant the chilly gray skies and rain-flooded gutters of city life felt. Here, at least, winter had long since retreated and the dream of slower, sun-drenched days felt close enough to touch.

I had visited the Cape a few times before, but never this particular town. A quieter, smaller cousin to the nearby magnet of Provincetown, Heatherington seemed to revel in its classic 1950s vibe. Cruising down its main thoroughfare, Pleasant Street, I took note of the quaint, upscale stores selling antiques, gourmet ice cream, wooden toys, and brick oven pizza, as well as the parents pushing expensive strollers on brick-paved sidewalks. Day-trippers ducked in and out of shops, while beneath a large old-fashioned clock, a pair of older gentlemen in baseball caps conferred on a wooden bench. Idling at an intersection to allow some musicians with guitars strapped to their backs to cross, I spotted a retro-style pharmacy and soda shop on the corner; inside, a group of teenagers sat at a counter, sipping shakes out of long straws.

I smiled, thinking the scene was almost too perfect to be real, but upon reflection it made sense that my best friend, Oscar, the offspring of immigrant parents who’d run a deli in Boston, would seek out a slice of the mythic American ideal. As traffic began to move again, I caught glimpses of neatly kept Colonials and clapboard homes with white picket fences on the side streets to my left and right. Heatherington was picturesque, I had to admit, and as if on cue, the clouds overhead suddenly cleared, giving way to a blue sky so intense that it made me squint.

It was Monday, the typical beginning of a new workweek, and I was in town to help Oscar and his wife, Lorena, design and build their vacation home, although until now I’d only seen photographs of the plot of land they’d bought. I was looking forward to hearing what they had in mind, as today would be our first real conversation about the project. Following the directions they’d given me and keeping an eye on my GPS, I turned off Pleasant Street, heading for the house’s future site, where we planned to meet. On the outskirts of town, I passed a sprawling fairground with performance stages in various states of construction. Dusty pickup trucks filled the gravel parking lot while workers toiled in the distance. It was a hive of activity, frantic preparations under way for the upcoming Mask and Music Festival on Memorial Day weekend at the end of the month. I’d heard about the festival while trying and failing to find a place to stay; in the end, I’d had to enlist Oscar’s help to find accommodations. Apparently forty or fifty bands would be descending on the town for the long weekend, and as many as twenty thousand people were expected to attend. When I asked about the kind of music being showcased, Oscar had merely snorted. “How would I know? It’s probably weird Gen Z music.”

A few minutes later, I turned off the road onto a grassy track that climbed to what I assumed was a bluff overlooking the ocean. I drove slowly, following the tread marks of previous vehicles, my Aston Martin bouncing and shimmying as the grass gave way to dirt. On either side, arching birch and elm and maple trees formed a canopy overhead until I emerged into a clearing at the top.

It was a flat and grassy plateau, ringed with majestic oak trees and a panoramic view of an ocean the color of dark sapphires. Butterflies floated above a small patch of dandelions, and the air was briny, conjuring my own memories of summers at the beach. Over the sound of the engine, I could hear vibrant birdcalls drifting from the trees, and when I looked up, I glimpsed a Cooper’s hawk circling. I marveled that this lot had somehow escaped development.

Soon a substantial wooden structure came into sight: a city-size playset that looked as if it had been dropped from the sky, complete with swings, hanging bars, sandbox, multiple slides, and a fort crowned with a multicolor awning. All five of Oscar’s kids swarmed over the structure while he and Lorena watched from a nearby picnic table. As usual, Oscar was wearing a throwback football jersey from the early 1960s, this one from the Cleveland Browns.

Not long after graduating from NYU, Oscar had secured funding to purchase franchise rights from the NFL, NBA, NHL, and MLB for the purpose of manufacturing and selling apparel. His concept was to put current players’ names and numbers on vintage-style jerseys. He was meticulous about design and quality, making sure each garment felt ultrasoft and appeared appropriately distressed. He was also extremely savvy when it came to promoting and marketing on social media, and while the jerseys were popular from the start, sales exploded when a prominent rapper began wearing them at concerts and trendy influencers began posting regularly about them. Eventually, private equity firms started sniffing around and Oscar sold the company for nearly a billion dollars. It was the ultimate success story. His parents, whom I regarded almost as foster parents of my own, could barely contain their pride and wore matching jerseys whenever they went out, bragging to their many relatives in the U.S. and back in India about their son’s success. Oscar humored his parents, but the money hadn’t fundamentally changed him or Lorena.

I parked next to their matching Cadillac Escalades, which made my car look like a toy, and Oscar approached with his arms opened wide for a hug. Like the rest of his family, he was a hugger, and I’m pretty sure he hugged everyone, including grocery store clerks, the guy who cleaned his pool, even IRS auditors. I’d long given up any WASP-like resistance and embraced him in return. He slapped my back before we separated.

“You made it,” he said, with a wide grin. “What do you think?”

“It’s incredible,” I admitted. “Even better than the photos you sent.”

Oscar looked around with a faint air of wonder. “I still can’t believe I was able to close on this place. I was bidding against one of those hedge fund bros and you know how much they hate to lose.”

He nodded in the direction of the picnic table. “Come on. Lorena has been asking about you nonstop.”

As we started toward her, I tilted my head at the playset. “What’s with that?”

“I had it installed last week. I figure that once we start building, it’ll keep the kids occupied when we visit the site to check on the progress.”

“Remind me how old they all are now?”

“Leo is seven. Lalita and Lakshmi are six. Logesh is five, and Luca just turned four. I know it’s a lot of Ls, but on the plus side, I get to say things like, ‘Get the L out here!’ or ‘Shut the L up!’ or ‘Sit the L down!’ ”

“I’ll bet Lorena loves that.”

“Not so much,” he said with a chuckle. “But the whole their-first-names-should-start-with-L thing was her idea, and they think it’s hilarious.”

By then, Lorena was standing. She shook her dark bangs out of her eyes and hurried over. A gregarious Italian American dynamo, she possessed unyielding strength and stamina that even Oscar couldn’t match. Like him, she was a hugger, and her embrace felt like being enveloped in a down comforter. After pulling back, she continued to hold my hands.

“How are you doing?” she asked, her expressive brown eyes searching my face. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

“I’m better,” I answered with what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Did you get my care package?”

Halfway through my recent stay at the hospital, a giant basket had arrived filled with snacks, candy bars, and Jolly Ranchers, and accompanied by a rather large plush toy penguin. For some reason—maybe because I’d once enthused about the documentary March of the Penguins—Lorena believed that I was particularly fond of emperor penguins, and I’d never bothered to correct her.

“I did. Thank you. I hope you don’t mind that I shared those goodies with some of the other patients.”

“Not at all,” she said, finally letting go of my hands and appraising me. “You look good. More . . . rested than the last time I saw you.”

“I feel more rested,” I agreed. “How are the kids?”

“Wild as ever.” She sighed, waving in the direction of the playset with a rueful smile. “I never should have let Oscar talk me into a fifth. All standards and rules had fallen by the wayside by the time Luca arrived. He gets away with murder.”

She laughed good-naturedly. An economics major whom Oscar had met at NYU, Lorena had helped him build his business until the twins arrived, at which point she stepped back to tend to their growing brood. Their home, like Oscar’s had been, was messy and loud, a constant buzz of energy coursing through the walls and hallways. Yet Lorena took the chaos in stride. Never once had I seen her frazzled or impatient.\"},{\"id\":\"116238616T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Chapter 1

Cape Cod in May stirs hope in the hearts of previously frozen New Yorkers, its verdant lawns and ocean breezes holding the promise of summer days just around the corner. As I rolled down the window of my car, breathing in the scent of growing things, I marveled at how distant the chilly gray skies and rain-flooded gutters of city life felt. Here, at least, winter had long since retreated and the dream of slower, sun-drenched days felt close enough to touch.

I had visited the Cape a few times before, but never this particular town. A quieter, smaller cousin to the nearby magnet of Provincetown, Heatherington seemed to revel in its classic 1950s vibe. Cruising down its main thoroughfare, Pleasant Street, I took note of the quaint, upscale stores selling antiques, gourmet ice cream, wooden toys, and brick oven pizza, as well as the parents pushing expensive strollers on brick-paved sidewalks. Day-trippers ducked in and out of shops, while beneath a large old-fashioned clock, a pair of older gentlemen in baseball caps conferred on a wooden bench. Idling at an intersection to allow some musicians with guitars strapped to their backs to cross, I spotted a retro-style pharmacy and soda shop on the corner; inside, a group of teenagers sat at a counter, sipping shakes out of long straws.

I smiled, thinking the scene was almost too perfect to be real, but upon reflection it made sense that my best friend, Oscar, the offspring of immigrant parents who'd run a deli in Boston, would seek out a slice of the mythic American ideal. As traffic began to move again, I caught glimpses of neatly kept Colonials and clapboard homes with white picket fences on the side streets to my left and right. Heatherington was picturesque, I had to admit, and as if on cue, the clouds overhead suddenly cleared, giving way to a blue sky so intense that it made me squint.

It was Monday, the typical beginning of a new workweek, and I was in town to help Oscar and his wife, Lorena, design and build their vacation home, although until now I'd only seen photographs of the plot of land they'd bought. I was looking forward to hearing what they had in mind, as today would be our first real conversation about the project. Following the directions they'd given me and keeping an eye on my GPS, I turned off Pleasant Street, heading for the house's future site, where we planned to meet. On the outskirts of town, I passed a sprawling fairground with performance stages in various states of construction. Dusty pickup trucks filled the gravel parking lot while workers toiled in the distance. It was a hive of activity, frantic preparations under way for the upcoming Mask and Music Festival on Memorial Day weekend at the end of the month. I'd heard about the festival while trying and failing to find a place to stay; in the end, I'd had to enlist Oscar's help to find accommodations. Apparently forty or fifty bands would be descending on the town for the long weekend, and as many as twenty thousand people were expected to attend. When I asked about the kind of music being showcased, Oscar had merely snorted. \\\"How would I know? It's probably weird Gen Z music.\\\"

A few minutes later, I turned off the road onto a grassy track that climbed to what I assumed was a bluff overlooking the ocean. I drove slowly, following the tread marks of previous vehicles, my Aston Martin bouncing and shimmying as the grass gave way to dirt. On either side, arching birch and elm and maple trees formed a canopy overhead until I emerged into a clearing at the top.

It was a flat and grassy plateau, ringed with majestic oak trees and a panoramic view of an ocean the color of dark sapphires. Butterflies floated above a small patch of dandelions, and the air was briny, conjuring my own memories of summers at the beach. Over the sound of the engine, I could hear vibrant birdcalls drifting from the trees, and when I looked up, I glimpsed a Cooper's hawk circling. I marveled that this lot had somehow escaped development.

Soon a substantial wooden structure came into sight: a city-size playset that looked as if it had been dropped from the sky, complete with swings, hanging bars, sandbox, multiple slides, and a fort crowned with a multicolor awning. All five of Oscar's kids swarmed over the structure while he and Lorena watched from a nearby picnic table. As usual, Oscar was wearing a throwback football jersey from the early 1960s, this one from the Cleveland Browns.

Not long after graduating from NYU, Oscar had secured funding to purchase franchise rights from the NFL, NBA, NHL, and MLB for the purpose of manufacturing and selling apparel. His concept was to put current players' names and numbers on vintage-style jerseys. He was meticulous about design and quality, making sure each garment felt ultrasoft and appeared appropriately distressed. He was also extremely savvy when it came to promoting and marketing on social media, and while the jerseys were popular from the start, sales exploded when a prominent rapper began wearing them at concerts and trendy influencers began posting regularly about them. Eventually, private equity firms started sniffing around and Oscar sold the company for nearly a billion dollars. It was the ultimate success story. His parents, whom I regarded almost as foster parents of my own, could barely contain their pride and wore matching jerseys whenever they went out, bragging to their many relatives in the U.S. and back in India about their son's success. Oscar humored his parents, but the money hadn't fundamentally changed him or Lorena.

I parked next to their matching Cadillac Escalades, which made my car look like a toy, and Oscar approached with his arms opened wide for a hug. Like the rest of his family, he was a hugger, and I'm pretty sure he hugged everyone, including grocery store clerks, the guy who cleaned his pool, even IRS auditors. I'd long given up any WASP-like resistance and embraced him in return. He slapped my back before we separated.

\\\"You made it,\\\" he said, with a wide grin. \\\"What do you think?\\\"

\\\"It's incredible,\\\" I admitted. \\\"Even better than the photos you sent.\\\"

Oscar looked around with a faint air of wonder. \\\"I still can't believe I was able to close on this place. I was bidding against one of those hedge fund bros and you know how much they hate to lose.\\\"

He nodded in the direction of the picnic table. \\\"Come on. Lorena has been asking about you nonstop.\\\"

As we started toward her, I tilted my head at the playset. \\\"What's with that?\\\"

\\\"I had it installed last week. I figure that once we start building, it'll keep the kids occupied when we visit the site to check on the progress.\\\"

\\\"Remind me how old they all are now?\\\"

\\\"Leo is seven. Lalita and Lakshmi are six. Logesh is five, and Luca just turned four. I know it's a lot of Ls, but on the plus side, I get to say things like, 'Get the L out here!' or 'Shut the L up!' or 'Sit the L down!' \\\"

\\\"I'll bet Lorena loves that.\\\"

\\\"Not so much,\\\" he said with a chuckle. \\\"But the whole their-first-names-should-start-with-L thing was her idea, and they think it's hilarious.\\\"

By then, Lorena was standing. She shook her dark bangs out of her eyes and hurried over. A gregarious Italian American dynamo, she possessed unyielding strength and stamina that even Oscar couldn't match. Like him, she was a hugger, and her embrace felt like being enveloped in a down comforter. After pulling back, she continued to hold my hands.

\\\"How are you doing?\\\" she asked, her expressive brown eyes searching my face. \\\"I've been so worried about you.\\\"

\\\"I'm better,\\\" I answered with what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

\\\"Did you get my care package?\\\"

Halfway through my recent stay at the hospital, a giant basket had arrived filled with snacks, candy bars, and Jolly Ranchers, and accompanied by a rather large plush toy penguin. For some reason-maybe because I'd once enthused about the documentary March of the Penguins-Lorena believed that I was particularly fond of emperor penguins, and I'd never bothered to correct her.

\\\"I did. Thank you. I hope you don't mind that I shared those goodies with some of the other patients.\\\"

\\\"Not at all,\\\" she said, finally letting go of my hands and appraising me. \\\"You look good. More . . . rested than the last time I saw you.\\\"

\\\"I feel more rested,\\\" I agreed. \\\"How are the kids?\\\"

\\\"Wild as ever.\\\" She sighed, waving in the direction of the playset with a rueful smile. \\\"I never should have let Oscar talk me into a fifth. All standards and rules had fallen by the wayside by the time Luca arrived. He gets away with murder.\\\"

She laughed good-naturedly. An economics major whom Oscar had met at NYU, Lorena had helped him build his business until the twins arrived, at which point she stepped back to tend to their growing brood. Their home, like Oscar's had been, was messy and loud, a constant buzz of energy coursing through the walls and hallways. Yet Lorena took the chaos in stride. Never once had I seen her frazzled or impatient.\"},{\"id\":\"115312524T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Chapter 1

Cape Cod in May stirs hope in the hearts of previously frozen New Yorkers, its verdant lawns and ocean breezes holding the promise of summer days just around the corner. As I rolled down the window of my car, breathing in the scent of growing things, I marveled at how distant the chilly gray skies and rain—flooded gutters of city life felt. Here, at least, winter had long since retreated and the dream of slower, sun—drenched days felt close enough to touch.

I had visited the Cape a few times before, but never this particular town. A quieter, smaller cousin to the nearby magnet of Provincetown, Heatherington seemed to revel in its classic 1950s vibe. Cruising down its main thoroughfare, Pleasant Street, I took note of the quaint, upscale stores selling antiques, gourmet ice cream, wooden toys, and brick oven pizza, as well as the parents pushing expensive strollers on brick—paved sidewalks. Day—trippers ducked in and out of shops, while beneath a large old—fashioned clock, a pair of older gentlemen in baseball caps conferred on a wooden bench. Idling at an intersection to allow some musicians with guitars strapped to their backs to cross, I spotted a retro—style pharmacy and soda shop on the corner; inside, a group of teenagers sat at a counter, sipping shakes out of long straws.

I smiled, thinking the scene was almost too perfect to be real, but upon reflection it made sense that my best friend, Oscar, the offspring of immigrant parents who’d run a deli in Boston, would seek out a slice of the mythic American ideal. As traffic began to move again, I caught glimpses of neatly kept Colonials and clapboard homes with white picket fences on the side streets to my left and right. Heatherington was picturesque, I had to admit, and as if on cue, the clouds overhead suddenly cleared, giving way to a blue sky so intense that it made me squint.

It was Monday, the typical beginning of a new workweek, and I was in town to help Oscar and his wife, Lorena, design and build their vacation home, although until now I’d only seen photographs of the plot of land they’d bought. I was looking forward to hearing what they had in mind, as today would be our first real conversation about the project. Following the directions they’d given me and keeping an eye on my GPS, I turned off Pleasant Street, heading for the house’s future site, where we planned to meet. On the outskirts of town, I passed a sprawling fairground with performance stages in various states of construction. Dusty pickup trucks filled the gravel parking lot while workers toiled in the distance. It was a hive of activity, frantic preparations under way for the upcoming Mask and Music Festival on Memorial Day weekend at the end of the month. I’d heard about the festival while trying and failing to find a place to stay; in the end, I’d had to enlist Oscar’s help to find accommodations. Apparently forty or fifty bands would be descending on the town for the long weekend, and as many as twenty thousand people were expected to attend. When I asked about the kind of music being showcased, Oscar had merely snorted. “How would I know? It’s probably weird Gen Z music.”

A few minutes later, I turned off the road onto a grassy track that climbed to what I assumed was a bluff overlooking the ocean. I drove slowly, following the tread marks of previous vehicles, my Aston Martin bouncing and shimmying as the grass gave way to dirt. On either side, arching birch and elm and maple trees formed a canopy overhead until I emerged into a clearing at the top.

It was a flat and grassy plateau, ringed with majestic oak trees and a panoramic view of an ocean the color of dark sapphires. Butterflies floated above a small patch of dandelions, and the air was briny, conjuring my own memories of summers at the beach. Over the sound of the engine, I could hear vibrant birdcalls drifting from the trees, and when I looked up, I glimpsed a Cooper’s hawk circling. I marveled that this lot had somehow escaped development.

Soon a substantial wooden structure came into sight: a city—size playset that looked as if it had been dropped from the sky, complete with swings, hanging bars, sandbox, multiple slides, and a fort crowned with a multicolor awning. All five of Oscar’s kids swarmed over the structure while he and Lorena watched from a nearby picnic table. As usual, Oscar was wearing a throwback football jersey from the early 1960s, this one from the Cleveland Browns.

Not long after graduating from NYU, Oscar had secured funding to purchase franchise rights from the NFL, NBA, NHL, and MLB for the purpose of manufacturing and selling apparel. His concept was to put current players’ names and numbers on vintage—style jerseys. He was meticulous about design and quality, making sure each garment felt ultrasoft and appeared appropriately distressed. He was also extremely savvy when it came to promoting and marketing on social media, and while the jerseys were popular from the start, sales exploded when a prominent rapper began wearing them at concerts and trendy influencers began posting regularly about them. Eventually, private equity firms started sniffing around and Oscar sold the company for nearly a billion dollars. It was the ultimate success story. His parents, whom I regarded almost as foster parents of my own, could barely contain their pride and wore matching jerseys whenever they went out, bragging to their many relatives in the U.S. and back in India about their son’s success. Oscar humored his parents, but the money hadn’t fundamentally changed him or Lorena.

I parked next to their matching Cadillac Escalades, which made my car look like a toy, and Oscar approached with his arms opened wide for a hug. Like the rest of his family, he was a hugger, and I’m pretty sure he hugged everyone, including grocery store clerks, the guy who cleaned his pool, even IRS auditors. I’d long given up any WASP—like resistance and embraced him in return. He slapped my back before we separated.

“You made it,” he said, with a wide grin. “What do you think?”

“It’s incredible,” I admitted. “Even better than the photos you sent.”

Oscar looked around with a faint air of wonder. “I still can’t believe I was able to close on this place. I was bidding against one of those hedge fund bros and you know how much they hate to lose.”

He nodded in the direction of the picnic table. “Come on. Lorena has been asking about you nonstop.”

As we started toward her, I tilted my head at the playset. “What’s with that?”

“I had it installed last week. I figure that once we start building, it’ll keep the kids occupied when we visit the site to check on the progress.”

“Remind me how old they all are now?”

“Leo is seven. Lalita and Lakshmi are six. Logesh is five, and Luca just turned four. I know it’s a lot of Ls, but on the plus side, I get to say things like, ‘Get the L out here!’ or ‘Shut the L up!’ or ‘Sit the L down!’ ”

“I’ll bet Lorena loves that.”

“Not so much,” he said with a chuckle. “But the whole their—first—names—should—start—with—L thing was her idea, and they think it’s hilarious.”

By then, Lorena was standing. She shook her dark bangs out of her eyes and hurried over. A gregarious Italian American dynamo, she possessed unyielding strength and stamina that even Oscar couldn’t match. Like him, she was a hugger, and her embrace felt like being enveloped in a down comforter. After pulling back, she continued to hold my hands.

“How are you doing?” she asked, her expressive brown eyes searching my face. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

“I’m better,” I answered with what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

“Did you get my care package?”

Halfway through my recent stay at the hospital, a giant basket had arrived filled with snacks, candy bars, and Jolly Ranchers, and accompanied by a rather large plush toy penguin. For some reason—maybe because I’d once enthused about the documentary March of the Penguins—Lorena believed that I was particularly fond of emperor penguins, and I’d never bothered to correct her.

“I did. Thank you. I hope you don’t mind that I shared those goodies with some of the other patients.”

“Not at all,” she said, finally letting go of my hands and appraising me. “You look good. More . . . rested than the last time I saw you.”

“I feel more rested,” I agreed. “How are the kids?”

“Wild as ever.” She sighed, waving in the direction of the playset with a rueful smile. “I never should have let Oscar talk me into a fifth. All standards and rules had fallen by the wayside by the time Luca arrived. He gets away with murder.”

She laughed good—naturedly. An economics major whom Oscar had met at NYU, Lorena had helped him build his business until the twins arrived, at which point she stepped back to tend to their growing brood. Their home, like Oscar’s had been, was messy and loud, a constant buzz of energy coursing through the walls and hallways. Yet Lorena took the chaos in stride. Never once had I seen her frazzled or impatient.\"},{\"id\":\"116236422T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"\\\"Bestseller Sparks (The Notebook) and filmmaker Shyamalan (The Sixth Sense) combine their talents to create a paranormal love story that makes suspension of disbelief easy through thoughtful characterization. . . . The mystery chugs along nicely but the romance is the stronger plot, and the authors deserve credit for making the relationship between the living and the dead moving. Fans of both authors will not be disappointed.\\\"-Publishers Weekly

\\\"The blending of bestselling novelist Sparks' signature romance with renowned film director Shyamalan's supernatural touches is brilliant. . . . This mysterious and moving love story will attract legions of eager readers.\\\"-Booklist, starred review\"},{\"id\":\"113368555T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Tate doesn’t believe in the old family myth that a chosen few can see spirits trapped in the realm of the living — until something rattles his world for good. With the heart of Nicholas Sparks and the twists of M. Night Shyamalan, Remain is a one-of-a-kind read.

\"},{\"id\":\"111626415T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

\"},{\"id\":\"116236423T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Nicholas Sparks is the author of twenty-five books, including Counting Miracles and Dreamland, all of which have been New York Times bestsellers. His books have been published across more than fifty languages with over 150 million copies sold worldwide, and eleven have been adapted into films. He is also the founder of the Nicholas Sparks Foundation, a nonprofit committed to improving cultural and international understanding through global education experiences. He lives in North Carolina.

M. Night Shyamalan is an internationally acclaimed director, screenwriter, and actor who has written and produced films such as The Sixth Sense, Signs, and Trap. His movies have grossed over $3.3 billion globally, and he's best known for creating psychological thrillers with supernatural themes. He is the founder of the film and television production company Blinding Edge Pictures. Shyamalan lives in Pennsylvania.

\"},{\"id\":\"113368558T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Nicholas Sparks is the author of twenty-five books, including Counting Miracles and Dreamland, all of which have been New York Times bestsellers. His books have been published across more than fifty languages with over 150 million copies sold worldwide, and eleven have been adapted into films. He is also the founder of the Nicholas Sparks Foundation, a nonprofit committed to improving cultural and international understanding through global education experiences. He lives in North Carolina.

M. Night Shyamalan is an internationally acclaimed director, screenwriter, and actor who has written and produced films such as The Sixth Sense, Signs, and Trap. His movies have grossed over $3.3 billion globally, and he’s best known for creating psychological thrillers with supernatural themes. He is the founder of the film and television production company Blinding Edge Pictures. Shyamalan lives in Pennsylvania.\"},{\"id\":\"116238617T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"113368560T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Nicholas Sparks is the author of twenty—five books, including Counting Miracles and Dreamland, all of which have been New York Times bestsellers. His books have been published across more than fifty languages with over 150 million copies sold worldwide, and eleven have been adapted into films. He is also the founder of the Nicholas Sparks Foundation, a nonprofit committed to improving cultural and international understanding through global education experiences. He lives in North Carolina.

M. Night Shyamalan is an internationally acclaimed director, screenwriter, and actor who has written and produced films such as The Sixth Sense, Signs, and Trap. His movies have grossed over $3.3 billion globally, and he’s best known for creating psychological thrillers with supernatural themes. He is the founder of the film and television production company Blinding Edge Pictures. Shyamalan lives in Pennsylvania.\"},{\"id\":\"115899560T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Nicholas Sparks is the author of twenty-five books, including Counting Miracles and Dreamland, all of which have been New York Times bestsellers. His books have been published across more than fifty languages with over 150 million copies sold worldwide, and eleven have been adapted into films. He is also the founder of the Nicholas Sparks Foundation, a nonprofit committed to improving cultural and international understanding through global education experiences. He lives in North Carolina.

M. Night Shyamalan is an internationally acclaimed director, screenwriter, and actor who has written and produced films such as The Sixth Sense, Signs, and Trap. His movies have grossed over $3.3 billion globally, and he's best known for creating psychological thrillers with supernatural themes. He is the founder of the film and television production company Blinding Edge Pictures. Shyamalan lives in Pennsylvania.\"}]",{"_45":3515,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":3516},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39979891851505","Remain/Nicholas-Sparks",{"_45":3518,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":3519},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39979887263985","1147568387",{"_45":3521,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39979890016497",{"_45":3523,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":3498},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39979892965617",{"_45":3525,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":3474},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39979883364593",{"_45":3527,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39979890540785",{"_45":3529,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":2628},"gid://shopify/Metafield/83695036367089",{"_45":3531,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":3532},"gid://shopify/Metafield/83695036334321","165",{"_1887":1888,"_45":3534,"_75":3535,"_1891":3536,"_834":3537,"_1894":3538,"_1896":3539,"_1898":3540,"_1905":3545,"_1913":63,"_1914":3547,"_1920":3550,"_1942":3559,"_1945":3561,"_1947":3562,"_1949":3563,"_1950":3565},"gid://shopify/Product/8830950539505","The Love Hypothesis (Collector's Edition)","Special","9780593953815","A stunning hardcover collector’s edition of Ali Hazelwood’s instant New York Times bestseller and TikTok sensation featuring:• A shimmering, revamped cover• Endpapers with all new art from Lilith Saur featuring Olive and Adam• STEM stenciled spredges• A sunny, foil stamped case• Fun additional chapter heading doodles throughout, and...• A brand new bonus chapter featuring THAT KISS from Adam’s point of viewWhen a fake relationship between scientists meets the irresistible force of attraction, it throws one woman's carefully calculated theories on love into chaos.As a third-year Ph.D. candidate, Olive Smith doesn't believe in lasting romantic relationships—but her best friend does, and that's what got her into this situation. Convincing Anh that Olive is dating and well on her way to a happily ever after was always going to take more than hand-wavy Jedi mind tricks: Scientists require proof. So, like any self-respecting biologist, Olive panics and kisses the first man she sees.That man is none other than Adam Carlsen, a young hotshot professor—and well-known ass. Which is why Olive is positively floored when Stanford's reigning lab tyrant agrees to keep her charade a secret and be her fake boyfriend. But when a big science conference goes haywire, putting Olive's career on the Bunsen burner, Adam surprises her again with his unyielding support and even more unyielding...six-pack abs.Suddenly their little experiment feels dangerously close to combustion. And Olive discovers that the only thing more complicated than a hypothesis on love is putting her own heart under the microscope.","A stunning hardcover collector’s edition of Ali Hazelwood’s instant New York Times bestseller and TikTok sensation featuring:

• A shimmering, revamped cover
• Endpapers with all new art from Lilith Saur featuring Olive and Adam
• STEM stenciled spredges
• A sunny, foil stamped case
• Fun additional chapter heading doodles throughout, and...
• A brand new bonus chapter featuring THAT KISS from Adam’s point of view

When a fake relationship between scientists meets the irresistible force of attraction, it throws one woman's carefully calculated theories on love into chaos.

As a third-year Ph.D. candidate, Olive Smith doesn't believe in lasting romantic relationships—but her best friend does, and that's what got her into this situation. Convincing Anh that Olive is dating and well on her way to a happily ever after was always going to take more than hand-wavy Jedi mind tricks: Scientists require proof. So, like any self-respecting biologist, Olive panics and kisses the first man she sees.

That man is none other than Adam Carlsen, a young hotshot professor—and well-known ass. Which is why Olive is positively floored when Stanford's reigning lab tyrant agrees to keep her charade a secret and be her fake boyfriend. But when a big science conference goes haywire, putting Olive's career on the Bunsen burner, Adam surprises her again with his unyielding support and even more unyielding...six-pack abs.

Suddenly their little experiment feels dangerously close to combustion. And Olive discovers that the only thing more complicated than a hypothesis on love is putting her own heart under the microscope.",{"_45":3541,"_58":3542,"_60":3543,"_54":3544,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47563604263153","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593953815_p0.jpg?v=1768967940",1056,1646,{"_1907":3546},{"_1909":3192,"_1911":1912},{"_1907":3548,"_1918":3549},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":3551},[3552],{"_45":3553,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":-5,"_714":3554,"_1930":3555,"_1932":3556,"_1934":3557,"_1940":3537,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46226368561393",{"_45":3541,"_58":3542,"_1904":-5,"_60":3543,"_54":3544},{"_1909":3192,"_1911":1912},{"_75":3535,"_834":3537},[3558],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":3560},"[\"Special Editions (p10264)\",\"Page & Screen (p4180)\",\"Judge a Book by Its Edges (p10048)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\"]",{"_1938":3537},{"_1938":3536},{"_1938":3564},"[{\"Key\":\"formatChicletOverlay\",\"Value\":\"Special\"}]",[3566,-5,-5,3569,3571,-5,3573,3575,3578,3581,3584,-5,3586,3588,-5,3590,3592,3595],{"_45":3567,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":3568},"gid://shopify/Metafield/38892992823537","[{\"contributorId\":22984463,\"fullName\":\"Ali Hazelwood\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3570,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/38892993741041",{"_45":3572,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":3536},"gid://shopify/Metafield/38892991971569",{"_45":3574,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":1967},"gid://shopify/Metafield/38892994068721",{"_45":3576,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":3577},"gid://shopify/Metafield/38892998525169","[{\"id\":\"130558886T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Chapter One

Hypothesis: When given a choice between A (a slightly inconveniencing situation) and B (a colossal shitshow with devastating consequences), I will inevitably end up selecting B.

In Olive's defense, the man didn't seem to mind the kiss too much.

It did take him a moment to adjust-perfectly understandable, given the sudden circumstances. It was an awkward, uncomfortable, somewhat painful minute, in which Olive was simultaneously smashing her lips against his and pushing herself as high as her toes would extend to keep her mouth at the same level as his face. Did he have to be so tall? The kiss must have looked like some clumsy headbutt, and she grew anxious that she was not going to be able to pull the whole thing off. Her friend Anh, whom Olive had spotted coming her way a few seconds ago, was going to take one look at this and know at once that Olive and Kiss Dude couldn't possibly be two people in the middle of a date.

Then that agonizingly slow moment went by, and the kiss became . . . different. The man inhaled sharply and inclined his head a tiny bit, making Olive feel less like a squirrel monkey climbing a baobab tree, and his hands-which were large and pleasantly warm in the AC of the hallway-closed around her waist. They slid up a few inches, coming to wrap around Olive's rib cage and holding her to himself. Not too close, and not too far.

Just so.

It was more of a prolonged peck than anything, but it was quite nice, and for the life span of a few seconds Olive forgot a large number of things, including the fact that she was pressed against a random, unknown dude. That she'd barely had the time to whisper \\\"Can I please kiss you?\\\" before locking lips with him. That what had originally driven her to put on this entire show was the hope of fooling Anh, her best friend in the whole world.

But a good kiss will do that: make a girl forget herself for a while. Olive found herself melting into a broad, solid chest that showed absolutely no give. Her hands traveled from a defined jaw into surprisingly thick and soft hair, and then-then she heard herself sigh, as if already out of breath, and that's when it hit her like a brick on the head, the realization that- No. No.

Nope, nope, no.

She should not be enjoying this. Random dude, and all that.

Olive gasped and pushed herself away from him, frantically looking for Anh. In the 11:00 p.m. bluish glow of the biology labs' hallway, her friend was nowhere to be seen. Weird. Olive was sure she had spotted her a few seconds earlier.

Kiss Dude, on the other hand, was standing right in front of her, lips parted, chest rising and a weird light flickering in his eyes, which was exactly when it dawned on her, the enormity of what she had just done. Of who she had just-

Fuck her life.

Fuck. Her. Life.

Because Dr. Adam Carlsen was a known ass.

This fact was not remarkable in and of itself, as in academia every position above the graduate student level (Olive's level, sadly) required some degree of assness in order to be held for any length of time, with tenured faculty at the very peak of the ass pyramid. Dr. Carlsen, though-he was exceptional. At least if the rumors were anything to go by.

He was the reason Olive's roommate, Malcolm, had to completely scrap two research projects and would likely end up graduating a year late; the one who had made Jeremy throw up from anxiety before his qualifying exams; the sole culprit for half the students in the department being forced to postpone their thesis defenses. Joe, who used to be in Olive's cohort and would take her to watch out-of-focus European movies with microscopic subtitles every Thursday night, had been a research assistant in Carlsen's lab, but he'd decided to drop out six months into it for \\\"reasons.\\\" It was probably for the best, since most of Carlsen's remaining graduate assistants had perennially shaky hands and often looked like they hadn't slept in a year.

Dr. Carlsen might have been a young academic rock star and biology's wunderkind, but he was also mean and hypercritical, and it was obvious in the way he spoke, in the way he carried himself, that he thought himself the only person doing decent science within the Stanford biology department. Within the entire world, probably. He was a notoriously moody, obnoxious, terrifying dick.

And Olive had just kissed him.

She wasn't sure how long the silence lasted-only that he was the one to break it. He stood in front of Olive, ridiculously intimidating with dark eyes and even darker hair, staring down from who knows how many inches above six feet-he must have been over half a foot taller than she was. He scowled, an expression that she recognized from seeing him attend the departmental seminar, a look that usually preceded him raising his hand to point out some perceived fatal flaw in the speaker's work.

Adam Carlsen. Destroyer of research careers, Olive had once overheard her adviser say.

It's okay. It's fine. Totally fine. She was just going to pretend nothing had happened, nod at him politely, and tiptoe her way out of here. Yes, solid plan.

\\\"Did you . . . Did you just kiss me?\\\" He sounded puzzled, and maybe a little out of breath. His lips were full and plump and . . . God. Kissed. There was simply no way Olive could get away with denying what she had just done.

Still, it was worth a try.

\\\"Nope.\\\"

Surprisingly, it seemed to work.

\\\"Ah. Okay, then.\\\" Carlsen nodded and turned around, looking vaguely disoriented. He took a couple of steps down the hallway, reached the water fountain-maybe where he'd been headed in the first place.

Olive was starting to believe that she might actually be off the hook when he halted and turned back with a skeptical expression.

\\\"Are you sure?\\\"

Dammit.

\\\"I-\\\" She buried her face in her hands. \\\"It's not the way it looks.\\\"

\\\"Okay. I . . . Okay,\\\" he repeated slowly. His voice was deep and low and sounded a lot like he was on his way to get ting mad. Like maybe he was already mad. \\\"What's going on here?\\\"

There was simply no way to explain this. Any normal person would have found Olive's situation odd, but Adam Carlsen, who obviously considered empathy a bug and not a feature of humanity, could never understand. She let her hands fall to her sides and took a deep breath.

\\\"I . . . listen, I don't mean to be rude, but this is really none of your business.\\\"

He stared at her for a moment, and then he nodded. \\\"Yes. Of course.\\\" He must be getting back into his usual groove, because his tone had lost some of its surprise and was back to normal-dry. Laconic. \\\"I'll just go back to my office and begin to work on my Title IX complaint.\\\"

Olive exhaled in relief. \\\"Yeah. That would be great, since- Wait. Your what?\\\"

He cocked his head. \\\"Title IX is a federal law that protects against sexual misconduct within academic settings-\\\"

\\\"I know what Title IX is.\\\"

\\\"I see. So you willfully chose to disregard it.\\\"

\\\"I- What? No. No, I didn't!\\\"

He shrugged. \\\"I must be mistaken, then. Someone else must have assaulted me.\\\"

\\\"Assault-I didn't 'assault' you.\\\"

\\\"You did kiss me.\\\"

\\\"But not really.\\\"

\\\"Without first securing my consent.\\\"

\\\"I asked if I could kiss you!\\\"

\\\"And then did so without waiting for my response.\\\"

\\\"What? You said yes.\\\"

\\\"Excuse me?\\\"

She frowned. \\\"I asked if I could kiss you, and you said yes.\\\"

\\\"Incorrect. You asked if you could kiss me and I snorted.\\\"

\\\"I'm pretty sure I heard you said yes.\\\"

He lifted one eyebrow, and for a minute Olive let herself daydream of drowning someone. Dr. Carlsen. Herself. Both sounded like great options.

\\\"Listen, I'm really sorry. It was a weird situation. Can we just forget that this happened?\\\"

He studied her for a long moment, his angular face serious and something else, something that she couldn't quite decipher because she was too busy noticing all over again how damn towering and broad he was. Just massive. Olive had always been slight, just this side of too slender, but girls who are five eight rarely felt diminutive. At least until they found themselves standing next to Adam Carlsen. She'd known that he was tall, of course, from seeing him around the department or walking across campus, from sharing the elevator with him, but they'd never interacted. Never been this close.

Except for a second ago, Olive. When you almost put your tongue in his-

\\\"Is something wrong?\\\" He sounded almost concerned.

\\\"What? No. No, there isn't.\\\"

\\\"Because,\\\" he continued calmly, \\\"kissing a stranger at midnight in a science lab might be a sign that there is.\\\"

\\\"There isn't.\\\"

Carlsen nodded, thoughtful. \\\"Very well. Expect mail in the next few days, then.\\\" He began to walk past her, and she turned to yell after him.

\\\"You didn't even ask my name!\\\"

\\\"I'm sure anyone could figure it out, since you must have swiped your badge to get in the labs area after hours. Have a good night.\\\"

\\\"Wait!\\\" She leaned forward and stopped him with a hand on his wrist. He paused immediately, even though it was obvious that it would take him no effort to free himself, and stared pointedly at the spot where her fingers had wrapped around his skin-right below a wristwatch that probably cost half her yearly graduate salary. Or all of it.

She let go of him at once and took one step back. \\\"Sorry, I didn't mean to-\\\"

\\\"The kiss. Explain.\\\"

Olive bit into her lower lip. She had truly screwed herself over. She had to tell him, now. \\\"Anh Pham.\\\" She looked around to make sure Anh was really gone. \\\"The girl who was passing by. She's a graduate student in the biology department.\\\"

Carlsen gave no indication of knowing who Anh was.

\\\"Anh has . . .\\\" Olive pushed a strand of brown hair behind her ear. This was where the story became embarrassing. Complicated, and a little juvenile sounding. \\\"I was seeing this guy in the department. Jeremy Langley, he has red hair and works with Dr. . . . Anyway, we went out just a couple of times, and then I brought him to Anh's birthday party, and they just sort of hit it off and-\\\"

Olive shut her eyes. Which was probably a bad idea, because now she could see it painted on her lids, how her best friend and her date had bantered in that bowling alley, as if they'd known each other their whole lives; the never-exhausted topics of conversation, the laughter, and then, at the end of the night, Jeremy following Anh's every move with his gaze. It had been painfully clear who he was interested in. Olive waved a hand and tried for a smile.

\\\"Long story short, after Jeremy and I ended things he asked Anh out. She said no because of . . . girl code and all that, but I can tell that she really likes him. She's afraid to hurt my feelings, and no matter how many times I told her it was fine she wouldn't believe me.\\\"

Not to mention that the other day I overheard her confess to our friend Malcolm that she thought Jeremy was awesome, but she could never betray me by going out with him, and she sounded so dejected. Disappointed and insecure, not at all like the spunky, larger-than-life Anh I am used to.

\\\"So I just lied and told her that I was already dating someone else. Because she's one of my closest friends and I'd never seen her like a guy this much and I want her to have the good things she deserves and I'm positive that she would do the same for me and-\\\" Olive realized that she was rambling and that Carlsen couldn't have cared less. She stopped and swallowed, even though her mouth felt dry. \\\"Tonight. I told her I'd be on a date tonight.\\\"

\\\"Ah.\\\" His expression was unreadable.

\\\"But I'm not. So I decided to come in to work on an experiment, but Anh showed up, too. She wasn't supposed to be here. But she was. Coming this way. And I panicked-well.\\\" Olive wiped a hand down her face. \\\"I didn't really think.\\\"

Carlsen didn't say anything, but it was there in his eyes that he was thinking. Obviously.

\\\"I just needed her to believe that I was on a date.\\\"

He nodded. \\\"So you kissed the first person you saw in the hallway. Perfectly logical.\\\"

Olive winced. \\\"When you put it like that, perhaps it wasn't my best moment.\\\"

\\\"Perhaps.\\\"

\\\"But it wasn't my worst, either! I'm pretty sure Anh saw us. Now she'll think that I was on a date with you and she'll hopefully feel free to go out with Jeremy and-\\\" She shook her head. \\\"Listen. I'm so, so sorry about the kiss.\\\"

\\\"Are you?\\\"

\\\"Please, don't report me. I really thought I heard you say yes. I promise I didn't mean to . . .\\\"

Suddenly, the enormity of what she had just done fully dawned on her. She had just kissed a random guy, a guy who happened to be the most notoriously unpleasant faculty member in the biology department. She'd misunderstood a snort for consent, she'd basically attacked him in the hallway, and now he was staring at her in that odd, pensive way, so large and focused and close to her, and . . .

Shit.

Maybe it was the late night. Maybe it was that her last coffee had been sixteen hours ago. Maybe it was Adam Carlsen looking down at her, like that. All of a sudden, this entire situation was just too much.

\\\"Actually, you're absolutely right. And I am so sorry. If you felt in any way harassed by me, you really should report me, because it's only fair. It was a horrible thing to do, though I really didn't want to . . . Not that my intentions matter; it's more like your perception of . . .\\\"

Crap, crap, crap.

\\\"I'm going to leave now, okay? Thank you, and . . . I am so, so, so sorry.\\\" Olive spun around on her heels and ran away down the hallway.

\\\"Olive,\\\" she heard him call after her. \\\"Olive, wait-\\\"

She didn't stop. She sprinted down the stairs to the first floor and then out the building and across the pathways of the sparsely lit Stanford campus, running past a girl walking her dog and a group of students laughing in front of the library. She continued until she was standing in front of her apartment's door, stopping only to unlock it, making a beeline for her room in the hope of avoiding her roommate and whoever he might have brought home tonight.
It wasn’t until she slumped on her bed, staring at the glow‑in‑the- dark stars glued to her ceiling, that she realized that she had neglected to check on her lab mice. She had also left her laptop on her bench and her sweatshirt somewhere in the lab, and she had completely forgotten to stop at the store and buy the coffee she’d promised Malcolm she’d get for tomorrow morning.
Shit. What a disaster of a day.
It never occurred to Olive that Dr. Adam Carlsen— known ass— had called her by her name.

\"},{\"id\":\"130558887T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Chapter One

Hypothesis: When given a choice between A (a slightly inconveniencing situation) and B (a colossal shitshow with devastating consequences), I will inevitably end up selecting B.

In Olive's defense, the man didn't seem to mind the kiss too much.

Just so.

Nope, nope, no.

She should not be enjoying this. Random dude, and all that.

Fuck her life.

Fuck. Her. Life.

Because Dr. Adam Carlsen was a known ass.

And Olive had just kissed him.

Adam Carlsen. Destroyer of research careers, Olive had once overheard her adviser say.

It's okay. It's fine. Totally fine. She was just going to pretend nothing had happened, nod at him politely, and tiptoe her way out of here. Yes, solid plan.

Still, it was worth a try.

\\\"Nope.\\\"

Surprisingly, it seemed to work.

Olive was starting to believe that she might actually be off the hook when he halted and turned back with a skeptical expression.

\\\"Are you sure?\\\"

Dammit.

\\\"I-\\\" She buried her face in her hands. \\\"It's not the way it looks.\\\"

\\\"Okay. I . . . Okay,\\\" he repeated slowly. His voice was deep and low and sounded a lot like he was on his way to get ting mad. Like maybe he was already mad. \\\"What's going on here?\\\"

\\\"I . . . listen, I don't mean to be rude, but this is really none of your business.\\\"

Olive exhaled in relief. \\\"Yeah. That would be great, since- Wait. Your what?\\\"

He cocked his head. \\\"Title IX is a federal law that protects against sexual misconduct within academic settings-\\\"

\\\"I know what Title IX is.\\\"

\\\"I see. So you willfully chose to disregard it.\\\"

\\\"I- What? No. No, I didn't!\\\"

He shrugged. \\\"I must be mistaken, then. Someone else must have assaulted me.\\\"

\\\"Assault-I didn't 'assault' you.\\\"

\\\"You did kiss me.\\\"

\\\"But not really.\\\"

\\\"Without first securing my consent.\\\"

\\\"I asked if I could kiss you!\\\"

\\\"And then did so without waiting for my response.\\\"

\\\"What? You said yes.\\\"

\\\"Excuse me?\\\"

She frowned. \\\"I asked if I could kiss you, and you said yes.\\\"

\\\"Incorrect. You asked if you could kiss me and I snorted.\\\"

\\\"I'm pretty sure I heard you said yes.\\\"

He lifted one eyebrow, and for a minute Olive let herself daydream of drowning someone. Dr. Carlsen. Herself. Both sounded like great options.

\\\"Listen, I'm really sorry. It was a weird situation. Can we just forget that this happened?\\\"

Except for a second ago, Olive. When you almost put your tongue in his-

\\\"Is something wrong?\\\" He sounded almost concerned.

\\\"What? No. No, there isn't.\\\"

\\\"Because,\\\" he continued calmly, \\\"kissing a stranger at midnight in a science lab might be a sign that there is.\\\"

\\\"There isn't.\\\"

Carlsen nodded, thoughtful. \\\"Very well. Expect mail in the next few days, then.\\\" He began to walk past her, and she turned to yell after him.

\\\"You didn't even ask my name!\\\"

\\\"I'm sure anyone could figure it out, since you must have swiped your badge to get in the labs area after hours. Have a good night.\\\"

She let go of him at once and took one step back. \\\"Sorry, I didn't mean to-\\\"

\\\"The kiss. Explain.\\\"

Carlsen gave no indication of knowing who Anh was.

\\\"Ah.\\\" His expression was unreadable.

Carlsen didn't say anything, but it was there in his eyes that he was thinking. Obviously.

\\\"I just needed her to believe that I was on a date.\\\"

He nodded. \\\"So you kissed the first person you saw in the hallway. Perfectly logical.\\\"

Olive winced. \\\"When you put it like that, perhaps it wasn't my best moment.\\\"

\\\"Perhaps.\\\"

\\\"Are you?\\\"

\\\"Please, don't report me. I really thought I heard you say yes. I promise I didn't mean to . . .\\\"

Shit.

Crap, crap, crap.

\\\"I'm going to leave now, okay? Thank you, and . . . I am so, so, so sorry.\\\" Olive spun around on her heels and ran away down the hallway.

\\\"Olive,\\\" she heard him call after her. \\\"Olive, wait-\\\"

\"},{\"id\":\"130558881T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"As seen on THE VIEW!
A BuzzFeed Best Summer Read of 2021!
An Indie Next and LibraryReads Pick!

Praise for Ali Hazelwood

“The reigning queen of STEM romance.”—The Washington Post

\\\"Ali Hazelwood is a romance powerhouse.”—#1 New York Times bestselling author Hannah Grace

\\\"Passionate and witty and primal in its intensity.\\\"—New York Times bestselling author Nalini Singh, on Bride

“Contemporary romance's unicorn: the elusive marriage of deeply brainy and delightfully escapist.”—New York Times bestselling author Christina Lauren

“Hazelwood proves that she is the perfect writer to show that science is sexy as hell, and that love can ‘STEM’ from the most unlikely places.”—#1 New York Times bestselling author Jodi Picoult

“Funny, sexy and smart, Ali Hazelwood did a terrific job with The Love Hypothesis.”—New York Times bestselling author Mariana Zapata

“Gloriously nerdy and sexy, with on-point commentary about women in STEM.”—New York Times bestselling author Helen Hoang\"},{\"id\":\"130558888T\",\"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 fake relationship with real chemistry – this equation is not easy to solve. Ph.D candidate Olive Smith and Professor Adam Carlsen embark on an experimental romance, but when sparks start flying for real, Olive has to choose between science and love.

\"},{\"id\":\"114090636T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

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Ali Hazelwood is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of multiple romance novels, as well as a writer of peer-reviewed articles about brain science, in which no one makes out and the ever after is not always happy. Originally from Italy, she lived in Germany and Japan before moving to the US to pursue a PhD in neuroscience. When Ali is not at work, she can be found running, eating cake pops, or watching sci-fi movies with her three feline overlords (and her slightly-less-feline husband).

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The family's story began in 1620, when Maria Owens was tried for witchcraft, and every Owens descendant was cursed in love. Now, in Cambridge, seventy-eight-year-old Jet Owens hears the deathwatch beetle and knows she has only seven days to live. Before she goes, she discovers The Book of the Raven, a dangerous magical grimoire that may hold the secret to breaking the curse once and for all.

Her sister Franny, nieces Sally and Gillian, and the next Owens generation-Antonia and Kylie-must face the truth of their legacy. When Kylie's boyfriend falls into a coma after they confess their love, she flees to Europe in search of answers, embracing perilous left-handed magic that could destroy everything the Owens clan has fought to protect.

Spanning from New York City to Europe, Practical Magic 2 weaves a spellbinding tale of Owens family witches, sacrifice, and survival. A breathtaking and masterful conclusion to the beloved series, it brings together three generations of Owens women-and one long-lost brother-for a dazzling finale that proves the only cure for love is to love more.",{"_45":3605,"_58":3606,"_60":2578,"_54":1903,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47499509694705","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781982151492_p0.jpg?v=1787146638",{"_1907":3608},{"_1909":2701,"_1911":1912},{"_1907":3610,"_1918":3611},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":3613},[3614],{"_45":3615,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":-5,"_714":3616,"_1930":3617,"_1932":3618,"_1934":3619,"_1940":3601,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46244599791857",{"_45":3605,"_58":3606,"_1904":-5,"_60":2578,"_54":1903},{"_1909":2701,"_1911":1912},{"_75":3600,"_834":3601},[3620],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":3622},"[\"Page & Screen (p4180)\"]",{"_1938":3601},{"_1938":2004},[3626,3628,3630,3632,3634,-5,3636,3638,3641,3644,3647,-5,3649,3651,-5,3653,3655,3657],{"_45":3627,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":2602},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39656784494833",{"_45":3629,"_1954":1955,"_1956":2277,"_1938":2725},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39656784822513",{"_45":3631,"_1954":1955,"_1956":2349,"_1938":2176},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39656784920817",{"_45":3633,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39656785412337",{"_45":3635,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39656784003313",{"_45":3637,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":2041},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39656785576177",{"_45":3639,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":3640},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39656788754673","[{\"id\":\"132806674T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Chapter I I.
Some stories begin at the beginning and others begin at the end, but all the best stories begin in a library. It was there that Jet Owens saw her fate in a mirror behind the reference desk. Even in her eighties, Jet was still beautiful. Each day she washed with the black soap the family prepared in March during the dark phase of the moon, with every bar then wrapped in crinkly cellophane. Jet had no aches or pains and had never been ill a day in her life, but fate is fate and it can often be what you least expect it to be. On this day, when the daffodils had begun to bloom, Jet saw that she had seven days to live.

The deathwatch beetle had begun to call from within the walls of the Owens Library, a sound that often went unnoticed until it was so loud it was all a person could hear. When your time came, the black beetle would withdraw from hiding and follow you everywhere, no matter where you went. Its presence meant that the past was over and the future no longer existed. This was the moment that revealed how you had walked through the world, with kindness or with fear, with your heart open or closed. It had taken this long for Jet to appreciate that every instant was a marvel. Now everything she saw was illuminated. The sun streaming through the library windows in fierce bands of orange light. A moth tapping at the glass. The sweep of the branches of one of the last elm trees in the commonwealth, which shadowed the library's lawn. Some people unravel or run for shelter when their time has come, they curse their fate or hide under their beds, but Jet knew exactly what she wished to do in the last days she'd been granted. She didn't have to think twice.

Long ago, the library had been a jail where Maria Owens, the first woman in their family to set foot in Massachusetts in 1680, had been confined until the judges announced she would be hanged. Those were the days when witchery was forbidden and women were harshly punished, judged to be dangerous creatures if they talked too much, or read books, or did their best to protect themselves from harm. People said Maria could turn herself into a crow, that she had the ability to enchant men without ever speaking to them directly and to compel other women to do as they pleased, so that they were willing to forsake their proper place in society and in their own families. The court set out to destroy Maria and nearly did, but she could not be drowned, and she did not back down. She blamed love for her undoing, for she'd chosen the wrong man, with dire consequences. Just before the rope that was meant to end her life snapped, and she was miraculously saved, Maria called out a curse upon love.

Beware of love, she had written on the first page of her journal, now exhibited in the library, a display mothers in town often brought their teenaged daughters to view before they started dating. Beware of love that was dishonest and disloyal, love that would lie to you and trick you, love that could break you and condemn you to sorrow, love that could never be trusted. If Maria Owens had been less rash, she might have realized that when you curse another, you curse yourself as well. Curses are like knots, the more you struggle to be free, the tighter they become, whether they're made of rope or spite or desperation. Maria invoked an enchantment to protect the generations to follow, with her daughters' and great-granddaughters' best interests at heart. For their own safety, they must avoid love. Those who failed to abide by this rule would find that engagements would be tragic, and marriages would end with funerals. Over the years, many of those in the Owens family had found ways to outwit the curse, always an intricate and risky endeavor. All the same, a person could trick fate if she dared, she could change her name, never admit her love, skip a legal union, vanish from view, or, for those who were careless and wild, simply plunge in and hope for the best, knowing that sooner or later everyone had to face her own destiny.

Maria's journal pages had been up on the wall of the library for more years than anyone could remember. Certainly, they had been there when Jet and her sister, Franny, were girls, and came here on muggy heat-laden summer days, waiting for their lives to begin, learning the truth about themselves from the town records and from their beloved aunt Isabelle. The family had a history of witchery, inherited in every generation, and had practiced the Nameless Art. They were bloodline witches, genetically predisposed to magic, with a lineage to ancestors who possessed the same sacred gifts. For those who tried to escape their heritage, it soon became clear that they couldn't run away from who they were. A person could do her best to be ordinary and fit in, but the past could not be refuted, even when it was hidden from children thought to be too tender to know the truth. You didn't choose magic, it chose you; it bloomed inside you, blood and bones. And a curse, once spoken, could not be denied. All the same, fate was what you made of it. You could make the best of it, or you could let it make the best of you. On this evening when she saw the truth in the library, Jet Owens decided she would do her best to change her family's destiny.

It was dusk when Jet and her niece Sally walked home from the library, as they did nearly every evening. Sally and her husband and daughters had moved into the old family house when the aunts' aging became noticeable, and she had been happy to settle into the place she couldn't wait to escape from as a girl. Sally had two wonderful girls, Kylie and Antonia, but both were now off at school, and her sister, Gillian, lived in Cambridge quite near to the girls, where she worked in a lab at MIT, so it was only Sally, now a widow, who still resided with her aunts in that big tilted house with the black shutters on Magnolia Street, where a fierce iron fence circled an enormous parcel of land the gardeners in town all envied, for it was here that the first daffodils pushed through the earth and where herbs grew between patches of ice in March, a month before they appeared anywhere else. Already the bramble of blackberries along the gate was beginning to green, and the lilacs, which would bloom in shades of violet and deep purple and white, were filling in with their flat heart-shaped leaves.

Unfortunately, Sally Owens couldn't hold on to love and everyone knew it. She'd been a victim of her family's curse, not once but twice. She was quite young when she first married, a forbidden act that could only end badly. Her husband Michael, a school friend and the father of her girls, had been a local boy and the first to ask her out; he was cursed with an untimely death, a victim of bad luck and bad weather, struck by lightning. Sally didn't speak for a year after his death, but she tried again with her second husband, Gary Hallet, a man she could depend on until he'd passed on a few years after their marriage. Gary had been afflicted with a childhood congenital heart disease that had finally caught up to him, but Sally was convinced his death had been activated by the family curse, for Gary had always seemed to be as healthy as he was strong. He had come from Arizona to work on the local police force, preferring a horse to a patrol car, and he and his tall good-natured bay, Jack, were known and beloved in town. Gary would rather give someone a second chance than arrest him, and the children in town begged to visit old Jack at the police stable on the far side of Endicott Street, bringing sugar cubes and carrots.

How was it possible for a man like Gary Hallet to kiss his wife good night, close his eyes, and never wake again? His horse had died of grief two nights later, lying down on the earthen floor of the stable. Sally was stunned and devastated, and some people said she had lost a piece of her heart. Certainly, she seemed transformed. When she did say hello to her neighbors, which was rare, she made it perfectly clear she preferred to be left in peace. Sally had returned to school for her degree in library science at Simmons University, and now, at the age of forty-four, she was the director of the Owens Library. The only other employee was Sarah Hardwick, who had worked at the library for over sixty years, and who still made it a point of leaving every day at five o'clock on the dot, which allowed her to stop by the Black Rabbit Inn and have a cocktail at her regular time. Often, she didn't report back until ten in the morning, especially if she'd had more than one drink. Sally didn't begrudge Miss Hardwick the need to come in late and leave early at her age, and she didn't mind the hours she spent working alone in the library, late into the evenings. She did her best to be helpful when she checked out books, or assisted students from the local high school, but everyone knew Sally Owens was embittered, and even more standoffish than she'd been as a girl.

The curse had ruined Sally's life, and she had decided not to reveal the Owens fate to her daughters. They knew bits, of course, and there was a scrim of magic over the house on Magnolia Street; the famous garden, the dangerous plants locked away in the greenhouse, the sparrow that arrived at midsummer. Still, the word witchery was never spoken out loud. Sally knew that her great-grandmother Susannah Owens had also kept the truth of their heritage from her children, setting out a series of rules to ensure they would avoid magic. Sally felt a kinship with Susannah, and when she found her great-grandmother's rules jotted down in an old diary, she made use of them. No swimming, no books about magic, no candles, no sitting out on the roof and gazing at stars, no wearing black, no walking in the moonlight. In Sally's opinion a life without magic was preferable, and she had done her best to ensure that her daughters wouldn't live with the cloud of the curse above them, spying danger in every kiss. When the time came, if and when one of the girls teetered on the verge of falling in love, Sally would step in and put a stop to it, as she wished she had done when her sister, Gillian, had fallen for the man whose name was never said aloud for fear he'd be called back from the dead. Thankfully, neither Antonia nor Kylie seemed to have any romantic inclinations. Perhaps the curse would never be a problem for them and they'd be safe after all. Kylie spent all her time with her best friend, Gideon Barnes, and Antonia was clearly a workaholic, even now that she was pregnant. There was no partner in the picture and when asked who the father of her unborn child was, Antonia merely shrugged and said it was a long story, which in truth it was not. She had dated Scott Morrison in high school, but she had always preferred women and had several girlfriends, many of whose hearts were broken without Antonia even trying to accomplish that task. Antonia was a confident, calm young woman of twenty-three, a redhead who didn't possess the same fierce temperament as Franny, the sort of person you would want beside you in an emergency, and no one was surprised when she announced that emergency medicine was the specialty she wished to pursue. Whenever she heard a siren on the street, she broke into a run, ready to offer help, for she was and always had been a natural healer; the more urgent the problem, the more focused she was on a cure.

Antonia didn't understand why people thought she was a bit tone deaf in matters of the heart when she was simply more preoccupied by her studies. To be honest, she wasn't even sure if she believed in love, but she definitely believed in children, as did Scott, who was two years ahead of her at med school, in a long-term relationship with another doctor, Joel McKenna. They agreed they would all make terrific parents, especially if they raised the child together.

As for Sally, she had worn black ever since her husband Gary's death and had a closet filled with dark, austere dresses, cotton for spring and summer, wool for the colder seasons. With her silky black hair pinned up, and her black coat flaring out behind her, Sally looked like a ghost on evenings when she walked home from the Owens Library with her aunt, with heaps of new leaves falling from the trees as she passed by. She closed the shutters on sunshiny days and favored large dark glasses that made her expression impenetrable. When she lingered on the porch in the evenings, not wishing to go up to her lonely bedroom, she rocked back and forth in an old wicker chair as the dusk settled around her, not realizing that she was frightening the neighborhood children who came upon her in the falling dark. The children who glimpsed Sally Owens on cold, crisp evenings shared their opinion that she was a witch who could turn herself into whatever she wished to be-a cat or a crow or a she-wolf-and that they had best not talk too much or have too much fun when she had them in her sights. Most people in town considered Sally to be unpredictable and irritable and there were those who insisted it was best not to cross her or she would hex you in the blink of an eye. Sally paid no attention. Let the neighbors gossip, let them cross the street when they spied her, she couldn't care less. The Owens women had a habit of doing as they pleased no matter what people might say, and she would continue to do so.

This week, as spring neared, Sally had decided to turn out the light on the porch, which had been kept on for three hundred years, assuring women in need of assistance that they were welcome to call. Enough was enough, in Sally's estimation. Let the neighbors go elsewhere for cures. Soon after, the gate was latched, the front door bolted, and thorny vines clung to the skirts of anyone who tried to pass by on the bluestone path. If a remedy was needed, for health or love or revenge, the best clients could do was wait on the sidewalk outside the fence, hoping that Franny Owens, or more likely dear Jet, would venture out on the way to the market or the drugstore and stop long enough to listen to their woes. Perhaps, if they were lucky, one of the aunts would grant them an elixir, stored in the pantry or in the greenhouse, well out of Sally's sight. Star tulip to decipher dreams, blue beads for protection, garlic, salt, and rosemary to dispel evil, or the most sought-after cure, Love Potion Number Nine, which consisted of anise, rosemary, honey, and cloves, all simmered for nine hours and always costing $9.99. Jet would never charge a penny more, and she made certain to remind the buyer that the spell worked best on the ninth hour of the ninth day of the ninth month. On some nights, neighborhood women stood in the dark in front of the Owens house, their hands clutching the iron fence, with jewelry or cash in their purses, in need of assistance in matters of love or health or revenge. Often the aunts were already in bed, still the women stayed, ever hopeful, and there were times when Sally had to step over them on her way to work in the morning, for some truly desperate clients fell asleep on the sidewalk, dreaming of cures they would never receive.

Sally had become so closed off that she had recently lost the ability to see the color red, a side effect of severing one's emotions. One morning she woke and that color was simply gone from the palette of her vision. Anything that had once been scarlet or crimson or cherry or coral had turned a splotchy gray. As far as Sally was concerned, good riddance. She didn't mind the loss of red in her life one bit. Who needed a color as bright and disturbing as red? Red blossoms, red heart, red magic, red love. Even though spring had begun, for Sally the month of March was muted and blurry, a world of black and white. She didn't care that she could no longer spy cardinals perched in the trees, or that the red tulips in the greenhouse forced into an early bloom were the color of dust. Sally felt quite sensible observing the world through a scrim of gloom.

Though Jet didn't work in the library officially, she was a great favorite with the youngest patrons. She had the ability to know what people were thinking, and therefore understood that boys who were rude were usually fearful and that quiet girls often had a lot to say. She frequently stopped by to help young people choose books, guiding them to stories that contained magic of the best sort, practical magic that was folded into the everyday world, tales in which people stumbled into enchantments, often while walking down the street in their own hometown, or when they stepped into closets that contained other worlds, or waited for a train that would take them to a place they'd never before imagined.

\\\"All you need is patience,\\\" Jet told Sally when she threw up her hands each time she was faced with disruptive behavior from middle-school visitors who gathered in groups, lounging at the tables as if they were in their own homes.

Sally had been an excellent mother, but nowadays she was strict and rarely smiled anymore, and children are always put off by a rigid sensibility. Her own daughters had chafed under the household rules, but the rules were the rules, and Sally would not have them be broken. She'd taped up a laminated list at the reference desk in the library. No running, no shouting, no gathering in groups, no pets, no bare feet, no crying when you didn't get the book you most wanted to read. She didn't blame the children for avoiding her, preferring Jet or Miss Hardwick. She had turned away from the world and its sorrows and there were times when she walked past a mirror and could have sworn she saw the image of her aunt Franny rather than her own. Those cold gray eyes; that frown. Surely, she had inherited Frances Owens's no-nonsense attitude; she was curt and didn't easily suffer fools. She sometimes heard Franny's voice inside her head, or worse, she heard herself speaking phrases Franny had long ago imparted to her, blunt advice that pulled no punches. Courage or caution? Why on earth would you want to be normal? What fun would that be?

When their parents had died, and Sally and Gillian had come to the house on Magnolia Street, they'd both been terrified of Franny, intimidated by her wild hair and her red boots and her freckled complexion and her clipped conversation, and they'd secretly called her the mean aunt. But when Sally wept in bed at night, it was Franny who came upstairs to sit beside her. She didn't offer silly, meaningless words of comfort, but instead stroked Sally's long, dark hair and told her that in the morning they would have chocolate cake for breakfast, and they always did.

Although Sally considered herself to be a logical woman, she knew there was more to this world than could be seen with the naked eye. Ever since childhood she'd been convinced that a dark brand of bad luck followed at her heels, a wicked spell she couldn't diffuse, not with sage or garlic or salt. It was after her, there was no doubt about it. The Owens curse stalked her even though she was determined to avoid magic. Oh, she had tried, but no matter how ordinary her life might be, the curse hung on as if it were an obstinate dog that refused to loosen its bite even when she tried to shake it off. Now, as Sally and Jet walked through town, Sally realized that a little dog was, indeed, pursuing them, as though it had read her mind, validating her theory that a hex and a wild dog were equally difficult to be rid of. The one following them was a scraggly white thing with sharp black eyes. Sally soon recognized it as the stray that had been hanging around trash barrels behind the library for several days, one wily enough to escape every time animal control was called in.

\\\"I can't seem to catch that dog,\\\" Sally said. Now that her girls were grown, with Kylie a sophomore and Antonia in her second year of medical school, both at Harvard, and with Antonia pregnant, nearly a mother herself, Sally often stayed at the library after hours. What was the point of leaving? She would have preferred to eat a sandwich at her desk and would likely have forgotten to come home entirely, choosing to work through the night, had Jet not come for her at the end of the day.

\\\"I think it's Daisy,\\\" Jet said thoughtfully as she observed the dog.

Once you knew that death was walking alongside you, things came into focus, as they now did for Jet. With only seven days left she had best pay attention to every detail. She had already taken note that the lines on her right palm, showing the fate that she'd been given, and those on the left hand, the fate she had made for herself, were exactly the same; they had converged, as they always do at the end of a life. Jet's gift of the sight had intensified. She could envision the dog's heart beating under its tangled fur, just as she saw the slow unfolding of black leaves on the last surviving elm trees in Essex County. The Reverend Willard had owned a dog resembling this one before he'd been forced into residing at the retirement home on Endicott Street. The Willards and the Owenses were all descendants of a witch-finder and a witch, John Hathorne and Maria Owens on the Owens' side, and a granddaughter of Hathorne and a relation of John Proctor, hanged as a witch when he tried to protect an innocent woman brought to trial, on the Willards' side. Although there had been centuries of distrust, Jet had managed to change that after her beloved Levi Willard's death when she knocked at the Reverend's door, refusing to allow him to turn her away until they set the situation right. The Reverend had passed his hundredth birthday and could no longer care for himself, let alone a dog, and it was said that his little Maltese had run off and was now dodging around town, eating from garbage cans, sleeping on porches, begging for food from children exiting the school bus. Wary, the dog ducked beneath the thickets, but Jet stopped and waved cheerfully. \\\"Come here, Daisy,\\\" she called. \\\"I think she belongs to the Reverend.\\\"

\\\"You don't want a dog,\\\" Sally reminded her aunt. \\\"You're a cat person.\\\"

True enough. Jet had had a series of adored black cats when she was younger, all named for birds, including Magpie and Goose and Crow. Yet when Daisy, if indeed it was she, began to approach, Jet felt something prick her heart. She bent to pick up the dog and when she held it she could feel its jumpy heartbeat next to her own. She remembered being told that you didn't choose a familiar, it chose you. In truth, Jet felt comforted by Daisy's presence. Life of any sort was marvelous. She saw that now.

\\\"Are you sure?\\\" Jet murmured to the dog. She had only a few days left, after all, and couldn't pledge to oversee Daisy's future. All the same, the Reverend's dog settled in against her, clearly pleased to be carried along, although it didn't make eye contact. That was curious. A familiar saw inside you. It was then Jet realized she was only a temporary caretaker. Daisy was meant for someone else.

\\\"Here we go.\\\" Sally's tone was gloomy. She had no patience for anything these days. Although she looked far younger than her age, likely due to the miraculous black soap the Owenses had concocted from a family recipe since the 1600s, when it had been useful in treating those infected with the plague in a time when simply washing one's hands made a world of difference, with ingredients that were disinfectants, including rosemary, lavender, and mint. Sally distrusted the world, an attitude that aged a person beyond her years. Soap couldn't fix that. \\\"One thing will lead to another,\\\" Sally told her aunt, \\\"and the end result will likely be fleas.\\\"

Jet patted the dog and didn't argue. She had always loved the month of March, though it was wild and unpredictable, evoking hope as the wintry brown world began to flourish. Jet felt extremely grateful to experience it this one last time. Everything was greening and the hedges had a fresh, peppery scent. There was a chill in the blue air, yet daffodils were pushing up through the damp, black earth, and in the Owenses' garden they had already bloomed. Oh, what a beautiful, unexpected world this was.

\\\"Be prepared. Franny will have a fit if you bring a dog home,\\\" Sally continued to warn her aunt as they walked along past the Black Rabbit Inn. Tonight the special was chicken pot pie, but most of the regulars were concentrating on whiskey. A fiddler was playing enthusiastically in the bar. It was the kind of rousing, rowdy song Gary would have liked. Once he'd moved to Massachusetts, he'd missed the desert where he'd grown up, and the untamed country he'd known. He enjoyed standing outside with Sally before they went to bed to gaze at the stars and point out constellations, even in the dead of winter. Gary had never believed in curses or bad luck, and he'd considered fairy tales to be stories for children. Sally had loved his fearless attitude and the way he'd made her feel so safe, even though she knew that the world was, and always had been, a dangerous place. What was wicked grew with the ferocity of the bramble; cut it down, and it rose up again with even deeper roots.

Now, on the way home, Sally linked an arm through Jet's. She always softened when in the presence of her aunt Jet, who was the most kindhearted among them. Gillian had voiced a hunch that there must be an irregularity in Jet's DNA, and some unexpected genes had rendered her a huge heart, absent in most of their relations. Gillian should know; she worked in a lab at MIT researching genetics, a subject that had come to obsess her. She was convinced that somewhere in their past there had been an ancestor who had been as kind as their aunt, perhaps the same person from whom Jet had inherited her striking good looks.

Warmer weather was predicted for the rest of the week, and Jet's seven days marked the start of a season that was always a delight in Massachusetts. All through the long winter people waited for a sign for the first surge of spring. The green bark of a lilac. The murmur of a dove in the yard. While there was still a scrim of ice on Leech Lake, people came down with spring fever that made them act as if they were young again; they took risks, they stayed out late, they fell in love unexpectedly. This was the month when teams began to play softball in the high school field and music flooded out from open windows as children practiced scales at pianos that had been ignored all winter long. There was an extra hour of daylight, so glorious and so needed after the many months of darkness.

Jet could hear the hum of the first of the season's bees as they neared the house on Magnolia Street with its black shutters and tilted roof slates and dozens of windows made of old, wavering green glass. She came to a halt when they turned a corner, well aware that people had long believed that whenever bees swarmed outside a house, a resident was sure to die. Hundreds were now circling the porch in a buzzing whirlwind of yellow. There was Franny, out in the chilly dusk without a coat, a broom in her hands, doing her best to bat them away.

\\\"You're going to be stung!\\\" Sally called to her tall, fearsome aunt who had always shone with a beauty all her own. Franny Owens was in her eighties but her hair had a red tone, and although people whispered she had it dyed in a salon in Boston or magicked away the gray with a mixture of blood and potent herbs, all it took to keep the color was a rinse of madder root every once in a while.

Jet set down the dog and went directly to her sister. \\\"We need the bees,\\\" Jet said in a no-nonsense voice. She pried the broom from Franny's hands and let it drop to the ground. \\\"Franny, that's enough.\\\"

The sisters gazed into one another's eyes. They'd always been able to read each other but now Franny was baffled by what she saw. She glimpsed herself in the future, there in their garden alone, and then, with a quickening breath, she understood.

\\\"No,\\\" she said.

This is how it happened, on an ordinary night when Franny had planned to read a book after supper, she had Virginia Woolf's The Waves on her night table, then go early to bed. She had assumed life would remain as it was, with nothing daring to change, but all at once it had become an anguished night of bees, of a mad swarm around them, of her sister already wrested away from her, gazing into the world to come that was written in the constellations spinning above them. There was the Winter Triangle, which would fade away by the end of the month, as it always did at this time of year. Franny understood this was how loss began. She had been here before, but then, like anyone else, she had forgotten this is what happened, that things ended when you least expected them to, that you could not protect those you loved from nature and fate.

Sally had come up beside her aunts. She would likely have to call the exterminator in the morning, for once bees got into a house they might just decide to stay there and then honey would be dripping through the ceiling and down the walls. In the garden, the sprouting herbs were already letting off clouds of scent: marjoram, lavender, rosemary. There was always plenty of Spanish garlic, traditional to harvest in great abundance. There was chickweed, and feverfew, and juniper with the last of its berries. The dog was sniffing around, making itself at home.

\\\"Did you see what we picked up on the way home?\\\" Sally asked Franny. When her aunt looked blank, Sally laughed. Franny did have a way of ignoring the townspeople, as did she, and she'd likely never noticed the dog before. \\\"Daisy. The Reverend's dog?\\\"

\\\"To hell with the Reverend's dog,\\\" Franny said, turning to stalk past the plumy weeds on her way into the rear of the garden where they kept a beehive. It was empty. When she tapped on the sides it rattled and then Franny knew. Their very own bees had announced the death to come. There was no denying what would happen. One of their family. One of their own.

\\\"I told you she wouldn't be happy about this.\\\" Sally glared at the dog, but Jet was no longer beside her. She had gone after her sister, her dear Franny, who was as different from her as night was from day, but whom she had always loved beyond all reason.

On the first day of her last week on earth, Jet went to New York, taking the train from Boston's South Station. Because it was a lovely afternoon when she arrived in Manhattan, she walked uptown to the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Ninth Street. She'd brought Daisy along, tucked into a shoulder bag on the train, now leashed and free to gleefully smell the scents that greeted her when they left Penn Station. Jet had made this trip once a month for the past sixty years, and the older employees who worked at the hotel always recognized her and were happy to greet her. When she'd first come here, the Oak Room had refused to serve women at lunch, but that all changed in 1969 when Betty Friedan and fifteen other members of National Organization for Women decided enough was enough and refused to leave. For years afterward, Jet would frequent the Oak Bar, lingering until it was time to go upstairs for the one night she waited for all month long.

When she walked in with the dog under her arm, no one behind the desk asked any questions. They never had. She was always without a suitcase, and simply packed a nightgown, some undergarments, and a change of clothes into her purse. This time she had brought along a tote bag containing dog food. She always paid cash.

More than six decades earlier, Jet had been a bewitching, dark-haired girl who had registered at this very hotel in order to do away with herself. She had lost her first love, Levi, the Reverend's son, in a car accident that seemed triggered by the curse, a horrific collision that had claimed her parents' lives as well. She'd seen no reason to go on and was certain that the world no longer was a place in which she wished to reside.

Her fate changed when a young bellman noticed she had checked into the Plaza without a suitcase. People without luggage most often had one of two things in mind: an affair or suicide, although occasionally there was a third possibility when a novelist arrived, desperate for inspiration, and always asking for the cheapest room. Rafael Correa was the bellman who had noticed Jet. He had stopped her, begging her to reconsider her plans and have room service with him instead. Jet told him from the start she would never belong to him; she mentioned a curse, but he was head over heels after their first encounter, and he didn't argue. When you save someone's life, they belong to you, no matter what they might say.

This time Jet had reserved the room for two nights. If she didn't do as she pleased this week, when would she ever? The one good thing about her death to come was that the curse could no longer claim the man she loved. She had taken a suite, damn the expense, and for two nights and days they could pretend they lived together, or maybe it wasn't pretense, maybe this was the realest time they had ever known.

Rafael had been a principal of a high school in Queens and since his retirement he had tutored ESL students in his neighborhood. He had a wide social circle, but he went home alone every night. Despite his friends' concerns about the solitary life he led, Rafael never married. He'd wanted more, but it wasn't possible, and in many ways they were more fortunate than most. They never quarreled and any disagreements were brief; they wanted to make the best of the time they had together and use it wisely. But when Rafael arrived at the Plaza, his instinct that there was bad news kicked in, left over from his years as a principal. For one thing, Jet had brought a stray dog along, a white scruffy pup who sat at Rafael's feet when he took off his shoes, staring into his eyes as if he were a long-lost friend.

\\\"She'll cheer you up,\\\" Jet said.

\\\"All I need is you,\\\" Rafael said mournfully, sensing that something wasn't right.

Jet sat down beside him and took his hand. For all these years she had been protecting Rafael every time she claimed she didn't love him, but now Jet told him the truth. She had loved him and only him.

\\\"I know,\\\" Rafael assured her.

\\\"And that's why Daisy is here. She'll be a companion.\\\"

That was when he'd known something terrible and unbreakable was about to befall them. They considered getting married that afternoon, since the curse could no longer do them any harm, but in the end they decided they didn't need a witness to their love. Instead, they did things any couple might have done on an ordinary day. That was what Jet wanted most. To be just another couple on the streets of New York. Oh, she knew it wasn't really possible, it never had been, but during this last time they spent together, she wanted them to be people who weren't afraid of love, who believed that the future belonged to them.

The next morning they walked through Central Park to Belvedere Castle, with Daisy tugging at her leash. From the height of the castle's craggy ledge they observed the greening canopy below. The sky turned lemon-colored, and they huddled in the castle during a quick blast of rain. Then they went arm in arm to the Boathouse for brunch, the dog hidden in Jet's purse and fed bits of toast. Jet went so far as to kiss Rafael in public, curse be damned. After that, they took the subway to Queens so that Jet could see the high school in Forest Hills where Rafael had worked. He'd had a life without her, he'd made a world for himself as a teacher and as a man, but on the train back into Manhattan she could see how lonely he would be once she was gone.

In the evening, they left the dog at the hotel and took a taxi to Waverly Place, where they sat holding hands at the best Italian restaurant in the Village. When they could eat and drink no more, they did so anyway, and ordered the famous olive oil cake with gelato. There was a mackerel sky dotted with clouds as they walked down Greenwich Avenue to number 44, the small townhouse where Jet had lived with Franny and their much-loved brother Vincent when they were young and anything seemed possible. The literary agent who'd had an office there after they'd moved out was now sadly gone, but there were still scraggly lilacs in the tiny yard. Jet closed her eyes and remembered everything. Her room on the third floor where she read so many novels, including Wuthering Heights, which she devoured three times over, Franny sitting at the kitchen table sorting out how to pay the bills when she was all of nineteen, Vincent playing guitar in his room, his reedy voice echoing.

When Jet and Rafael looked at each other in bed, they saw one another as they had been when they were young and beautiful, both with dark hair and flushed olive skin. Perhaps this was why they were still burning for each other. Or perhaps it was that the last time is beautiful and somber when it's finally understood every instant counts.

Whenever they were together, Jet thought of their first time, when she was certain that she'd lost everything and that life wasn't worth living. Each time Jet encountered young women crying in the library, or on the porch of the house on Magnolia Street, convinced there was no point in going on, she always told them that you never knew who might walk through the door. Fate worked that way. Some of what was to come was fixed, true enough, as shown in the lines on your right hand. But the lines on your left hand changed, day by day, for that was the fate you made for yourself.

When it was time to leave, Jet couldn't bring herself to wake Rafael. She wished she could stay all week, but if she remained with him for too long her heart would break; it was breaking already. She watched him sleep for a few moments, grateful to have known love despite the curse. She wasn't normal, she never could be, but Rafael hadn't seemed to mind. She left a note on the bedside table, a quote from her favorite poet. Rafael would understand. He always had. They would never be parted.

Unable are the Loved to die

For Love is Immortality.

On the train back to Boston, Daisy sat on Jet's lap and gazed out the window as they passed through the pale green marshes in Connecticut. \\\"Service dog,\\\" Jet told the conductor, and who would argue with such a dear, old lady who appeared to be crying black tears, the tears that witches cry no matter that lore says they have no hearts and are incapable of love. There were osprey nests on the tallest utility poles and one huge bird with a wingspan of five feet swooped over the lowering tide in search of fish. Tall tawny grass was growing in the rivulets, and the clouds reflected in the water. Had there ever been a marsh as beautiful? Everything you did for the last time was a miracle, no matter how ordinary. Jet had been beside Rafael while he brushed his teeth, she had taken the subway with him to Queens, she had seen the way he looked at her, as if nothing else mattered. This is the way their real life might have been if she hadn't been forced to keep vigil over the curse.

\\\"You don't have to worry about the curse anymore,\\\" she'd reassured him as they'd walked along the landscape of their past, so that it almost seemed as if they were young again and had all the time in the world.

\\\"I was never worried,\\\" Rafael told her. \\\"I've been lucky and I know it.\\\"

Franny came in from the garden with a basket of fresh parsley and mint. She stopped when she saw that her sister had returned. She could see an ashy shadow around Jet, visible only if you knew what death looked like, if you dared to peer into a black mirror and see the future of those you loved most. It was the evening of the second day and by tomorrow the color of the shadow would be more ink than ash.

\\\"Back at last,\\\" Franny said crisply. Her heart was breaking, but what good would it do to let it show?

\\\"Here I am,\\\" Jet replied. \\\"Yours for the next five days.\\\"

Mine alone, Franny thought. Beautiful, darling, dear sister. \\\"Then we should make supper,\\\" she said. We should make the most of every minute we have.

They spent nearly every moment together during the next few days, linked in thought and deed, as sisters often are. Who can you trust if not your sister? Who knows your story better than she? If you saw one Owens sister at the grocery, the other would be right beside her. If one was working in the garden, making certain the rows of herbs were weeded, her sister would be there as well, carrying a basket to collect the dandelion greens. When Jet went to visit Reverend Willard at the retirement home, Franny tagged along, even though she was the least social creature in town and had certainly never visited anyone there before. Daisy was with them, and no one at the retirement home considered giving them any trouble concerning a canine visitor, knowing if they did they'd have Franny to deal with, who had already cast a domination spell in the entry hall to ensure that people on the premises would bend to her will.

The Reverend had performed the marriage ceremony for Franny and her beloved Haylin Walker soon after Haylin was diagnosed with cancer, and due to that kindness, Franny had made allowances for the way he'd treated Jet when she was a girl, which, in point of fact, had been all but unforgivable. But forgiveness was one thing, a social call was another, and Franny simply couldn't fathom holding a cheerful conversation wedged in between emergency alerts going off for failing residents and Reverend Willard's labored breathing, for spring always affected his asthma. Franny remained on the threshold while Jet went to sit at the Reverend's bedside. That was as social as Franny got. She pursed her lips as she gazed at Reverend Willard. Things didn't look good for the old man and he had been despondent for some time. Once you are over a hundred you stop counting days. Once you've lost your son you glimpse death everywhere. All the same the Reverend let out a whoop when Daisy jumped onto his bed.

\\\"Here's my girl.\\\" He patted the dog, wholly absorbed, turning to Jet only when she politely coughed. \\\"And my other girl!\\\"

\\\"She's a grown woman.\\\" Franny reminded the Reverend, still not venturing any farther than the doorway. \\\"An old one at that.\\\" One who was spending precious time with a man who had made her life miserable long ago, but that was clearly water under the bridge to everyone but Franny. The Reverend hadn't wanted his son to have any dealings with an Owens girl because of her family, but he'd realized he'd been a bigot and over these many years he'd come to think of Jet as a daughter. Today she looked sadder than usual.

\\\"Am I dying?\\\" he asked her. They had loved the same person, that was their lasting bond.

\\\"Not yet,\\\" Jet told him. \\\"It's me this time.\\\"

\\\"So, you won't be coming to visit anymore?\\\" The Reverend was struck by emotion, his eyes and nose running.

\\\"No.\\\" Jet smiled at him with tenderness. \\\"That will be Franny from now on.\\\"

\\\"What!\\\" Franny said sharply. She'd only been half listening, but she'd paid attention when she heard her sister's remark. \\\"Not me. I'm not one for social calls.\\\"

\\\"Then one of my grand-nieces will come,\\\" Jet reassured the Reverend. \\\"Kylie or Antonia. Someone will always look in on you. And don't worry about Daisy. I've found her the perfect home.\\\"

As Jet was leaving, Reverend Willard seized her hand. \\\"Make sure it's not your sister.\\\" He spoke in a low voice, eyeing the fearsome figure at the door who was gesturing for Jet to hurry. Jet ignored Franny rushing her and took her time. Why not? She had grown to love this old man who, if fate had taken a different route, would have been her father-in-law.

\\\"It won't be,\\\" she promised.

\\\"Whoever it is, she won't be as good as you.\\\"

Franny looped her arm through her sister's as they were leaving. The world was still beautiful and they stood in the front yard of the retirement home while Daisy nosed around. There were old people sitting on wooden benches, gazing at the pink-tinged sky. \\\"Did you ever imagine you'd forgive him?\\\" Franny asked, remembering how the Reverend had made Jet's and Levi's lives intolerable when he flatly refused to allow his son to see her. He'd been a fool who judged Jet by her family's history of witchery.

\\\"I still can't forgive myself.\\\" Levi had loved her and she had brought the curse to him. \\\"Forgiveness is the most difficult undertaking.\\\"

\\\"I forgave you for being the better sister,\\\" Franny said bluntly.

\\\"Nonsense,\\\" Jet said, and because she didn't have all the time in the world, she threw her arms around her sister even though Franny was always uncomfortable in an embrace. \\\"Dear sister, that was always you.\\\"

On the fourth day, Jet and Franny went out to the greenhouse to read through the Grimoire, the thick book that was the repository of the family's magical knowledge. Their treasured Grimoire had been created in Essex, England, by Maria Owens's adopted mother, Hannah, a birthday gift when Maria was ten, old enough to study magic. The cover was the cool green-black skin of some strange leather that was said to be toad skin, a material that was both delicate and strong. Maria's original cures and spells could be found in these pages, learned in England and Curaçao, and it was here in this book that the original curse had been written down years after it had been set when Maria stood upon the gallows, having been judged to be a witch by the man she imagined she loved. There were also several pages written by Maria's daughter, Faith, who had assisted her mother in opening the library and a well-respected girls' school, thanks to the most loyal wealthy patron, Thomas Brattle, the treasurer of Harvard College who had helped to thwart the witchcraft trials, publicly refuting Cotton Mather's unprovable beliefs in spectral evidence, calling the entire episode a delusion, a man who was also rumored to be the father of Faith's two little girls, Avis and Violet.

The women in the following generations had added to the family's knowledge, including their cherished aunt Isabelle, who had invited Franny and Jet to Magnolia Street when they had no idea who they were. They'd been kept in the dark by their mother, Susannah, who had abandoned the family and its history when she was little more than a girl. The most recent pages in the Grimoire had been written over a period of fifty years by Franny and Jet, and there were remedies and enchantments Gillian had added, even though Gillian had always had less talent for magic than the others and had been mortified by her lack of skill. She was frankly jealous that magic had come to Sally so naturally, when Sally clearly had no use for such things and only craved to be normal. Sally had never written a word in the Grimoire. \\\"I'm not interested,\\\" she always said when the topic of magic was broached. \\\"I've got better things to do.\\\"

Stored beside the book was the black mirror Jet and Franny had been shown during their first summer on Magnolia Street. It was possible to see the future in this mirror, if you dared. You'd know if you had the sight when the mirror was presented; you'd see your future in bits and pieces and begin to unravel the story of your life. But stories change, depending on who tells them, and stories are nothing if you don't have someone to tell them to. Fortunately, they'd had each other. When they put the book away, they held hands and listened to the riotous birdsong in the trees. How lucky to have a sister.

They had a brother as well, one they loved dearly, the darling of their family, wild and talented, the sort of man who could do no harm and dared to fall in love when everything in their history told him he should not. That evening Jet wrote a letter to Vincent, who had disappeared after being called up to fight in Vietnam. He had managed to avoid the curse with a false death, tricking fate and setting off with his beloved William to a life that couldn't be shared with his family. Jet kept a photograph of Vincent in her bedside table drawer, along with her treasured packet of letters from Rafael. She took out her best stationery and a pen with red ink that made the white paper flush the color of roses.

Darling boy, Jet began, we have missed you every day. Whenever you can come home, do.

She addressed the letter to Vincent's great friend Agnes Durant, in Paris, then slipped the key to the house on Magnolia Street into the envelope. She and Franny walked through the gusty night to the post office, where the letter was sent off in the mailbox.

\\\"Unlikely he'll get the letter,\\\" Franny chimed in. She had written to Vincent several times and had never heard a word in return, although every year she received a card from Agnes with a bright greeting-All is fine here in France-which she supposed meant Vincent was well.

\\\"I don't know about that,\\\" Jet responded. \\\"He could always find anything. He had that talent.\\\"

\\\"When he wanted to use it,\\\" Franny sniffed. Her brother's absence still pained her. \\\"He never found us.\\\"

\\\"He couldn't, darling,\\\" Jet said. \\\"There was the curse. He had William to think of.\\\"

On the fifth day, after Sally had gone off to the library, Jet turned on the porch light and threw open the door. When the news got out that Jet was available to her neighbors, a line formed along the path and down the street. People wanted cures for rashes and indigestion, enchantments for runaway daughters and for sons who had made a wrong turn, tinctures for forgetfulness and for mean-spirited husbands, and, as always, they came for love. Jet was so busy that she enlisted Franny, who grumbled but set about gathering ingredients from the garden: leaves from their ginkgo tree, one of the oldest varieties on earth, for anxiety; turmeric as an anti-inflammatory; primrose, whose essence would be pressed into an oil that helped skin conditions and lifted the spirits; echinacea, best for the common cold; lavender, to bring wayward children home. In tall glass jars in the pantry there was mandrake, belladonna, mushrooms of all sorts, blue beads, black feathers, apple seeds, the hollow bones of birds, dove's hearts. The rush lasted until five, and by the time it was through most of the daffodils had been trampled by people who wanted to make certain they got their turn bringing their problems to Jet. Before Sally arrived home to chastise them for practicing magic, Franny chased the last of the visitors from the path and once they were gone, she switched off the light. She agreed with Sally; let the porch light be turned down forevermore.

Jet sat at the table, exhausted, in need herself of a cup of Courage Tea.

\\\"I hope you're happy,\\\" Franny said. \\\"Half the neighborhood has been here today.\\\"

Jet smiled and poured more tea. She was, indeed, happy, and because Franny couldn't fight that, she had a cup of tea as well, for courage was what they both needed now.

On the sixth day, the aunts fell silent, in a haze of disbelief. The future was less than forty-eight hours away. Still, no one had ever called them lazy, and they made good use of their time, setting about cleaning the house, which, frankly, had not been seen to for some time, so that the woodwork and drapes were dusty and the carpets had to be taken out to the porch and beaten with a broom. It was traditional to do so after a death, to prepare for the mourners and clear out anything the deceased might wish to keep private, but knowing what they knew, they had the opportunity to complete the task together before the funeral. They covered the mirrors and opened the windows to let in fresh air. Sparrows were nesting in the shrubbery and buds had appeared on the magnolias that lined the street. The sisters packed up Jet's clothing and her collection of novels, along with the batch of letters Levi had sent her when she was a girl, mostly concerning how they might manage to meet without the Reverend catching on. There was another correspondence that Jet treasured, letters tied up with blue ribbon. These were Rafael's. She gazed at them, on the brink of tears.

\\\"His?\\\" Franny said. She'd never questioned Jet about her love life. Still, she'd been curious.

Jet nodded. She thought about what might have happened if Rafael hadn't taken a part-time job as a bellman while he was going to college. \\\"Life is luck.\\\"

\\\"That it is,\\\" Franny agreed.

When they were through with the house, and the woodwork shone and the cobwebs were all swept away with a broom, they had a picnic lunch that included splurging on all of their favorite childhood foods which were too rich for them now: jam sandwiches, scones with lavender honey, cheese and chive biscuits, sliced apples with cream. Later, they walked to the cemetery where Jet wrote out a check, the final payment for the plot beside Levi Willard, whom she had loved when she was so young and hadn't any idea of what love meant. Then they went out grocery shopping for the ingredients they needed. In the morning, when Sally came into the kitchen, ready to head to the library, her aunts were baking a Chocolate Tipsy Cake, a family tradition for birthdays, weddings, and funerals ever since Maria Owens's time.

\\\"Do you know how many calories are in that?\\\" Sally said. All the same, she sat down at the table and ate the leftover batter with a spoon. \\\"What are we celebrating?\\\" she asked.

Sally looked exhausted, with dark bluish circles under her eyes. She worked too much and she hadn't conditioned her hair for ages, but she was still beautiful and, in the aunts' eyes, still their little girl.

\\\"If you can't eat chocolate cake for breakfast, what is the point of being alive?\\\" Franny said.

On the morning of the seventh day, when the ashy circle around Jet closed so that she was surrounded by a black aura and time was running out, they did exactly that. For reasons Sally could never explain to herself, nor understand, she joined her aunts at the breakfast table, and instead of her usual yogurt and blueberries, she had the biggest slice of all.

Jet insisted they all have dinner in the taproom at the Black Rabbit Inn that evening. She'd already phoned Gillian, who would fetch Kylie and Antonia and drive them up from Cambridge. Jet had made reservations as well, the rear table, far away from the fiddler who played there after six, whose mother had often come to them for a success elixir for her son, though, due to the level of his talent, there was none to be had.

\\\"Are you certain you want them all here on the seventh day?\\\" Franny asked with concern.

\\\"They'll need to be here on the eighth day, won't they? I don't want you to have to handle everything alone.\\\"

Franny had little choice but to agree. She couldn't yet bring herself to think about the eighth day and a world without Jet. Perhaps just this one time, she might need help dealing with what was to come. Although the Black Rabbit certainly would not have been her choice for a last supper; she couldn't stand the cheerful dining room, with its red-checked tablecloths and a menu of second-rate New England food: boiled potatoes, baked cod, macaroni and cheese, always burned on top, along with salads that included only shredded iceberg lettuce, and all manner of puddings for dessert, the specialty being something called cheesecake upside-down, which the kitchen had been serving to mixed reviews for more than a hundred years.

At the close of the afternoon, before the others arrived, Jet grabbed her spring coat and set out for the library.

\\\"Where do you think you're going?\\\" Franny wanted to know. The truth was she didn't wish to let her sister out of her sight. The deathwatch beetle had situated itself in the linen closet on the second floor and its clacking was louder all the time. Franny had used bug spray and set out traps laced with sugar with no success. When it came down to it, she knew this was one insect it was impossible to be rid of.

\\\"What I want most is for this to be an ordinary day,\\\" Jet explained. \\\"On an ordinary day I'd go get Sally to be certain she left the library at a decent hour.\\\"

\\\"Fine. But be at the inn by five. I'll bring the girls. Don't leave me stranded there.\\\"

Time was everything, and there was so little of it. Jet walked the long way around, stopping at the cemetery to visit Levi Willard, bringing a bunch of daffodils from the garden, yellow with orange centers dotted with inky black marks. She lay down in the grass next to his headstone and looked up at a sky clotted with clouds. She was beginning to say good-bye to the world, to all the things she loved, grass and sky, the lanes in town that were so shady and green, the library where she and Franny and Vincent would go on sultry days during their first summer in town. When she arrived, Sally was still working even though it was nearly five and they certainly didn't want to keep Franny waiting at the inn.

\\\"I need fifteen minutes to close up,\\\" Sally called when Jet came through the door. Sally was in a hurry, as always, but something made her stop and gaze into Jet's eyes. They seemed darker than usual, the pale gray flecked with black. Dear Jet, whose love and good heart were constant, appeared to be quite exhausted. \\\"Are you all right?\\\" Sally smoothed down her aunt's hair. \\\"Is that mud on your shoes?\\\"

\\\"I've been for a walk in the cemetery.\\\" On Jet's last night in the world she saw everything with clear eyes, including her beloved niece. How kindhearted Sally was. How vulnerable beneath all that bluster. Sally had been the one who had found the aunts listed in their mother's phone book, and had called clear across the country to inform them that she and Gillian would be coming to stay. Their aunts had loved them beyond measure ever since.

Sally narrowed her eyes, wondering if Jet was trying to pull a fast one. She had always been wary, certain that Jet wasn't exactly what she seemed to be. Once, in the year when she'd turned thirteen, Sally had gone so far as to follow Jet into Manhattan, breaking into a run to catch up with her outside Penn Station. Jet had surprised her by being furious.

\\\"I want one day a month to myself,\\\" Jet had said as they stood on Eighth Avenue, nearly deafened by the roar of the traffic. \\\"If I want to go to a museum or take a walk in Central Park, it's no one's business but my own.\\\"

Sally had been embarrassed and had quickly apologized. They'd gone to a coffee shop where Sally had been treated to an ice-cream soda, then she had taken the train home, leaving Jet to do as she pleased. But Sally had the sight, and she knew there was more to the story, then and now. She so rarely used her bloodline talents, that the sight came to her in little sparks, almost as if she'd had a slight electric shock. She blinked and took a step closer to her aunt. There was the scent of smoke and the ceiling above them was shadowed with a black smudge. Could it be that the room needed to be repainted? Hadn't they had the Merrill brothers do so only two years earlier?

\\\"There's something you're not telling me,\\\" Sally mused.

\\\"Gillian and the girls are joining us for the evening,\\\" Jet explained. \\\"Isn't that a lovely surprise?\\\"

\\\"Why didn't you mention it this morning? I have nothing to serve for dinner other than canned soup!\\\" Antonia was such a picky eater now that she was pregnant and Kylie was a vegetarian, and lately Sally and the aunts had mostly eaten pasta and tomato soup, quick easy meals that took no care or thought.

\\\"We're meeting Franny and having dinner at the inn.\\\"

\\\"Franny loathes the inn,\\\" Sally said, even more suspicious.

\\\"We want it to be a special night,\\\" Jet explained. \\\"We'll all be together.\\\"

\\\"Well, then, the inn it is,\\\" Sally agreed.

While Sally saw to her end of the day's duties, Jet sat down and observed the room. She took in everything she usually would have ignored: the skittering sound of mice beneath the floorboards, the clock ticking off seconds, the wind hitting against the cloudy windows. There were fingerprints on the glass cases of the rare books, and the ceiling fan spun in a cockeyed circle. She noticed that the hems of the curtains that were original to the library were decorated with an intricate pattern of moons in every phase. Funny how she'd never seen that before; she'd never looked deeply enough. Jet gazed around the room, wondering what else she had never noticed, and there it was. The bricks directly beneath Maria's framed journal page were not fitted properly. The mortar was a dark crimson. Jet crossed the room so she might place a hand on the wall. You can live a whole lifetime without knowing what was right in front of you. Seeing has little to do with opening your eyes; it's what you feel inside that counts, it's what you know without anyone telling you.

Behind the bricks there was a steady rhythm, the pulse of a book that had been hidden for more than three hundred years. Jet loosened one of the bricks by scraping a pen against mortar. She wriggled the brick back and forth until it gave way and could be pried loose. The space behind the wall was dank and icy cold. It appeared to be empty until Jet reached her hand inside. A shiver ran through her as she brought forth a small black book. The Book of the Raven.

Maria Owens might have rid the world of this slim volume, for it had nearly ruined her daughter Faith's life, but to destroy a book seemed an unnatural act, especially one written by a woman of great talent and skill. Instead of burning it, Maria had come here to the library, then set to work hiding The Book of the Raven, a dark spell book that had brought her daughter to the left-handed side of magic long ago. She'd deposited this Grimoire behind the loose bricks, mixing in three drops of her blood to seal the mortar, well aware that some things should stay hidden until they were meant to be found, for the knowledge this book held was so dark it was intended for a reader who possessed the ability to handle its power. Maria had just had a child with the man she loved and was in no position to use The Book of the Raven. In time, however, an Owens woman would discover the book, and use it as it should be used, with love and courage.

This was that time. The seventh day. Jet's last day on earth.

When she reached for the book, the binding scalded her fingertips. She could feel the darkness within the text. She knew left-handed magic when she saw it, black magic so perilous that every page was inflamed. She thought of the time her brother, Vincent, had discovered The Magus, a compilation of the history of magic first published in 1801. The Magus had shaken the bureau drawer whenever it was locked away, as if it had a life and a mind of its own. At the turn of the century it had been deemed so fearsome that copies had been burned on bonfires in Washington Square.

The Book of the Raven had been written by the first woman to publish a book in England, Amelia Bassano. Salve Deus Rex Judaeorum, her volume of poems, had been written from a woman's point of view, defending Eve, thought to have caused sin in the mortal world. Bassano had gone largely unrecognized due to her gender, but that hadn't stopped her from writing. Jet had now rediscovered this second book no one but its users knew about, Amelia Bassano's private Grimoire, an ode to the Dark Art sometimes referred to as a Book of Shadows. It was a volume made up of equal parts love and revenge, meant to help a woman in need, a woman who'd been cursed, who was in love, who was desperate, who was at the end of her life and the end of her rope. On the very first page Un desiderio was written in pale blue ink. One wish. That was what the book promised to grant its reader.

Amelia Bassano was the daughter of a Jew from Venice, from a family of musicians who had lived on the outskirts of power, attached to the court of England, where she learned more than most educated men about politics and falconry and music and myth. At the age of thirteen she'd been a mistress to Lord Hunsdon, the Queen's patron of the theater, said to be Anne Boleyn's son, and she was said to have had an affair with Christopher Marlowe, who had taught her the art of writing for the theater. Language was everything. Trust was for fools. Love came and went. Words could be stolen. There were those who said she was the Dark Lady William Shakespeare wrote about and that it was she who taught him to write plays. There had always been rumors that he had loved her, but in this book she claimed even more. She had not only taught him how to write, she had written the plays.

The last chapter of The Book of the Raven was titled \\\"How to End a Curse.\\\"

I didn't know that what you sent into the world came back to you threefold, and that I would be the one to suffer. To begin a curse is done with ease, to break it takes a great sacrifice.

Everything worthwhile is dangerous.

Jet could hear Sally returning books to the shelves in the travel section; fortunately she was too far away for her to observe Jet slip the slim volume into her coat pocket, then hastily replace the brick in the wall, her hands now stained with blood and mortar. Sally might have seen the abnormality in the wall had she been able to see the color red, but as it was, she was still disconnected from her emotions, and had walked past it daily without a glance. She'd never once noticed what was right in front of her.

Gillian and her nieces drove up from Cambridge, leaving before rush-hour traffic set in. The sky was bright and blue and the magnolias were so spectacular that people from all over the commonwealth came to gawk as soon as the buds began to bloom in creamy cups.

\\\"Home sweet home,\\\" Gillian said when she and Antonia and Kylie unfolded themselves from her black and white Mini, which, considering how huge Antonia was in the seventh month of her pregnancy, could not have fit anything more than the three women and a tray of heirloom tomato seedlings called Blue Zebra that Gillian had brought for her aunt Jet.

Jet had always been especially fond of Gillian, despite the fact that Gilly had been a wild girl who had looked for trouble in her youth, and had made certain to find it. Sally had pulled her back from the brink, and Gillian would always be grateful to her sister.

But that was long ago, and Gillian had learned her lesson. She blushed when recalling her mistakes and all those dreadful men she'd taken up with; she had long ago come to understand she was entitled to kindness and comfort. Gillian had thought she was through with love, until she'd met Ben Frye. He'd been her niece's science teacher, the opposite of the men she'd gone for in the past, steady and earnest and kindhearted. She still laughed to think he'd been attracted to her because of her ability to work complex figures in her head. Halfway through her life, she'd been lucky in love. She'd avoided the curse by following the rules. Don't live together, don't declare your love, no wedding rings, no displays of affection in public. Ben had been puzzled and somewhat hurt by these strange traditions.

\\\"Your aunt Franny didn't hide the fact that she was married,\\\" he reminded her.

Yes, but that was after her beloved Haylin had been diagnosed with stage four cancer, and once there was no cure the curse couldn't touch them.

\\\"And Sally!\\\" Ben had said. \\\"She was married twice.\\\"

And look at her, twice a widow and brokenhearted. And look at me, without a daughter, what I want most in the world.

To do their best to trick the curse, Gillian and Ben had wed simply and quietly at the courthouse and Gillian refused to have their marriage officially recorded. Whether or not they were legally married was up for debate; certainly Gillian refused to wear a ring. They lived in a two-family house in Central Square, where Gillian resided on the ground floor, while Ben took the upstairs apartment. Whenever he asked why they must live separately-neither earned much of a salary-Ben was a science teacher at Cambridge Rindge and Latin School and MIT didn't pay lab technicians a fortune and clearly it would have made more sense to live in one apartment and rent out the other-Gillian asserted that too much togetherness was certain to ruin a relationship, especially in the Owens family. In truth, they spent most nights together, and when they didn't Ben would often spy Gillian out in their small garden, sleepless and shivering, scanning the heavens, as if she might find an answer there in the night sky above them as to how the curse had found her despite her deception.

When she saw Antonia blooming in the last trimester of her pregnancy, her red hair pinned up, her freckled skin rosy and flushed, Gillian felt her heart jolt. Her one wish was to have a daughter, but now that she was forty-three she'd begun to wonder if her inability to have a child was the work of the curse. She had been to infertility specialists at Mass General and when that didn't work, she'd begged the aunts for a cure. Franny and Jet had done their best, attempting any number of traditional botanical remedies. Myrrh, juniper berries, licorice, skullcap, pennyroyal, hemlock, chamomile flowers, unicorn root taken in small doses, butterfly weed, a tea of stinging nettle to strengthen the uterus, motherwort to bolster Gillian's immune system. She had tried red clover and evening primrose oil, and the oddly named chasteberry, along with black cohosh. She ate pomegranates and olive oil, honey and cinnamon, and had even tried the ancient ritual of bringing a toad to sleep in her bed, all to no avail. Now, to explain her brimming eyes as they stood in front of the old house, Gillian told her nieces she was affected by the spring pollen in the air. Antonia and Kylie exchanged a look, for both had read that the pollen count on this day was zero.

Franny was out on the porch waiting, which wasn't at all like her. Usually, she was the last to be ready for anything. \\\"Come in. Come in,\\\" she called.

Antonia held on to Kylie's arm so she wouldn't trip on the bluestone path that led through the falling shadows. \\\"Why do they keep turning off the porch light?\\\" Antonia muttered.

\\\"That's your mother's decision,\\\" Gillian informed them. \\\"No neighbors need come to call.\\\"

\\\"Call for what?\\\" Kylie asked. The family had kept secrets from Kylie and Antonia, at Sally's insistence. To them, magic was little more than a story in a book of fairy tales.

A small dog came out, yapping at them.

\\\"What's going on here?\\\" Antonia wanted to know. \\\"Who is this creature?\\\"

It was explained that Jet was watching over Reverend Willard's dog, and that she had gone to fetch Sally and would meet them at the inn. The tomato seedlings were left in the garden, and they all traipsed into the kitchen, where half a Chocolate Tipsy Cake sat on a platter on the marble counter.

\\\"Why wait for dinner?\\\" Gillian grinned, getting some cake plates from the cabinet. \\\"We can have chocolate cake as an appetizer.\\\"

\\\"I can't eat that,\\\" Antonia scolded. \\\"All that rum? It's much too alcoholic.\\\"

\\\"Sorry.\\\" Gillian felt like a fool. Of course, a pregnant woman couldn't have rum, not the amount that was in this recipe. In many ways Antonia reminded her of Sally, so sure of herself, so logical and matter-of-fact, always wanting clear-cut evidence before she made a decision. \\\"Of course you can't,\\\" Gillian apologized.

\\\"I can,\\\" Kylie said, looping one arm around Gillian's waist. \\\"I'll have her slice, too.\\\"

Dear Kylie, who had grown so tall so fast, reaching her full height by the time she was ten, coming to her aunt Gillian to ask in a small voice if she might be a giant. In fact, she was a true beauty, with long hair that glinted copper in certain slants of light, and gray-green eyes, but she had a nervous disposition and couldn't sit still. She had been a runner in high school and it often seemed as if she might take off at a fast clip at any given moment. Men stopped on the street when they saw her, mouths open, but she never even noticed.

Kylie ate her cake with her fingers, as she had when she was five years old, in heaven from the very first bite. She still considered Chocolate Tipsy Cake to be the best dessert in the world. She wished that Gideon were here with her. He would have probably finished the rest of the cake with ease.

\\\"What are you thinking about?\\\" Franny asked her great-niece. \\\"Your face is all lit up.\\\"

\\\"Nothing,\\\" Kylie was quick to say. She was discreet about all things, taught to be so by living in a town where people tended to judge the Owenses and gossip was rampant. Her love life was her own business, not that she was making that sort of admission to anyone, not even to members of her own family. \\\"No one,\\\" she insisted even though Franny was giving her that stern look she always had when she didn't believe a word you said.

They had the best table in the dining room, thanks to Jet having helped the host with his love life several years ago. When the fiddler started up they could barely hear him, which was all for the best. \\\"Yoo-hoo,\\\" Jet called when the family arrived. \\\"We've already ordered the macaroni and cheese as a starter.\\\"

There was a great deal of hugging, but Franny was out of sorts. \\\"Seriously? The macaroni and cheese?\\\"

\\\"We never eat that,\\\" Sally said, agreeing with her aunt. \\\"It's totally unhealthy.\\\"

\\\"Well, just tonight, as a lark,\\\" Jet said. \\\"Just this once.\\\"

Jet was so apologetic and sweet, Franny felt guilty complaining about the food, which was known far and wide to be terrible, and she buried her head in the oversized menu, lest anyone see that her eyes were brimming with tears. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been to the inn, and most of the customers were nervous in her presence, convinced she could perceive their wrongdoings and transgressions and that they would be made to atone for thoughtless deeds by the use of witchery. One fool went so far as to send Franny a bottle of wine, hoping to win her favor, but she sent it right back, with a note scribbled on a napkin. Be faithful to your wife and you have nothing to fear.

Jet, on the other hand, was delighted to see her neighbors, many of whom had found their way to the Owenses' front door over the years in search of tonics and remedies, receiving their fair share of green magic, horseradish and cayenne for coughs, Fever Tea for flu, black mustard seed for those plagued by nightmares. Several members of the waitstaff had waved, delighted to see her, for many had been clients as well.

\\\"I wish someone had told me you were coming for dinner,\\\" Sally murmured to Gillian.

\\\"I thought you knew. Anyway, we're here now and we're staying the night.\\\"

\\\"I'm never included,\\\" Sally said, stealing a glance at her daughters.

\\\"You could be if you wanted to be,\\\" Gillian said. \\\"You're always working.\\\"

\\\"Of course, I want to be.\\\" It was true, Sally had been more and more distant, and she regretted it. She was grouchy and had become something of a loner, and that was not who she wanted to be. \\\"Let's kick the girls out of the attic and sleep up there.\\\" Long ago, Sally and Gillian had shared the attic; they'd sat out on the roof on summer nights counting stars.

\\\"Don't you look wonderful,\\\" Jet said to Antonia, who frankly was relieved that there was something to eat set out on the table. She didn't understand how it was possible for her to be so hungry, but she was and she spooned up the macaroni and cheese.

\\\"I'm uber-healthy,\\\" Antonia told her aunt. \\\"No sugar, no coffee, no alcohol.\\\"

\\\"You don't wish there was someone to help you when the baby comes?\\\" Jet wanted to know.

\\\"Women have been having babies on their own since the beginning of time, Jetty. And besides, I have Scott and Joel. We're in this together, and they're constantly on my case. I don't eat enough, apparently.\\\" Antonia took note of the worry on Jet's face. \\\"I don't need someone special, if that's what you're thinking. I'm too busy to fall in love. Besides, I'm not even sure I believe in it.\\\"

\\\"You will,\\\" Jet assured her. \\\"It will make a mess of things and your life will never be the same, but it will happen. No one is immune.\\\"

It was lovely to all be together, but as time wore on, Jet realized that the beetle had followed her and was now directly beneath her chair. She could hear it chirping, more softly now, as if it barely had any energy. The time had nearly come.

Jet would never know the end of Kylie's story, her darling great-niece who had been such a charming, awkward child, who loved to work in the garden and get dirty, who borrowed Jet's novels and sprawled out on the window seat below Maria Owens's portrait to read Wide Sargasso Sea and Jane Eyre. She would never get to meet Antonia's child, or spend summer afternoons with her beloved Gillian, canning tomatoes or making soap as they did every year in the old cauldron they set up at the rear of the garden. She wouldn't get to see Sally fall in love, the sort of love that would take up her whole heart, so that she didn't hold anything back the way she had even with that wonderful Gary, the kind of love Jet had found with Rafael, despite the fact that they were forced to hide from the curse. Life was like a book, Jet thought, but one you would never finish. You would never know how people would wind up; the good often suffered and the wicked prospered and there was no explanation for the way in which fate was meted out as there was in novels. Fiction made sense of the world, perhaps that was why Jet had been a fanatical reader as a girl. When Levi Willard died, so tragically and before his time, novels had saved her. Sometimes, when the world looked especially gloomy, Jet returned to the ones that had helped her through her darkest hours. Wuthering Heights, The Scarlet Letter, and Fahrenheit 451, her favorite, a love letter to books.

\\\"I'm tired.\\\" Jet explained as she called for the check. \\\"We've had a long day.\\\"

Franny paled when she heard this. It was the evening of the seventh day, the time she had dreaded ever since the bees appeared. They left through the bar and perhaps Jet couldn't quite bear for their night to end. She stopped to order a whiskey. For what was to come, she needed strength.

\\\"Good idea,\\\" Gillian said, calling over the bartender, a fellow named Jed who swore they had dated in high school, though Gillian, for the life of her, couldn't remember him.

\\\"Seriously?\\\" Sally said to Jet, disbelieving. \\\"You don't drink.\\\"

\\\"Now and then.\\\" Jet shrugged. \\\"It helps me sleep.\\\" As a matter of fact, the whiskey was delightful, tasting of smoke and wood.

\\\"Why not?\\\" Franny, who had never once ordered anything at the bar of the Black Rabbit, relented and joined her sister in a toast. It was their last night after all. They might as well do as they pleased. \\\"To us,\\\" Franny said.

Jet nodded. \\\"Always and forever.\\\"

Antonia and Kylie stood at the bar, Antonia because her belly wouldn't fit in the space allotted when perched on a barstool, and Kylie to keep her company.

\\\"Something for you, ladies?\\\" Jed the bartender asked, though he was still gazing at Gillian.

\\\"I'm pregnant and she's underage,\\\" Antonia answered. \\\"So, no.\\\"

\\\"Thanks,\\\" Kylie said to her sister. \\\"I was just about to get my first Black Rabbit martini.\\\"

Gillian overheard and came over to order one, letting Kylie have a sip. \\\"Happy now?\\\" Gillian asked. The martinis at the Black Rabbit were especially dreadful.

Kylie made a face and pushed the glass away. \\\"Why do people drink these?\\\"

\\\"To get drunk,\\\" Gillian said. \\\"There's no other reason.\\\"

\\\"Do you get the feeling something isn't right?\\\" Antonia asked their aunt.

Gillian looked past Sally, who was paying for the drinks, to the end of the bar where the aunts were on their second round of whiskeys.

\\\"It all ends,\\\" she said for some reason. There was no point in getting moody, so she shook her head, snapped her fingers, and grinned. \\\"Even a night at the Black Rabbit.\\\"

By the time they turned onto Magnolia Street, the aunts were tipsy. The magnolias had bloomed early this year, the white and mauve cups of petals high above them in the dark on twisted black branches.

How lucky, Jet thought. How I wish I had all the time in the world.

Franny and Jet walked slowly, their arms linked, taking so long to reach their corner, Sally had a feeling of dread when she turned to look over her shoulder. Her beloved aunts were old. She'd thought they were old when she was a little girl, for back then anyone over forty had seemed ancient. Now she was nearly to the middle of her forties, likely the age the aunts had been when she and Gillian arrived, and Jet and Franny were in their eighties. Franny carried an umbrella these days for she'd be damned if she used a cane and her knee had been bothering her, despite applications of lavender oil. As for Jet, she seemed both exhausted and jittery, a worrisome combination.

\\\"I'll just have a little rest,\\\" Jet said once they reached home.

\\\"What is wrong with her?\\\" Gillian asked Sally after Jet had retired to her room, the Reverend's dog at her heels. It was barely seven.

\\\"I don't know,\\\" Sally said. \\\"I'm worried.\\\" If she had allowed herself to call up the sight, she might have known exactly what was happening, but it had been many years since she'd accessed any magic, and like all things that aren't used, her talent had begun to waste away.

Franny reached to stroke Sally's hair, which was not at all like her. She was not the touchy-feely sort. Not one bit. \\\"She just needs some peace and quiet.\\\"

Jet was already behind her locked bedroom door, sitting at her desk, another woman's spell book open before her, a rare occurrence, for such books were meant to be burned upon the death of the writer, unless there was a family member to inherit the text. Jet understood that the Owens family beginnings were in England, in a rural area they referred to as the first Essex County since they lived in the second, which had been named by the Pilgrims for the home across the sea they had left.

The Book of the Raven had escaped destruction since the time it had been hand-printed in London, in 1615. On the first page, in sloping script, was the name Faith Owens, for Faith had found the volume in a New York City market. It begins at the beginning, had been written on the very first page. Below that line there was a quote from William Shakespeare, who had written of his admiration and desire for Amelia Bassano.

Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

How to exact revenge, how to break another's heart, how to cause a rival to fall ill, how to escape from a cruel man, how to set fires without touching a candle, how to make figures of wax and cloth and blackthorn and scarlet thread that would cause grave results to an intended enemy, how to bring on a curse, and more important, how to end it. Near the end of the book, there was a warning. To end a curse, be prepared to give up everything. There was always a price to pay, one higher than anyone might have imagined. All the same, there would always be women in such dire situations they were willing to yield to the left side, those who had no choice, who had been trapped, chained, reviled, cast aside, cursed.

There were blisters on Jet's fingers that had risen from touching the last page. A line of invisible writing revealed itself.

When you are ready and have nothing to lose. When you are unafraid. When you wish to save someone else more than you wish to save yourself.

It was only when Jet read the last line of the curse-breaker that she realized just how dangerous the book was. The price of using it was far too dear for most practitioners. In good faith, she could not leave this book in her room for Franny to find. She wished she could be the one to break the curse, but because it was her seventh day, only someone else could complete what she had begun. She did what she must with great haste, knowing that time would not wait. She took a pot of paste she used whenever she attached samples of herbs or plants to the Grimoire. It was strong stuff, made of bird bones and black stones and, once it had set, was impossible to remove unless you knew the secret to doing so. She glued the last two pages together, so that the dangerous remedy would be hidden, and set a privacy spell upon the last section of the book so that no one would accidentally stumble upon it. At last, she scrawled a note that she folded in between the pages of The Poems of Emily Dickinson, always kept on her night table. If Franny ever did use the curse-breaker, she would have to search for it, and perhaps it would be better if The Book of the Raven was never found again.

Jet left the dog behind and went downstairs, and while Sally was asking Franny what might have caused Jet to retire so early, with Gillian assuring her that it was likely the effects of the whiskey, and Franny keeping her knowledge of the future to herself, Jet lifted her coat from the peg in the hallway. She could hear the deathwatch beetle clacking at her feet as she swept up Sally's set of keys to the library before stepping outside. Jet felt she had never been as wide awake nor as focused on her surroundings. The rustling of the gauzy leaves on the trees. The birds in the thickets, waking as she passed by. She hurried as fast as she could. The beautiful world was already slipping away.

Jet was gone less than an hour, the beetle following along on the dark, windy street, a shadow it was impossible to dodge. Franny was waiting at the gate when her sister returned. Daisy was beside her waiting as well, barking, comforted only when Jet lifted her up. Both Sally and Gillian had gone up to bed, sharing the attic room where they'd grown up, with Kylie and Antonia each taking spare bedrooms on the second floor that were usually considered too fancy for family, not that they ever had any other guests.

Franny had been out on the porch the entire time, pacing. \\\"You weren't in your bed,\\\" she said accusingly. She didn't usually fuss, but her deep worry showed now.

\\\"One last look around town. Remember the day we first came here with Vincent? When everyone on the street stared at us?\\\"

\\\"We were worth staring at,\\\" Franny said. \\\"We were marvelous.\\\"

They went into the garden. There were the old wicker chairs, near the herb garden. There was the beehive, empty now. Long ago their aunt Isabelle had raised brown and white chickens and they'd loved to collect the blue speckled eggs, warm in their hands. They'd had a dozen cats, every single one black, but all had grown old and died. The greenhouse was padlocked shut and the cloudy glass shone. Everything was white as parchment in the light of the moon. They held hands and scanned the sky as pale moths flitted up from the damp grass. Once upon a time there were two sisters, as different from each other as night and day. In their family a sister was everything, your heart and soul, and here they were together on the last evening of Jet's life, grateful to be so. Oh, seven days. Oh, beautiful world. Oh, how lucky they were.
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Chapter I

Some stories begin at the beginning and others begin at the end, but all the best stories begin in a library. It was there that Jet Owens saw her fate in a mirror behind the reference desk. Even in her eighties, Jet was still beautiful. Each day she washed with the black soap the family prepared in March during the dark phase of the moon, with every bar then wrapped in crinkly cellophane. Jet had no aches or pains and had never been ill a day in her life, but fate is fate and it can often be what you least expect it to be. On this day, when the daffodils had begun to bloom, Jet saw that she had seven days to live.

The deathwatch beetle had begun to call from within the walls of the Owens Library, a sound that often went unnoticed until it was so loud it was all a person could hear. When your time came, the black beetle would withdraw from hiding and follow you everywhere, no matter where you went. Its presence meant that the past was over and the future no longer existed. This was the moment that revealed how you had walked through the world, with kindness or with fear, with your heart open or closed. It had taken this long for Jet to appreciate that every instant was a marvel. Now everything she saw was illuminated. The sun streaming through the library windows in fierce bands of orange light. A moth tapping at the glass. The sweep of the branches of one of the last elm trees in the commonwealth, which shadowed the library’s lawn. Some people unravel or run for shelter when their time has come, they curse their fate or hide under their beds, but Jet knew exactly what she wished to do in the last days she’d been granted. She didn’t have to think twice.

Long ago, the library had been a jail where Maria Owens, the first woman in their family to set foot in Massachusetts in 1680, had been confined until the judges announced she would be hanged. Those were the days when witchery was forbidden and women were harshly punished, judged to be dangerous creatures if they talked too much, or read books, or did their best to protect themselves from harm. People said Maria could turn herself into a crow, that she had the ability to enchant men without ever speaking to them directly and to compel other women to do as they pleased, so that they were willing to forsake their proper place in society and in their own families. The court set out to destroy Maria and nearly did, but she could not be drowned, and she did not back down. She blamed love for her undoing, for she’d chosen the wrong man, with dire consequences. Just before the rope that was meant to end her life snapped, and she was miraculously saved, Maria called out a curse upon love.

Beware of love, she had written on the first page of her journal, now exhibited in the library, a display mothers in town often brought their teenaged daughters to view before they started dating. Beware of love that was dishonest and disloyal, love that would lie to you and trick you, love that could break you and condemn you to sorrow, love that could never be trusted. If Maria Owens had been less rash, she might have realized that when you curse another, you curse yourself as well. Curses are like knots, the more you struggle to be free, the tighter they become, whether they’re made of rope or spite or desperation. Maria invoked an enchantment to protect the generations to follow, with her daughters’ and great-granddaughters’ best interests at heart. For their own safety, they must avoid love. Those who failed to abide by this rule would find that engagements would be tragic, and marriages would end with funerals. Over the years, many of those in the Owens family had found ways to outwit the curse, always an intricate and risky endeavor. All the same, a person could trick fate if she dared, she could change her name, never admit her love, skip a legal union, vanish from view, or, for those who were careless and wild, simply plunge in and hope for the best, knowing that sooner or later everyone had to face her own destiny.

Maria’s journal pages had been up on the wall of the library for more years than anyone could remember. Certainly, they had been there when Jet and her sister, Franny, were girls, and came here on muggy heat-laden summer days, waiting for their lives to begin, learning the truth about themselves from the town records and from their beloved aunt Isabelle. The family had a history of witchery, inherited in every generation, and had practiced the Nameless Art. They were bloodline witches, genetically predisposed to magic, with a lineage to ancestors who possessed the same sacred gifts. For those who tried to escape their heritage, it soon became clear that they couldn’t run away from who they were. A person could do her best to be ordinary and fit in, but the past could not be refuted, even when it was hidden from children thought to be too tender to know the truth. You didn’t choose magic, it chose you; it bloomed inside you, blood and bones. And a curse, once spoken, could not be denied. All the same, fate was what you made of it. You could make the best of it, or you could let it make the best of you. On this evening when she saw the truth in the library, Jet Owens decided she would do her best to change her family’s destiny.

It was dusk when Jet and her niece Sally walked home from the library, as they did nearly every evening. Sally and her husband and daughters had moved into the old family house when the aunts’ aging became noticeable, and she had been happy to settle into the place she couldn’t wait to escape from as a girl. Sally had two wonderful girls, Kylie and Antonia, but both were now off at school, and her sister, Gillian, lived in Cambridge quite near to the girls, where she worked in a lab at MIT, so it was only Sally, now a widow, who still resided with her aunts in that big tilted house with the black shutters on Magnolia Street, where a fierce iron fence circled an enormous parcel of land the gardeners in town all envied, for it was here that the first daffodils pushed through the earth and where herbs grew between patches of ice in March, a month before they appeared anywhere else. Already the bramble of blackberries along the gate was beginning to green, and the lilacs, which would bloom in shades of violet and deep purple and white, were filling in with their flat heart-shaped leaves.

Unfortunately, Sally Owens couldn’t hold on to love and everyone knew it. She’d been a victim of her family’s curse, not once but twice. She was quite young when she first married, a forbidden act that could only end badly. Her husband Michael, a school friend and the father of her girls, had been a local boy and the first to ask her out; he was cursed with an untimely death, a victim of bad luck and bad weather, struck by lightning. Sally didn’t speak for a year after his death, but she tried again with her second husband, Gary Hallet, a man she could depend on until he’d passed on a few years after their marriage. Gary had been afflicted with a childhood congenital heart disease that had finally caught up to him, but Sally was convinced his death had been activated by the family curse, for Gary had always seemed to be as healthy as he was strong. He had come from Arizona to work on the local police force, preferring a horse to a patrol car, and he and his tall good-natured bay, Jack, were known and beloved in town. Gary would rather give someone a second chance than arrest him, and the children in town begged to visit old Jack at the police stable on the far side of Endicott Street, bringing sugar cubes and carrots.

How was it possible for a man like Gary Hallet to kiss his wife good night, close his eyes, and never wake again? His horse had died of grief two nights later, lying down on the earthen floor of the stable. Sally was stunned and devastated, and some people said she had lost a piece of her heart. Certainly, she seemed transformed. When she did say hello to her neighbors, which was rare, she made it perfectly clear she preferred to be left in peace. Sally had returned to school for her degree in library science at Simmons University, and now, at the age of forty-four, she was the director of the Owens Library. The only other employee was Sarah Hardwick, who had worked at the library for over sixty years, and who still made it a point of leaving every day at five o’clock on the dot, which allowed her to stop by the Black Rabbit Inn and have a cocktail at her regular time. Often, she didn’t report back until ten in the morning, especially if she’d had more than one drink. Sally didn’t begrudge Miss Hardwick the need to come in late and leave early at her age, and she didn’t mind the hours she spent working alone in the library, late into the evenings. She did her best to be helpful when she checked out books, or assisted students from the local high school, but everyone knew Sally Owens was embittered, and even more standoffish than she’d been as a girl.

The curse had ruined Sally’s life, and she had decided not to reveal the Owens fate to her daughters. They knew bits, of course, and there was a scrim of magic over the house on Magnolia Street; the famous garden, the dangerous plants locked away in the greenhouse, the sparrow that arrived at midsummer. Still, the word witchery was never spoken out loud. Sally knew that her great-grandmother Susannah Owens had also kept the truth of their heritage from her children, setting out a series of rules to ensure they would avoid magic. Sally felt a kinship with Susannah, and when she found her great-grandmother’s rules jotted down in an old diary, she made use of them. No swimming, no books about magic, no candles, no sitting out on the roof and gazing at stars, no wearing black, no walking in the moonlight. In Sally’s opinion a life without magic was preferable, and she had done her best to ensure that her daughters wouldn’t live with the cloud of the curse above them, spying danger in every kiss. When the time came, if and when one of the girls teetered on the verge of falling in love, Sally would step in and put a stop to it, as she wished she had done when her sister, Gillian, had fallen for the man whose name was never said aloud for fear he’d be called back from the dead. Thankfully, neither Antonia nor Kylie seemed to have any romantic inclinations. Perhaps the curse would never be a problem for them and they’d be safe after all. Kylie spent all her time with her best friend, Gideon Barnes, and Antonia was clearly a workaholic, even now that she was pregnant. There was no partner in the picture and when asked who the father of her unborn child was, Antonia merely shrugged and said it was a long story, which in truth it was not. She had dated Scott Morrison in high school, but she had always preferred women and had several girlfriends, many of whose hearts were broken without Antonia even trying to accomplish that task. Antonia was a confident, calm young woman of twenty-three, a redhead who didn’t possess the same fierce temperament as Franny, the sort of person you would want beside you in an emergency, and no one was surprised when she announced that emergency medicine was the specialty she wished to pursue. Whenever she heard a siren on the street, she broke into a run, ready to offer help, for she was and always had been a natural healer; the more urgent the problem, the more focused she was on a cure.

Antonia didn’t understand why people thought she was a bit tone deaf in matters of the heart when she was simply more preoccupied by her studies. To be honest, she wasn’t even sure if she believed in love, but she definitely believed in children, as did Scott, who was two years ahead of her at med school, in a long-term relationship with another doctor, Joel McKenna. They agreed they would all make terrific parents, especially if they raised the child together.

As for Sally, she had worn black ever since her husband Gary’s death and had a closet filled with dark, austere dresses, cotton for spring and summer, wool for the colder seasons. With her silky black hair pinned up, and her black coat flaring out behind her, Sally looked like a ghost on evenings when she walked home from the Owens Library with her aunt, with heaps of new leaves falling from the trees as she passed by. She closed the shutters on sunshiny days and favored large dark glasses that made her expression impenetrable. When she lingered on the porch in the evenings, not wishing to go up to her lonely bedroom, she rocked back and forth in an old wicker chair as the dusk settled around her, not realizing that she was frightening the neighborhood children who came upon her in the falling dark. The children who glimpsed Sally Owens on cold, crisp evenings shared their opinion that she was a witch who could turn herself into whatever she wished to be—a cat or a crow or a she-wolf—and that they had best not talk too much or have too much fun when she had them in her sights. Most people in town considered Sally to be unpredictable and irritable and there were those who insisted it was best not to cross her or she would hex you in the blink of an eye. Sally paid no attention. Let the neighbors gossip, let them cross the street when they spied her, she couldn’t care less. The Owens women had a habit of doing as they pleased no matter what people might say, and she would continue to do so.

This week, as spring neared, Sally had decided to turn out the light on the porch, which had been kept on for three hundred years, assuring women in need of assistance that they were welcome to call. Enough was enough, in Sally’s estimation. Let the neighbors go elsewhere for cures. Soon after, the gate was latched, the front door bolted, and thorny vines clung to the skirts of anyone who tried to pass by on the bluestone path. If a remedy was needed, for health or love or revenge, the best clients could do was wait on the sidewalk outside the fence, hoping that Franny Owens, or more likely dear Jet, would venture out on the way to the market or the drugstore and stop long enough to listen to their woes. Perhaps, if they were lucky, one of the aunts would grant them an elixir, stored in the pantry or in the greenhouse, well out of Sally’s sight. Star tulip to decipher dreams, blue beads for protection, garlic, salt, and rosemary to dispel evil, or the most sought-after cure, Love Potion Number Nine, which consisted of anise, rosemary, honey, and cloves, all simmered for nine hours and always costing $9.99. Jet would never charge a penny more, and she made certain to remind the buyer that the spell worked best on the ninth hour of the ninth day of the ninth month. On some nights, neighborhood women stood in the dark in front of the Owens house, their hands clutching the iron fence, with jewelry or cash in their purses, in need of assistance in matters of love or health or revenge. Often the aunts were already in bed, still the women stayed, ever hopeful, and there were times when Sally had to step over them on her way to work in the morning, for some truly desperate clients fell asleep on the sidewalk, dreaming of cures they would never receive.

Sally had become so closed off that she had recently lost the ability to see the color red, a side effect of severing one’s emotions. One morning she woke and that color was simply gone from the palette of her vision. Anything that had once been scarlet or crimson or cherry or coral had turned a splotchy gray. As far as Sally was concerned, good riddance. She didn’t mind the loss of red in her life one bit. Who needed a color as bright and disturbing as red? Red blossoms, red heart, red magic, red love. Even though spring had begun, for Sally the month of March was muted and blurry, a world of black and white. She didn’t care that she could no longer spy cardinals perched in the trees, or that the red tulips in the greenhouse forced into an early bloom were the color of dust. Sally felt quite sensible observing the world through a scrim of gloom.

Though Jet didn’t work in the library officially, she was a great favorite with the youngest patrons. She had the ability to know what people were thinking, and therefore understood that boys who were rude were usually fearful and that quiet girls often had a lot to say. She frequently stopped by to help young people choose books, guiding them to stories that contained magic of the best sort, practical magic that was folded into the everyday world, tales in which people stumbled into enchantments, often while walking down the street in their own hometown, or when they stepped into closets that contained other worlds, or waited for a train that would take them to a place they’d never before imagined.

“All you need is patience,” Jet told Sally when she threw up her hands each time she was faced with disruptive behavior from middle-school visitors who gathered in groups, lounging at the tables as if they were in their own homes.

Sally had been an excellent mother, but nowadays she was strict and rarely smiled anymore, and children are always put off by a rigid sensibility. Her own daughters had chafed under the household rules, but the rules were the rules, and Sally would not have them be broken. She’d taped up a laminated list at the reference desk in the library. No running, no shouting, no gathering in groups, no pets, no bare feet, no crying when you didn’t get the book you most wanted to read. She didn’t blame the children for avoiding her, preferring Jet or Miss Hardwick. She had turned away from the world and its sorrows and there were times when she walked past a mirror and could have sworn she saw the image of her aunt Franny rather than her own. Those cold gray eyes; that frown. Surely, she had inherited Frances Owens’s no-nonsense attitude; she was curt and didn’t easily suffer fools. She sometimes heard Franny’s voice inside her head, or worse, she heard herself speaking phrases Franny had long ago imparted to her, blunt advice that pulled no punches. Courage or caution? Why on earth would you want to be normal? What fun would that be?

When their parents had died, and Sally and Gillian had come to the house on Magnolia Street, they’d both been terrified of Franny, intimidated by her wild hair and her red boots and her freckled complexion and her clipped conversation, and they’d secretly called her the mean aunt. But when Sally wept in bed at night, it was Franny who came upstairs to sit beside her. She didn’t offer silly, meaningless words of comfort, but instead stroked Sally’s long, dark hair and told her that in the morning they would have chocolate cake for breakfast, and they always did.

Although Sally considered herself to be a logical woman, she knew there was more to this world than could be seen with the naked eye. Ever since childhood she’d been convinced that a dark brand of bad luck followed at her heels, a wicked spell she couldn’t diffuse, not with sage or garlic or salt. It was after her, there was no doubt about it. The Owens curse stalked her even though she was determined to avoid magic. Oh, she had tried, but no matter how ordinary her life might be, the curse hung on as if it were an obstinate dog that refused to loosen its bite even when she tried to shake it off. Now, as Sally and Jet walked through town, Sally realized that a little dog was, indeed, pursuing them, as though it had read her mind, validating her theory that a hex and a wild dog were equally difficult to be rid of. The one following them was a scraggly white thing with sharp black eyes. Sally soon recognized it as the stray that had been hanging around trash barrels behind the library for several days, one wily enough to escape every time animal control was called in.

“I can’t seem to catch that dog,” Sally said. Now that her girls were grown, with Kylie a sophomore and Antonia in her second year of medical school, both at Harvard, and with Antonia pregnant, nearly a mother herself, Sally often stayed at the library after hours. What was the point of leaving? She would have preferred to eat a sandwich at her desk and would likely have forgotten to come home entirely, choosing to work through the night, had Jet not come for her at the end of the day.

“I think it’s Daisy,” Jet said thoughtfully as she observed the dog.

Once you knew that death was walking alongside you, things came into focus, as they now did for Jet. With only seven days left she had best pay attention to every detail. She had already taken note that the lines on her right palm, showing the fate that she’d been given, and those on the left hand, the fate she had made for herself, were exactly the same; they had converged, as they always do at the end of a life. Jet’s gift of the sight had intensified. She could envision the dog’s heart beating under its tangled fur, just as she saw the slow unfolding of black leaves on the last surviving elm trees in Essex County. The Reverend Willard had owned a dog resembling this one before he’d been forced into residing at the retirement home on Endicott Street. The Willards and the Owenses were all descendants of a witch-finder and a witch, John Hathorne and Maria Owens on the Owens’ side, and a granddaughter of Hathorne and a relation of John Proctor, hanged as a witch when he tried to protect an innocent woman brought to trial, on the Willards’ side. Although there had been centuries of distrust, Jet had managed to change that after her beloved Levi Willard’s death when she knocked at the Reverend’s door, refusing to allow him to turn her away until they set the situation right. The Reverend had passed his hundredth birthday and could no longer care for himself, let alone a dog, and it was said that his little Maltese had run off and was now dodging around town, eating from garbage cans, sleeping on porches, begging for food from children exiting the school bus. Wary, the dog ducked beneath the thickets, but Jet stopped and waved cheerfully. “Come here, Daisy,” she called. “I think she belongs to the Reverend.”

“You don’t want a dog,” Sally reminded her aunt. “You’re a cat person.”

True enough. Jet had had a series of adored black cats when she was younger, all named for birds, including Magpie and Goose and Crow. Yet when Daisy, if indeed it was she, began to approach, Jet felt something prick her heart. She bent to pick up the dog and when she held it she could feel its jumpy heartbeat next to her own. She remembered being told that you didn’t choose a familiar, it chose you. In truth, Jet felt comforted by Daisy’s presence. Life of any sort was marvelous. She saw that now.

“Are you sure?” Jet murmured to the dog. She had only a few days left, after all, and couldn’t pledge to oversee Daisy’s future. All the same, the Reverend’s dog settled in against her, clearly pleased to be carried along, although it didn’t make eye contact. That was curious. A familiar saw inside you. It was then Jet realized she was only a temporary caretaker. Daisy was meant for someone else.

“Here we go.” Sally’s tone was gloomy. She had no patience for anything these days. Although she looked far younger than her age, likely due to the miraculous black soap the Owenses had concocted from a family recipe since the 1600s, when it had been useful in treating those infected with the plague in a time when simply washing one’s hands made a world of difference, with ingredients that were disinfectants, including rosemary, lavender, and mint. Sally distrusted the world, an attitude that aged a person beyond her years. Soap couldn’t fix that. “One thing will lead to another,” Sally told her aunt, “and the end result will likely be fleas.”

Jet patted the dog and didn’t argue. She had always loved the month of March, though it was wild and unpredictable, evoking hope as the wintry brown world began to flourish. Jet felt extremely grateful to experience it this one last time. Everything was greening and the hedges had a fresh, peppery scent. There was a chill in the blue air, yet daffodils were pushing up through the damp, black earth, and in the Owenses’ garden they had already bloomed. Oh, what a beautiful, unexpected world this was.

“Be prepared. Franny will have a fit if you bring a dog home,” Sally continued to warn her aunt as they walked along past the Black Rabbit Inn. Tonight the special was chicken pot pie, but most of the regulars were concentrating on whiskey. A fiddler was playing enthusiastically in the bar. It was the kind of rousing, rowdy song Gary would have liked. Once he’d moved to Massachusetts, he’d missed the desert where he’d grown up, and the untamed country he’d known. He enjoyed standing outside with Sally before they went to bed to gaze at the stars and point out constellations, even in the dead of winter. Gary had never believed in curses or bad luck, and he’d considered fairy tales to be stories for children. Sally had loved his fearless attitude and the way he’d made her feel so safe, even though she knew that the world was, and always had been, a dangerous place. What was wicked grew with the ferocity of the bramble; cut it down, and it rose up again with even deeper roots.

Now, on the way home, Sally linked an arm through Jet’s. She always softened when in the presence of her aunt Jet, who was the most kindhearted among them. Gillian had voiced a hunch that there must be an irregularity in Jet’s DNA, and some unexpected genes had rendered her a huge heart, absent in most of their relations. Gillian should know; she worked in a lab at MIT researching genetics, a subject that had come to obsess her. She was convinced that somewhere in their past there had been an ancestor who had been as kind as their aunt, perhaps the same person from whom Jet had inherited her striking good looks.

Warmer weather was predicted for the rest of the week, and Jet’s seven days marked the start of a season that was always a delight in Massachusetts. All through the long winter people waited for a sign for the first surge of spring. The green bark of a lilac. The murmur of a dove in the yard. While there was still a scrim of ice on Leech Lake, people came down with spring fever that made them act as if they were young again; they took risks, they stayed out late, they fell in love unexpectedly. This was the month when teams began to play softball in the high school field and music flooded out from open windows as children practiced scales at pianos that had been ignored all winter long. There was an extra hour of daylight, so glorious and so needed after the many months of darkness.

Jet could hear the hum of the first of the season’s bees as they neared the house on Magnolia Street with its black shutters and tilted roof slates and dozens of windows made of old, wavering green glass. She came to a halt when they turned a corner, well aware that people had long believed that whenever bees swarmed outside a house, a resident was sure to die. Hundreds were now circling the porch in a buzzing whirlwind of yellow. There was Franny, out in the chilly dusk without a coat, a broom in her hands, doing her best to bat them away.

“You’re going to be stung!” Sally called to her tall, fearsome aunt who had always shone with a beauty all her own. Franny Owens was in her eighties but her hair had a red tone, and although people whispered she had it dyed in a salon in Boston or magicked away the gray with a mixture of blood and potent herbs, all it took to keep the color was a rinse of madder root every once in a while.

Jet set down the dog and went directly to her sister. “We need the bees,” Jet said in a no-nonsense voice. She pried the broom from Franny’s hands and let it drop to the ground. “Franny, that’s enough.”

The sisters gazed into one another’s eyes. They’d always been able to read each other but now Franny was baffled by what she saw. She glimpsed herself in the future, there in their garden alone, and then, with a quickening breath, she understood.

“No,” she said.

This is how it happened, on an ordinary night when Franny had planned to read a book after supper, she had Virginia Woolf’s The Waves on her night table, then go early to bed. She had assumed life would remain as it was, with nothing daring to change, but all at once it had become an anguished night of bees, of a mad swarm around them, of her sister already wrested away from her, gazing into the world to come that was written in the constellations spinning above them. There was the Winter Triangle, which would fade away by the end of the month, as it always did at this time of year. Franny understood this was how loss began. She had been here before, but then, like anyone else, she had forgotten this is what happened, that things ended when you least expected them to, that you could not protect those you loved from nature and fate.

Sally had come up beside her aunts. She would likely have to call the exterminator in the morning, for once bees got into a house they might just decide to stay there and then honey would be dripping through the ceiling and down the walls. In the garden, the sprouting herbs were already letting off clouds of scent: marjoram, lavender, rosemary. There was always plenty of Spanish garlic, traditional to harvest in great abundance. There was chickweed, and feverfew, and juniper with the last of its berries. The dog was sniffing around, making itself at home.

“Did you see what we picked up on the way home?” Sally asked Franny. When her aunt looked blank, Sally laughed. Franny did have a way of ignoring the townspeople, as did she, and she’d likely never noticed the dog before. “Daisy. The Reverend’s dog?”

“To hell with the Reverend’s dog,” Franny said, turning to stalk past the plumy weeds on her way into the rear of the garden where they kept a beehive. It was empty. When she tapped on the sides it rattled and then Franny knew. Their very own bees had announced the death to come. There was no denying what would happen. One of their family. One of their own.

“I told you she wouldn’t be happy about this.” Sally glared at the dog, but Jet was no longer beside her. She had gone after her sister, her dear Franny, who was as different from her as night was from day, but whom she had always loved beyond all reason.

On the first day of her last week on earth, Jet went to New York, taking the train from Boston’s South Station. Because it was a lovely afternoon when she arrived in Manhattan, she walked uptown to the Plaza Hotel on Fifth Avenue and Fifty-Ninth Street. She’d brought Daisy along, tucked into a shoulder bag on the train, now leashed and free to gleefully smell the scents that greeted her when they left Penn Station. Jet had made this trip once a month for the past sixty years, and the older employees who worked at the hotel always recognized her and were happy to greet her. When she’d first come here, the Oak Room had refused to serve women at lunch, but that all changed in 1969 when Betty Friedan and fifteen other members of National Organization for Women decided enough was enough and refused to leave. For years afterward, Jet would frequent the Oak Bar, lingering until it was time to go upstairs for the one night she waited for all month long.

When she walked in with the dog under her arm, no one behind the desk asked any questions. They never had. She was always without a suitcase, and simply packed a nightgown, some undergarments, and a change of clothes into her purse. This time she had brought along a tote bag containing dog food. She always paid cash.

More than six decades earlier, Jet had been a bewitching, dark-haired girl who had registered at this very hotel in order to do away with herself. She had lost her first love, Levi, the Reverend’s son, in a car accident that seemed triggered by the curse, a horrific collision that had claimed her parents’ lives as well. She’d seen no reason to go on and was certain that the world no longer was a place in which she wished to reside.

Her fate changed when a young bellman noticed she had checked into the Plaza without a suitcase. People without luggage most often had one of two things in mind: an affair or suicide, although occasionally there was a third possibility when a novelist arrived, desperate for inspiration, and always asking for the cheapest room. Rafael Correa was the bellman who had noticed Jet. He had stopped her, begging her to reconsider her plans and have room service with him instead. Jet told him from the start she would never belong to him; she mentioned a curse, but he was head over heels after their first encounter, and he didn’t argue. When you save someone’s life, they belong to you, no matter what they might say.

This time Jet had reserved the room for two nights. If she didn’t do as she pleased this week, when would she ever? The one good thing about her death to come was that the curse could no longer claim the man she loved. She had taken a suite, damn the expense, and for two nights and days they could pretend they lived together, or maybe it wasn’t pretense, maybe this was the realest time they had ever known.

Rafael had been a principal of a high school in Queens and since his retirement he had tutored ESL students in his neighborhood. He had a wide social circle, but he went home alone every night. Despite his friends’ concerns about the solitary life he led, Rafael never married. He’d wanted more, but it wasn’t possible, and in many ways they were more fortunate than most. They never quarreled and any disagreements were brief; they wanted to make the best of the time they had together and use it wisely. But when Rafael arrived at the Plaza, his instinct that there was bad news kicked in, left over from his years as a principal. For one thing, Jet had brought a stray dog along, a white scruffy pup who sat at Rafael’s feet when he took off his shoes, staring into his eyes as if he were a long-lost friend.

“She’ll cheer you up,” Jet said.

“All I need is you,” Rafael said mournfully, sensing that something wasn’t right.

Jet sat down beside him and took his hand. For all these years she had been protecting Rafael every time she claimed she didn’t love him, but now Jet told him the truth. She had loved him and only him.

“I know,” Rafael assured her.

“And that’s why Daisy is here. She’ll be a companion.”

That was when he’d known something terrible and unbreakable was about to befall them. They considered getting married that afternoon, since the curse could no longer do them any harm, but in the end they decided they didn’t need a witness to their love. Instead, they did things any couple might have done on an ordinary day. That was what Jet wanted most. To be just another couple on the streets of New York. Oh, she knew it wasn’t really possible, it never had been, but during this last time they spent together, she wanted them to be people who weren’t afraid of love, who believed that the future belonged to them.

The next morning they walked through Central Park to Belvedere Castle, with Daisy tugging at her leash. From the height of the castle’s craggy ledge they observed the greening canopy below. The sky turned lemon-colored, and they huddled in the castle during a quick blast of rain. Then they went arm in arm to the Boathouse for brunch, the dog hidden in Jet’s purse and fed bits of toast. Jet went so far as to kiss Rafael in public, curse be damned. After that, they took the subway to Queens so that Jet could see the high school in Forest Hills where Rafael had worked. He’d had a life without her, he’d made a world for himself as a teacher and as a man, but on the train back into Manhattan she could see how lonely he would be once she was gone.

In the evening, they left the dog at the hotel and took a taxi to Waverly Place, where they sat holding hands at the best Italian restaurant in the Village. When they could eat and drink no more, they did so anyway, and ordered the famous olive oil cake with gelato. There was a mackerel sky dotted with clouds as they walked down Greenwich Avenue to number 44, the small townhouse where Jet had lived with Franny and their much-loved brother Vincent when they were young and anything seemed possible. The literary agent who’d had an office there after they’d moved out was now sadly gone, but there were still scraggly lilacs in the tiny yard. Jet closed her eyes and remembered everything. Her room on the third floor where she read so many novels, including Wuthering Heights, which she devoured three times over, Franny sitting at the kitchen table sorting out how to pay the bills when she was all of nineteen, Vincent playing guitar in his room, his reedy voice echoing.

When Jet and Rafael looked at each other in bed, they saw one another as they had been when they were young and beautiful, both with dark hair and flushed olive skin. Perhaps this was why they were still burning for each other. Or perhaps it was that the last time is beautiful and somber when it’s finally understood every instant counts.

Whenever they were together, Jet thought of their first time, when she was certain that she’d lost everything and that life wasn’t worth living. Each time Jet encountered young women crying in the library, or on the porch of the house on Magnolia Street, convinced there was no point in going on, she always told them that you never knew who might walk through the door. Fate worked that way. Some of what was to come was fixed, true enough, as shown in the lines on your right hand. But the lines on your left hand changed, day by day, for that was the fate you made for yourself.

When it was time to leave, Jet couldn’t bring herself to wake Rafael. She wished she could stay all week, but if she remained with him for too long her heart would break; it was breaking already. She watched him sleep for a few moments, grateful to have known love despite the curse. She wasn’t normal, she never could be, but Rafael hadn’t seemed to mind. She left a note on the bedside table, a quote from her favorite poet. Rafael would understand. He always had. They would never be parted.

Unable are the Loved to die

For Love is Immortality.

On the train back to Boston, Daisy sat on Jet’s lap and gazed out the window as they passed through the pale green marshes in Connecticut. “Service dog,” Jet told the conductor, and who would argue with such a dear, old lady who appeared to be crying black tears, the tears that witches cry no matter that lore says they have no hearts and are incapable of love. There were osprey nests on the tallest utility poles and one huge bird with a wingspan of five feet swooped over the lowering tide in search of fish. Tall tawny grass was growing in the rivulets, and the clouds reflected in the water. Had there ever been a marsh as beautiful? Everything you did for the last time was a miracle, no matter how ordinary. Jet had been beside Rafael while he brushed his teeth, she had taken the subway with him to Queens, she had seen the way he looked at her, as if nothing else mattered. This is the way their real life might have been if she hadn’t been forced to keep vigil over the curse.

“You don’t have to worry about the curse anymore,” she’d reassured him as they’d walked along the landscape of their past, so that it almost seemed as if they were young again and had all the time in the world.

“I was never worried,” Rafael told her. “I’ve been lucky and I know it.”

Franny came in from the garden with a basket of fresh parsley and mint. She stopped when she saw that her sister had returned. She could see an ashy shadow around Jet, visible only if you knew what death looked like, if you dared to peer into a black mirror and see the future of those you loved most. It was the evening of the second day and by tomorrow the color of the shadow would be more ink than ash.

“Back at last,” Franny said crisply. Her heart was breaking, but what good would it do to let it show?

“Here I am,” Jet replied. “Yours for the next five days.”

Mine alone, Franny thought. Beautiful, darling, dear sister. “Then we should make supper,” she said. We should make the most of every minute we have.

They spent nearly every moment together during the next few days, linked in thought and deed, as sisters often are. Who can you trust if not your sister? Who knows your story better than she? If you saw one Owens sister at the grocery, the other would be right beside her. If one was working in the garden, making certain the rows of herbs were weeded, her sister would be there as well, carrying a basket to collect the dandelion greens. When Jet went to visit Reverend Willard at the retirement home, Franny tagged along, even though she was the least social creature in town and had certainly never visited anyone there before. Daisy was with them, and no one at the retirement home considered giving them any trouble concerning a canine visitor, knowing if they did they’d have Franny to deal with, who had already cast a domination spell in the entry hall to ensure that people on the premises would bend to her will.

The Reverend had performed the marriage ceremony for Franny and her beloved Haylin Walker soon after Haylin was diagnosed with cancer, and due to that kindness, Franny had made allowances for the way he’d treated Jet when she was a girl, which, in point of fact, had been all but unforgivable. But forgiveness was one thing, a social call was another, and Franny simply couldn’t fathom holding a cheerful conversation wedged in between emergency alerts going off for failing residents and Reverend Willard’s labored breathing, for spring always affected his asthma. Franny remained on the threshold while Jet went to sit at the Reverend’s bedside. That was as social as Franny got. She pursed her lips as she gazed at Reverend Willard. Things didn’t look good for the old man and he had been despondent for some time. Once you are over a hundred you stop counting days. Once you’ve lost your son you glimpse death everywhere. All the same the Reverend let out a whoop when Daisy jumped onto his bed.

“Here’s my girl.” He patted the dog, wholly absorbed, turning to Jet only when she politely coughed. “And my other girl!”

“She’s a grown woman.” Franny reminded the Reverend, still not venturing any farther than the doorway. “An old one at that.” One who was spending precious time with a man who had made her life miserable long ago, but that was clearly water under the bridge to everyone but Franny. The Reverend hadn’t wanted his son to have any dealings with an Owens girl because of her family, but he’d realized he’d been a bigot and over these many years he’d come to think of Jet as a daughter. Today she looked sadder than usual.

“Am I dying?” he asked her. They had loved the same person, that was their lasting bond.

“Not yet,” Jet told him. “It’s me this time.”

“So, you won’t be coming to visit anymore?” The Reverend was struck by emotion, his eyes and nose running.

“No.” Jet smiled at him with tenderness. “That will be Franny from now on.”

“What!” Franny said sharply. She’d only been half listening, but she’d paid attention when she heard her sister’s remark. “Not me. I’m not one for social calls.”

“Then one of my grand-nieces will come,” Jet reassured the Reverend. “Kylie or Antonia. Someone will always look in on you. And don’t worry about Daisy. I’ve found her the perfect home.”

As Jet was leaving, Reverend Willard seized her hand. “Make sure it’s not your sister.” He spoke in a low voice, eyeing the fearsome figure at the door who was gesturing for Jet to hurry. Jet ignored Franny rushing her and took her time. Why not? She had grown to love this old man who, if fate had taken a different route, would have been her father-in-law.

“It won’t be,” she promised.

“Whoever it is, she won’t be as good as you.”

Franny looped her arm through her sister’s as they were leaving. The world was still beautiful and they stood in the front yard of the retirement home while Daisy nosed around. There were old people sitting on wooden benches, gazing at the pink-tinged sky. “Did you ever imagine you’d forgive him?” Franny asked, remembering how the Reverend had made Jet’s and Levi’s lives intolerable when he flatly refused to allow his son to see her. He’d been a fool who judged Jet by her family’s history of witchery.

“I still can’t forgive myself.” Levi had loved her and she had brought the curse to him. “Forgiveness is the most difficult undertaking.”

“I forgave you for being the better sister,” Franny said bluntly.

“Nonsense,” Jet said, and because she didn’t have all the time in the world, she threw her arms around her sister even though Franny was always uncomfortable in an embrace. “Dear sister, that was always you.”

On the fourth day, Jet and Franny went out to the greenhouse to read through the Grimoire, the thick book that was the repository of the family’s magical knowledge. Their treasured Grimoire had been created in Essex, England, by Maria Owens’s adopted mother, Hannah, a birthday gift when Maria was ten, old enough to study magic. The cover was the cool green-black skin of some strange leather that was said to be toad skin, a material that was both delicate and strong. Maria’s original cures and spells could be found in these pages, learned in England and Curaçao, and it was here in this book that the original curse had been written down years after it had been set when Maria stood upon the gallows, having been judged to be a witch by the man she imagined she loved. There were also several pages written by Maria’s daughter, Faith, who had assisted her mother in opening the library and a well-respected girls’ school, thanks to the most loyal wealthy patron, Thomas Brattle, the treasurer of Harvard College who had helped to thwart the witchcraft trials, publicly refuting Cotton Mather’s unprovable beliefs in spectral evidence, calling the entire episode a delusion, a man who was also rumored to be the father of Faith’s two little girls, Avis and Violet.

The women in the following generations had added to the family’s knowledge, including their cherished aunt Isabelle, who had invited Franny and Jet to Magnolia Street when they had no idea who they were. They’d been kept in the dark by their mother, Susannah, who had abandoned the family and its history when she was little more than a girl. The most recent pages in the Grimoire had been written over a period of fifty years by Franny and Jet, and there were remedies and enchantments Gillian had added, even though Gillian had always had less talent for magic than the others and had been mortified by her lack of skill. She was frankly jealous that magic had come to Sally so naturally, when Sally clearly had no use for such things and only craved to be normal. Sally had never written a word in the Grimoire. “I’m not interested,” she always said when the topic of magic was broached. “I’ve got better things to do.”

Stored beside the book was the black mirror Jet and Franny had been shown during their first summer on Magnolia Street. It was possible to see the future in this mirror, if you dared. You’d know if you had the sight when the mirror was presented; you’d see your future in bits and pieces and begin to unravel the story of your life. But stories change, depending on who tells them, and stories are nothing if you don’t have someone to tell them to. Fortunately, they’d had each other. When they put the book away, they held hands and listened to the riotous birdsong in the trees. How lucky to have a sister.

They had a brother as well, one they loved dearly, the darling of their family, wild and talented, the sort of man who could do no harm and dared to fall in love when everything in their history told him he should not. That evening Jet wrote a letter to Vincent, who had disappeared after being called up to fight in Vietnam. He had managed to avoid the curse with a false death, tricking fate and setting off with his beloved William to a life that couldn’t be shared with his family. Jet kept a photograph of Vincent in her bedside table drawer, along with her treasured packet of letters from Rafael. She took out her best stationery and a pen with red ink that made the white paper flush the color of roses.

Darling boy, Jet began, we have missed you every day. Whenever you can come home, do.

She addressed the letter to Vincent’s great friend Agnes Durant, in Paris, then slipped the key to the house on Magnolia Street into the envelope. She and Franny walked through the gusty night to the post office, where the letter was sent off in the mailbox.

“Unlikely he’ll get the letter,” Franny chimed in. She had written to Vincent several times and had never heard a word in return, although every year she received a card from Agnes with a bright greeting—All is fine here in France—which she supposed meant Vincent was well.

“I don’t know about that,” Jet responded. “He could always find anything. He had that talent.”

“When he wanted to use it,” Franny sniffed. Her brother’s absence still pained her. “He never found us.”

“He couldn’t, darling,” Jet said. “There was the curse. He had William to think of.”

On the fifth day, after Sally had gone off to the library, Jet turned on the porch light and threw open the door. When the news got out that Jet was available to her neighbors, a line formed along the path and down the street. People wanted cures for rashes and indigestion, enchantments for runaway daughters and for sons who had made a wrong turn, tinctures for forgetfulness and for mean-spirited husbands, and, as always, they came for love. Jet was so busy that she enlisted Franny, who grumbled but set about gathering ingredients from the garden: leaves from their ginkgo tree, one of the oldest varieties on earth, for anxiety; turmeric as an anti-inflammatory; primrose, whose essence would be pressed into an oil that helped skin conditions and lifted the spirits; echinacea, best for the common cold; lavender, to bring wayward children home. In tall glass jars in the pantry there was mandrake, belladonna, mushrooms of all sorts, blue beads, black feathers, apple seeds, the hollow bones of birds, dove’s hearts. The rush lasted until five, and by the time it was through most of the daffodils had been trampled by people who wanted to make certain they got their turn bringing their problems to Jet. Before Sally arrived home to chastise them for practicing magic, Franny chased the last of the visitors from the path and once they were gone, she switched off the light. She agreed with Sally; let the porch light be turned down forevermore.

Jet sat at the table, exhausted, in need herself of a cup of Courage Tea.

“I hope you’re happy,” Franny said. “Half the neighborhood has been here today.”

Jet smiled and poured more tea. She was, indeed, happy, and because Franny couldn’t fight that, she had a cup of tea as well, for courage was what they both needed now.

On the sixth day, the aunts fell silent, in a haze of disbelief. The future was less than forty-eight hours away. Still, no one had ever called them lazy, and they made good use of their time, setting about cleaning the house, which, frankly, had not been seen to for some time, so that the woodwork and drapes were dusty and the carpets had to be taken out to the porch and beaten with a broom. It was traditional to do so after a death, to prepare for the mourners and clear out anything the deceased might wish to keep private, but knowing what they knew, they had the opportunity to complete the task together before the funeral. They covered the mirrors and opened the windows to let in fresh air. Sparrows were nesting in the shrubbery and buds had appeared on the magnolias that lined the street. The sisters packed up Jet’s clothing and her collection of novels, along with the batch of letters Levi had sent her when she was a girl, mostly concerning how they might manage to meet without the Reverend catching on. There was another correspondence that Jet treasured, letters tied up with blue ribbon. These were Rafael’s. She gazed at them, on the brink of tears.

“His?” Franny said. She’d never questioned Jet about her love life. Still, she’d been curious.

Jet nodded. She thought about what might have happened if Rafael hadn’t taken a part-time job as a bellman while he was going to college. “Life is luck.”

“That it is,” Franny agreed.

When they were through with the house, and the woodwork shone and the cobwebs were all swept away with a broom, they had a picnic lunch that included splurging on all of their favorite childhood foods which were too rich for them now: jam sandwiches, scones with lavender honey, cheese and chive biscuits, sliced apples with cream. Later, they walked to the cemetery where Jet wrote out a check, the final payment for the plot beside Levi Willard, whom she had loved when she was so young and hadn’t any idea of what love meant. Then they went out grocery shopping for the ingredients they needed. In the morning, when Sally came into the kitchen, ready to head to the library, her aunts were baking a Chocolate Tipsy Cake, a family tradition for birthdays, weddings, and funerals ever since Maria Owens’s time.

“Do you know how many calories are in that?” Sally said. All the same, she sat down at the table and ate the leftover batter with a spoon. “What are we celebrating?” she asked.

Sally looked exhausted, with dark bluish circles under her eyes. She worked too much and she hadn’t conditioned her hair for ages, but she was still beautiful and, in the aunts’ eyes, still their little girl.

“If you can’t eat chocolate cake for breakfast, what is the point of being alive?” Franny said.

On the morning of the seventh day, when the ashy circle around Jet closed so that she was surrounded by a black aura and time was running out, they did exactly that. For reasons Sally could never explain to herself, nor understand, she joined her aunts at the breakfast table, and instead of her usual yogurt and blueberries, she had the biggest slice of all.

Jet insisted they all have dinner in the taproom at the Black Rabbit Inn that evening. She’d already phoned Gillian, who would fetch Kylie and Antonia and drive them up from Cambridge. Jet had made reservations as well, the rear table, far away from the fiddler who played there after six, whose mother had often come to them for a success elixir for her son, though, due to the level of his talent, there was none to be had.

“Are you certain you want them all here on the seventh day?” Franny asked with concern.

“They’ll need to be here on the eighth day, won’t they? I don’t want you to have to handle everything alone.”

Franny had little choice but to agree. She couldn’t yet bring herself to think about the eighth day and a world without Jet. Perhaps just this one time, she might need help dealing with what was to come. Although the Black Rabbit certainly would not have been her choice for a last supper; she couldn’t stand the cheerful dining room, with its red-checked tablecloths and a menu of second-rate New England food: boiled potatoes, baked cod, macaroni and cheese, always burned on top, along with salads that included only shredded iceberg lettuce, and all manner of puddings for dessert, the specialty being something called cheesecake upside-down, which the kitchen had been serving to mixed reviews for more than a hundred years.

At the close of the afternoon, before the others arrived, Jet grabbed her spring coat and set out for the library.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Franny wanted to know. The truth was she didn’t wish to let her sister out of her sight. The deathwatch beetle had situated itself in the linen closet on the second floor and its clacking was louder all the time. Franny had used bug spray and set out traps laced with sugar with no success. When it came down to it, she knew this was one insect it was impossible to be rid of.

“What I want most is for this to be an ordinary day,” Jet explained. “On an ordinary day I’d go get Sally to be certain she left the library at a decent hour.”

“Fine. But be at the inn by five. I’ll bring the girls. Don’t leave me stranded there.”

Time was everything, and there was so little of it. Jet walked the long way around, stopping at the cemetery to visit Levi Willard, bringing a bunch of daffodils from the garden, yellow with orange centers dotted with inky black marks. She lay down in the grass next to his headstone and looked up at a sky clotted with clouds. She was beginning to say good-bye to the world, to all the things she loved, grass and sky, the lanes in town that were so shady and green, the library where she and Franny and Vincent would go on sultry days during their first summer in town. When she arrived, Sally was still working even though it was nearly five and they certainly didn’t want to keep Franny waiting at the inn.

“I need fifteen minutes to close up,” Sally called when Jet came through the door. Sally was in a hurry, as always, but something made her stop and gaze into Jet’s eyes. They seemed darker than usual, the pale gray flecked with black. Dear Jet, whose love and good heart were constant, appeared to be quite exhausted. “Are you all right?” Sally smoothed down her aunt’s hair. “Is that mud on your shoes?”

“I’ve been for a walk in the cemetery.” On Jet’s last night in the world she saw everything with clear eyes, including her beloved niece. How kindhearted Sally was. How vulnerable beneath all that bluster. Sally had been the one who had found the aunts listed in their mother’s phone book, and had called clear across the country to inform them that she and Gillian would be coming to stay. Their aunts had loved them beyond measure ever since.

Sally narrowed her eyes, wondering if Jet was trying to pull a fast one. She had always been wary, certain that Jet wasn’t exactly what she seemed to be. Once, in the year when she’d turned thirteen, Sally had gone so far as to follow Jet into Manhattan, breaking into a run to catch up with her outside Penn Station. Jet had surprised her by being furious.

“I want one day a month to myself,” Jet had said as they stood on Eighth Avenue, nearly deafened by the roar of the traffic. “If I want to go to a museum or take a walk in Central Park, it’s no one’s business but my own.”

Sally had been embarrassed and had quickly apologized. They’d gone to a coffee shop where Sally had been treated to an ice-cream soda, then she had taken the train home, leaving Jet to do as she pleased. But Sally had the sight, and she knew there was more to the story, then and now. She so rarely used her bloodline talents, that the sight came to her in little sparks, almost as if she’d had a slight electric shock. She blinked and took a step closer to her aunt. There was the scent of smoke and the ceiling above them was shadowed with a black smudge. Could it be that the room needed to be repainted? Hadn’t they had the Merrill brothers do so only two years earlier?

“There’s something you’re not telling me,” Sally mused.

“Gillian and the girls are joining us for the evening,” Jet explained. “Isn’t that a lovely surprise?”

“Why didn’t you mention it this morning? I have nothing to serve for dinner other than canned soup!” Antonia was such a picky eater now that she was pregnant and Kylie was a vegetarian, and lately Sally and the aunts had mostly eaten pasta and tomato soup, quick easy meals that took no care or thought.

“We’re meeting Franny and having dinner at the inn.”

“Franny loathes the inn,” Sally said, even more suspicious.

“We want it to be a special night,” Jet explained. “We’ll all be together.”

“Well, then, the inn it is,” Sally agreed.

While Sally saw to her end of the day’s duties, Jet sat down and observed the room. She took in everything she usually would have ignored: the skittering sound of mice beneath the floorboards, the clock ticking off seconds, the wind hitting against the cloudy windows. There were fingerprints on the glass cases of the rare books, and the ceiling fan spun in a cockeyed circle. She noticed that the hems of the curtains that were original to the library were decorated with an intricate pattern of moons in every phase. Funny how she’d never seen that before; she’d never looked deeply enough. Jet gazed around the room, wondering what else she had never noticed, and there it was. The bricks directly beneath Maria’s framed journal page were not fitted properly. The mortar was a dark crimson. Jet crossed the room so she might place a hand on the wall. You can live a whole lifetime without knowing what was right in front of you. Seeing has little to do with opening your eyes; it’s what you feel inside that counts, it’s what you know without anyone telling you.

Behind the bricks there was a steady rhythm, the pulse of a book that had been hidden for more than three hundred years. Jet loosened one of the bricks by scraping a pen against mortar. She wriggled the brick back and forth until it gave way and could be pried loose. The space behind the wall was dank and icy cold. It appeared to be empty until Jet reached her hand inside. A shiver ran through her as she brought forth a small black book. The Book of the Raven.

Maria Owens might have rid the world of this slim volume, for it had nearly ruined her daughter Faith’s life, but to destroy a book seemed an unnatural act, especially one written by a woman of great talent and skill. Instead of burning it, Maria had come here to the library, then set to work hiding The Book of the Raven, a dark spell book that had brought her daughter to the left-handed side of magic long ago. She’d deposited this Grimoire behind the loose bricks, mixing in three drops of her blood to seal the mortar, well aware that some things should stay hidden until they were meant to be found, for the knowledge this book held was so dark it was intended for a reader who possessed the ability to handle its power. Maria had just had a child with the man she loved and was in no position to use The Book of the Raven. In time, however, an Owens woman would discover the book, and use it as it should be used, with love and courage.

This was that time. The seventh day. Jet’s last day on earth.

When she reached for the book, the binding scalded her fingertips. She could feel the darkness within the text. She knew left-handed magic when she saw it, black magic so perilous that every page was inflamed. She thought of the time her brother, Vincent, had discovered The Magus, a compilation of the history of magic first published in 1801. The Magus had shaken the bureau drawer whenever it was locked away, as if it had a life and a mind of its own. At the turn of the century it had been deemed so fearsome that copies had been burned on bonfires in Washington Square.

The Book of the Raven had been written by the first woman to publish a book in England, Amelia Bassano. Salve Deus Rex Judaeorum, her volume of poems, had been written from a woman’s point of view, defending Eve, thought to have caused sin in the mortal world. Bassano had gone largely unrecognized due to her gender, but that hadn’t stopped her from writing. Jet had now rediscovered this second book no one but its users knew about, Amelia Bassano’s private Grimoire, an ode to the Dark Art sometimes referred to as a Book of Shadows. It was a volume made up of equal parts love and revenge, meant to help a woman in need, a woman who’d been cursed, who was in love, who was desperate, who was at the end of her life and the end of her rope. On the very first page Un desiderio was written in pale blue ink. One wish. That was what the book promised to grant its reader.

Amelia Bassano was the daughter of a Jew from Venice, from a family of musicians who had lived on the outskirts of power, attached to the court of England, where she learned more than most educated men about politics and falconry and music and myth. At the age of thirteen she’d been a mistress to Lord Hunsdon, the Queen’s patron of the theater, said to be Anne Boleyn’s son, and she was said to have had an affair with Christopher Marlowe, who had taught her the art of writing for the theater. Language was everything. Trust was for fools. Love came and went. Words could be stolen. There were those who said she was the Dark Lady William Shakespeare wrote about and that it was she who taught him to write plays. There had always been rumors that he had loved her, but in this book she claimed even more. She had not only taught him how to write, she had written the plays.

The last chapter of The Book of the Raven was titled “How to End a Curse.”

I didn’t know that what you sent into the world came back to you threefold, and that I would be the one to suffer. To begin a curse is done with ease, to break it takes a great sacrifice.

Everything worthwhile is dangerous.

Jet could hear Sally returning books to the shelves in the travel section; fortunately she was too far away for her to observe Jet slip the slim volume into her coat pocket, then hastily replace the brick in the wall, her hands now stained with blood and mortar. Sally might have seen the abnormality in the wall had she been able to see the color red, but as it was, she was still disconnected from her emotions, and had walked past it daily without a glance. She’d never once noticed what was right in front of her.

Gillian and her nieces drove up from Cambridge, leaving before rush-hour traffic set in. The sky was bright and blue and the magnolias were so spectacular that people from all over the commonwealth came to gawk as soon as the buds began to bloom in creamy cups.

“Home sweet home,” Gillian said when she and Antonia and Kylie unfolded themselves from her black and white Mini, which, considering how huge Antonia was in the seventh month of her pregnancy, could not have fit anything more than the three women and a tray of heirloom tomato seedlings called Blue Zebra that Gillian had brought for her aunt Jet.

Jet had always been especially fond of Gillian, despite the fact that Gilly had been a wild girl who had looked for trouble in her youth, and had made certain to find it. Sally had pulled her back from the brink, and Gillian would always be grateful to her sister.

But that was long ago, and Gillian had learned her lesson. She blushed when recalling her mistakes and all those dreadful men she’d taken up with; she had long ago come to understand she was entitled to kindness and comfort. Gillian had thought she was through with love, until she’d met Ben Frye. He’d been her niece’s science teacher, the opposite of the men she’d gone for in the past, steady and earnest and kindhearted. She still laughed to think he’d been attracted to her because of her ability to work complex figures in her head. Halfway through her life, she’d been lucky in love. She’d avoided the curse by following the rules. Don’t live together, don’t declare your love, no wedding rings, no displays of affection in public. Ben had been puzzled and somewhat hurt by these strange traditions.

“Your aunt Franny didn’t hide the fact that she was married,” he reminded her.

Yes, but that was after her beloved Haylin had been diagnosed with stage four cancer, and once there was no cure the curse couldn’t touch them.

“And Sally!” Ben had said. “She was married twice.”

And look at her, twice a widow and brokenhearted. And look at me, without a daughter, what I want most in the world.

To do their best to trick the curse, Gillian and Ben had wed simply and quietly at the courthouse and Gillian refused to have their marriage officially recorded. Whether or not they were legally married was up for debate; certainly Gillian refused to wear a ring. They lived in a two-family house in Central Square, where Gillian resided on the ground floor, while Ben took the upstairs apartment. Whenever he asked why they must live separately—neither earned much of a salary—Ben was a science teacher at Cambridge Rindge and Latin School and MIT didn’t pay lab technicians a fortune and clearly it would have made more sense to live in one apartment and rent out the other—Gillian asserted that too much togetherness was certain to ruin a relationship, especially in the Owens family. In truth, they spent most nights together, and when they didn’t Ben would often spy Gillian out in their small garden, sleepless and shivering, scanning the heavens, as if she might find an answer there in the night sky above them as to how the curse had found her despite her deception.

When she saw Antonia blooming in the last trimester of her pregnancy, her red hair pinned up, her freckled skin rosy and flushed, Gillian felt her heart jolt. Her one wish was to have a daughter, but now that she was forty-three she’d begun to wonder if her inability to have a child was the work of the curse. She had been to infertility specialists at Mass General and when that didn’t work, she’d begged the aunts for a cure. Franny and Jet had done their best, attempting any number of traditional botanical remedies. Myrrh, juniper berries, licorice, skullcap, pennyroyal, hemlock, chamomile flowers, unicorn root taken in small doses, butterfly weed, a tea of stinging nettle to strengthen the uterus, motherwort to bolster Gillian’s immune system. She had tried red clover and evening primrose oil, and the oddly named chasteberry, along with black cohosh. She ate pomegranates and olive oil, honey and cinnamon, and had even tried the ancient ritual of bringing a toad to sleep in her bed, all to no avail. Now, to explain her brimming eyes as they stood in front of the old house, Gillian told her nieces she was affected by the spring pollen in the air. Antonia and Kylie exchanged a look, for both had read that the pollen count on this day was zero.

Franny was out on the porch waiting, which wasn’t at all like her. Usually, she was the last to be ready for anything. “Come in. Come in,” she called.

Antonia held on to Kylie’s arm so she wouldn’t trip on the bluestone path that led through the falling shadows. “Why do they keep turning off the porch light?” Antonia muttered.

“That’s your mother’s decision,” Gillian informed them. “No neighbors need come to call.”

“Call for what?” Kylie asked. The family had kept secrets from Kylie and Antonia, at Sally’s insistence. To them, magic was little more than a story in a book of fairy tales.

A small dog came out, yapping at them.

“What’s going on here?” Antonia wanted to know. “Who is this creature?”

It was explained that Jet was watching over Reverend Willard’s dog, and that she had gone to fetch Sally and would meet them at the inn. The tomato seedlings were left in the garden, and they all traipsed into the kitchen, where half a Chocolate Tipsy Cake sat on a platter on the marble counter.

“Why wait for dinner?” Gillian grinned, getting some cake plates from the cabinet. “We can have chocolate cake as an appetizer.”

“I can’t eat that,” Antonia scolded. “All that rum? It’s much too alcoholic.”

“Sorry.” Gillian felt like a fool. Of course, a pregnant woman couldn’t have rum, not the amount that was in this recipe. In many ways Antonia reminded her of Sally, so sure of herself, so logical and matter-of-fact, always wanting clear-cut evidence before she made a decision. “Of course you can’t,” Gillian apologized.

“I can,” Kylie said, looping one arm around Gillian’s waist. “I’ll have her slice, too.”

Dear Kylie, who had grown so tall so fast, reaching her full height by the time she was ten, coming to her aunt Gillian to ask in a small voice if she might be a giant. In fact, she was a true beauty, with long hair that glinted copper in certain slants of light, and gray-green eyes, but she had a nervous disposition and couldn’t sit still. She had been a runner in high school and it often seemed as if she might take off at a fast clip at any given moment. Men stopped on the street when they saw her, mouths open, but she never even noticed.

Kylie ate her cake with her fingers, as she had when she was five years old, in heaven from the very first bite. She still considered Chocolate Tipsy Cake to be the best dessert in the world. She wished that Gideon were here with her. He would have probably finished the rest of the cake with ease.

“What are you thinking about?” Franny asked her great-niece. “Your face is all lit up.”

“Nothing,” Kylie was quick to say. She was discreet about all things, taught to be so by living in a town where people tended to judge the Owenses and gossip was rampant. Her love life was her own business, not that she was making that sort of admission to anyone, not even to members of her own family. “No one,” she insisted even though Franny was giving her that stern look she always had when she didn’t believe a word you said.

They had the best table in the dining room, thanks to Jet having helped the host with his love life several years ago. When the fiddler started up they could barely hear him, which was all for the best. “Yoo-hoo,” Jet called when the family arrived. “We’ve already ordered the macaroni and cheese as a starter.”

There was a great deal of hugging, but Franny was out of sorts. “Seriously? The macaroni and cheese?”

“We never eat that,” Sally said, agreeing with her aunt. “It’s totally unhealthy.”

“Well, just tonight, as a lark,” Jet said. “Just this once.”

Jet was so apologetic and sweet, Franny felt guilty complaining about the food, which was known far and wide to be terrible, and she buried her head in the oversized menu, lest anyone see that her eyes were brimming with tears. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to the inn, and most of the customers were nervous in her presence, convinced she could perceive their wrongdoings and transgressions and that they would be made to atone for thoughtless deeds by the use of witchery. One fool went so far as to send Franny a bottle of wine, hoping to win her favor, but she sent it right back, with a note scribbled on a napkin. Be faithful to your wife and you have nothing to fear.

Jet, on the other hand, was delighted to see her neighbors, many of whom had found their way to the Owenses’ front door over the years in search of tonics and remedies, receiving their fair share of green magic, horseradish and cayenne for coughs, Fever Tea for flu, black mustard seed for those plagued by nightmares. Several members of the waitstaff had waved, delighted to see her, for many had been clients as well.

“I wish someone had told me you were coming for dinner,” Sally murmured to Gillian.

“I thought you knew. Anyway, we’re here now and we’re staying the night.”

“I’m never included,” Sally said, stealing a glance at her daughters.

“You could be if you wanted to be,” Gillian said. “You’re always working.”

“Of course, I want to be.” It was true, Sally had been more and more distant, and she regretted it. She was grouchy and had become something of a loner, and that was not who she wanted to be. “Let’s kick the girls out of the attic and sleep up there.” Long ago, Sally and Gillian had shared the attic; they’d sat out on the roof on summer nights counting stars.

“Don’t you look wonderful,” Jet said to Antonia, who frankly was relieved that there was something to eat set out on the table. She didn’t understand how it was possible for her to be so hungry, but she was and she spooned up the macaroni and cheese.

“I’m uber-healthy,” Antonia told her aunt. “No sugar, no coffee, no alcohol.”

“You don’t wish there was someone to help you when the baby comes?” Jet wanted to know.

“Women have been having babies on their own since the beginning of time, Jetty. And besides, I have Scott and Joel. We’re in this together, and they’re constantly on my case. I don’t eat enough, apparently.” Antonia took note of the worry on Jet’s face. “I don’t need someone special, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m too busy to fall in love. Besides, I’m not even sure I believe in it.”

“You will,” Jet assured her. “It will make a mess of things and your life will never be the same, but it will happen. No one is immune.”

It was lovely to all be together, but as time wore on, Jet realized that the beetle had followed her and was now directly beneath her chair. She could hear it chirping, more softly now, as if it barely had any energy. The time had nearly come.

Jet would never know the end of Kylie’s story, her darling great-niece who had been such a charming, awkward child, who loved to work in the garden and get dirty, who borrowed Jet’s novels and sprawled out on the window seat below Maria Owens’s portrait to read Wide Sargasso Sea and Jane Eyre. She would never get to meet Antonia’s child, or spend summer afternoons with her beloved Gillian, canning tomatoes or making soap as they did every year in the old cauldron they set up at the rear of the garden. She wouldn’t get to see Sally fall in love, the sort of love that would take up her whole heart, so that she didn’t hold anything back the way she had even with that wonderful Gary, the kind of love Jet had found with Rafael, despite the fact that they were forced to hide from the curse. Life was like a book, Jet thought, but one you would never finish. You would never know how people would wind up; the good often suffered and the wicked prospered and there was no explanation for the way in which fate was meted out as there was in novels. Fiction made sense of the world, perhaps that was why Jet had been a fanatical reader as a girl. When Levi Willard died, so tragically and before his time, novels had saved her. Sometimes, when the world looked especially gloomy, Jet returned to the ones that had helped her through her darkest hours. Wuthering Heights, The Scarlet Letter, and Fahrenheit 451, her favorite, a love letter to books.

“I’m tired.” Jet explained as she called for the check. “We’ve had a long day.”

Franny paled when she heard this. It was the evening of the seventh day, the time she had dreaded ever since the bees appeared. They left through the bar and perhaps Jet couldn’t quite bear for their night to end. She stopped to order a whiskey. For what was to come, she needed strength.

“Good idea,” Gillian said, calling over the bartender, a fellow named Jed who swore they had dated in high school, though Gillian, for the life of her, couldn’t remember him.

“Seriously?” Sally said to Jet, disbelieving. “You don’t drink.”

“Now and then.” Jet shrugged. “It helps me sleep.” As a matter of fact, the whiskey was delightful, tasting of smoke and wood.

“Why not?” Franny, who had never once ordered anything at the bar of the Black Rabbit, relented and joined her sister in a toast. It was their last night after all. They might as well do as they pleased. “To us,” Franny said.

Jet nodded. “Always and forever.”

Antonia and Kylie stood at the bar, Antonia because her belly wouldn’t fit in the space allotted when perched on a barstool, and Kylie to keep her company.

“Something for you, ladies?” Jed the bartender asked, though he was still gazing at Gillian.

“I’m pregnant and she’s underage,” Antonia answered. “So, no.”

“Thanks,” Kylie said to her sister. “I was just about to get my first Black Rabbit martini.”

Gillian overheard and came over to order one, letting Kylie have a sip. “Happy now?” Gillian asked. The martinis at the Black Rabbit were especially dreadful.

Kylie made a face and pushed the glass away. “Why do people drink these?”

“To get drunk,” Gillian said. “There’s no other reason.”

“Do you get the feeling something isn’t right?” Antonia asked their aunt.

Gillian looked past Sally, who was paying for the drinks, to the end of the bar where the aunts were on their second round of whiskeys.

“It all ends,” she said for some reason. There was no point in getting moody, so she shook her head, snapped her fingers, and grinned. “Even a night at the Black Rabbit.”

By the time they turned onto Magnolia Street, the aunts were tipsy. The magnolias had bloomed early this year, the white and mauve cups of petals high above them in the dark on twisted black branches.

How lucky, Jet thought. How I wish I had all the time in the world.

Franny and Jet walked slowly, their arms linked, taking so long to reach their corner, Sally had a feeling of dread when she turned to look over her shoulder. Her beloved aunts were old. She’d thought they were old when she was a little girl, for back then anyone over forty had seemed ancient. Now she was nearly to the middle of her forties, likely the age the aunts had been when she and Gillian arrived, and Jet and Franny were in their eighties. Franny carried an umbrella these days for she’d be damned if she used a cane and her knee had been bothering her, despite applications of lavender oil. As for Jet, she seemed both exhausted and jittery, a worrisome combination.

“I’ll just have a little rest,” Jet said once they reached home.

“What is wrong with her?” Gillian asked Sally after Jet had retired to her room, the Reverend’s dog at her heels. It was barely seven.

“I don’t know,” Sally said. “I’m worried.” If she had allowed herself to call up the sight, she might have known exactly what was happening, but it had been many years since she’d accessed any magic, and like all things that aren’t used, her talent had begun to waste away.

Franny reached to stroke Sally’s hair, which was not at all like her. She was not the touchy-feely sort. Not one bit. “She just needs some peace and quiet.”

Jet was already behind her locked bedroom door, sitting at her desk, another woman’s spell book open before her, a rare occurrence, for such books were meant to be burned upon the death of the writer, unless there was a family member to inherit the text. Jet understood that the Owens family beginnings were in England, in a rural area they referred to as the first Essex County since they lived in the second, which had been named by the Pilgrims for the home across the sea they had left.

The Book of the Raven had escaped destruction since the time it had been hand-printed in London, in 1615. On the first page, in sloping script, was the name Faith Owens, for Faith had found the volume in a New York City market. It begins at the beginning, had been written on the very first page. Below that line there was a quote from William Shakespeare, who had written of his admiration and desire for Amelia Bassano.

Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love.

How to exact revenge, how to break another’s heart, how to cause a rival to fall ill, how to escape from a cruel man, how to set fires without touching a candle, how to make figures of wax and cloth and blackthorn and scarlet thread that would cause grave results to an intended enemy, how to bring on a curse, and more important, how to end it. Near the end of the book, there was a warning. To end a curse, be prepared to give up everything. There was always a price to pay, one higher than anyone might have imagined. All the same, there would always be women in such dire situations they were willing to yield to the left side, those who had no choice, who had been trapped, chained, reviled, cast aside, cursed.

There were blisters on Jet’s fingers that had risen from touching the last page. A line of invisible writing revealed itself.

When you are ready and have nothing to lose. When you are unafraid. When you wish to save someone else more than you wish to save yourself.

It was only when Jet read the last line of the curse-breaker that she realized just how dangerous the book was. The price of using it was far too dear for most practitioners. In good faith, she could not leave this book in her room for Franny to find. She wished she could be the one to break the curse, but because it was her seventh day, only someone else could complete what she had begun. She did what she must with great haste, knowing that time would not wait. She took a pot of paste she used whenever she attached samples of herbs or plants to the Grimoire. It was strong stuff, made of bird bones and black stones and, once it had set, was impossible to remove unless you knew the secret to doing so. She glued the last two pages together, so that the dangerous remedy would be hidden, and set a privacy spell upon the last section of the book so that no one would accidentally stumble upon it. At last, she scrawled a note that she folded in between the pages of The Poems of Emily Dickinson, always kept on her night table. If Franny ever did use the curse-breaker, she would have to search for it, and perhaps it would be better if The Book of the Raven was never found again.

Jet left the dog behind and went downstairs, and while Sally was asking Franny what might have caused Jet to retire so early, with Gillian assuring her that it was likely the effects of the whiskey, and Franny keeping her knowledge of the future to herself, Jet lifted her coat from the peg in the hallway. She could hear the deathwatch beetle clacking at her feet as she swept up Sally’s set of keys to the library before stepping outside. Jet felt she had never been as wide awake nor as focused on her surroundings. The rustling of the gauzy leaves on the trees. The birds in the thickets, waking as she passed by. She hurried as fast as she could. The beautiful world was already slipping away.

Jet was gone less than an hour, the beetle following along on the dark, windy street, a shadow it was impossible to dodge. Franny was waiting at the gate when her sister returned. Daisy was beside her waiting as well, barking, comforted only when Jet lifted her up. Both Sally and Gillian had gone up to bed, sharing the attic room where they’d grown up, with Kylie and Antonia each taking spare bedrooms on the second floor that were usually considered too fancy for family, not that they ever had any other guests.

Franny had been out on the porch the entire time, pacing. “You weren’t in your bed,” she said accusingly. She didn’t usually fuss, but her deep worry showed now.

“One last look around town. Remember the day we first came here with Vincent? When everyone on the street stared at us?”

“We were worth staring at,” Franny said. “We were marvelous.”

They went into the garden. There were the old wicker chairs, near the herb garden. There was the beehive, empty now. Long ago their aunt Isabelle had raised brown and white chickens and they’d loved to collect the blue speckled eggs, warm in their hands. They’d had a dozen cats, every single one black, but all had grown old and died. The greenhouse was padlocked shut and the cloudy glass shone. Everything was white as parchment in the light of the moon. They held hands and scanned the sky as pale moths flitted up from the damp grass. Once upon a time there were two sisters, as different from each other as night and day. In their family a sister was everything, your heart and soul, and here they were together on the last evening of Jet’s life, grateful to be so. Oh, seven days. Oh, beautiful world. Oh, how lucky they were.
\"},{\"id\":\"132806678T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Beloved author Alice Hoffman brings the Owens family saga to its enchanting conclusion with book four in the Practical Magic series. Spanning the globe, The Book of Magic is a must-read finale that celebrates the power of love and family.

\"},{\"id\":\"132806677T\",\"type\":\"Reading Group Guide\",\"linkText\":\"Reading Group Guide\",\"typeId\":\"1021\",\"abbr\":\"RGG\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"This reading group guide for The Book of Magic includes an introduction, discussion questions, ideas for enhancing your book club, and a Q&A with author Alice Hoffman. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.

Introduction

Master storyteller Alice Hoffman brings us the conclusion of the Practical Magic series in a spellbinding and enchanting final Owens novel brimming with lyric beauty and vivid characters.

The Owens family has been cursed in matters of love for more than three hundred years, but all of that is about to change. The novel begins in a library, the best place for a story to be conjured, when beloved aunt Jet Owens hears the deathwatch beetle and knows she has only seven days to live. Jet is not the only one in danger—the curse is already at work.

A frantic attempt to save a young man’s life spurs three generations of the Owens women, and one long-lost brother, to use their unusual gifts to break the curse as they travel from Paris to London to the English countryside where their ancestor Maria Owens first practiced the Unnamed Art. The younger generation discovers secrets that have been hidden from them in matters of both magic and love by Sally, their fiercely protective mother. As Kylie Owens uncovers the truth about who she is and what her own dark powers are, her aunt Franny comes to understand that she is ready to sacrifice everything for her family, and Sally Owens realizes that she is willing to give up everything for love.

The Book of Magic is a breathtaking conclusion that celebrates mothers and daughters, sisters and brothers, and anyone who has ever been in love.

Topics & Questions for Discussion

1. Centuries before the events in The Book of Magic, the Owens family matriarch, Maria Owens, invoked an enchantment meant to protect generations of her family to come. Discuss how the generations within The Book of Magic each deal with the curse and its restrictions. What other legacies did her family inherit?

2. The Book of Magic is both contemporary fiction and magical realism. How does Alice Hoffman blend both genres? What are examples from each genre in the book?

3. Libraries play a critical role throughout the novel, and the Owens children were taught to find their way to a library if they were ever lost. What are some libraries, literal or otherwise, which have been havens for you? What do you seek out when feeling lost?

4. Sally is fiercely protective of her daughters, and keeps the truth of their magical inheritance and Maria’s curse from them. Do you think Sally had a right to keep the truth from her daughters? How does Sally evolve throughout the novel?

5. A few of the characters have a particular talent when it comes to their magical gifts, Vincent, for example, is a finder, and Kylie can see auras. Consider all the specialized talents detailed throughout the novel. Is one more valuable than another? If you could choose to have a particular ability, which would it be and why?

6. Antonia is a scientist and the most logical of all the Owens women. How does she fit into the rest of the family? What was the significance of having her unlock the secret to breaking the curse?

7. In one of Jet’s last messages before passing on she writes, “Everything worthwhile is dangerous.” What does she mean by this? Do you consider this a warning or encouragement?

8. Another piece of advice Jet leaves for Kylie, and one which is invoked by others throughout the novel, is to trust no one. How is this advice valuable? Was it ever detrimental?

9. Baking is used throughout the novel as its own form of magic, one that attracts goodwill and loved ones. Margaret welcomes her son home with favorites like ploughman’s pasties and ginger pudding, while the Owenses make pies to draw Kylie to them. What other food and drink play a role in the novel? How does the novel’s fare affect the characters and their relationships? Do you have any recipes which act as magic in your own home or family?

10. Consider Tom and Ian; both were exposed to the “Crooked Path” early in life, each with drastically different outcomes. What else is similar about these two men? Discuss what led to their contrasting conclusions.

11. One of the family traditions is making Chocolate Tipsy Cake (at one point Franny even says, “If you can’t eat chocolate cake for breakfast, what is the point of being alive?”). What other traditions are mentioned throughout the novel? Share your own family or community’s traditions with the group.

12. “Ian was covered with ink, nineteen tattoos in all, and every one told a story.” Do you have any tattoos? If you’re comfortable doing so, share the story or inspiration behind them, or whether you’ve ever considered getting a tattoo. What would you have inked if you decided to get one?

13. “Love was inside every story,” Franny thinks toward the end of the novel. Discuss the different ways and different types—familial, romantic, mania, etc.—of love in this book and how it shaped the story.

Enhance Your Book Club

1. The Book of Magic begins and ends in a library, and Alice Hoffman references many book titles throughout the novel. Check out the list of referenced titles after the final chapter and discuss which of them are familiar. Does anyone have a favorite? Are you planning to read one or more on the list? Make a list of your own favorite books and share them with the group.

2. Although each novel can be read on their own, The Book if Magic is a culmination of a series which first introduced characters in Practical Magic. Split up the other novels in the series (Practical Magic and its prequels, The Rules of Magic and Magic Lessons) among the group and go around presenting a case for which novel your group should read together next. If you’ve already read them, discuss the themes which are carried throughout the novels or craft your own story about the next (or a past!) Owens generation.

3. On both sides of the Atlantic, Antonia, Sally, and Gillian make “Lost Daughter” pies to draw Kylie to them. Search for a recipe and try making your own pie, apple or another favorite fruit, to enjoy with a pot of tea.

4. Watch the film adaption of Practical Magic starring Sandra Bullock and Nicole Kidman. Does the film’s setting live up to what you imagine the Owens family house to look like? Imagine casting The Book of Magic, which actors do you imagine would play each character in an adaption?

5. Visit alicehoffman.com to sign up for Alice’s newsletter, where she shares behind-the-scenes looks at her writing, updates on events, exclusive giveaways, recipes, and more!

A Conversation with Alice Hoffman

You’ve said in previous interviews that you always start writing with a question in mind. What was the question that you asked before writing this book, and did you find your answer?

AH: My question was, what is the end of the story for the Owens family? I found many of my answers, and there was closure, but I realized that when I finished writing their stories will continue as they move into the future.

The Book of Magic is rich with details in its setting, enchantments, and historical references, especially as the characters traveled to different cities. What was the process behind your research? Have you spent any time in the locations described in the novel?

AH: My research process is usually to do an initial amount of research and begin to create a world for the characters to move into. I have visited many of the places in the book, but some of them I only know through the characters travels.

Jet leaves a note with a reminder to Vincent saying, “Live a lot,” which is a phrase repeated by other Owens family members throughout the novel. Does this advice have any real-life inspiration? Do you have any pieces of advice that you consider in your day-to-day life, or advice for any aspiring writers?

AH: I think this is good advice for everyone. It’s a reminder that we only live once. My advice for aspiring writers is to keep writing!

Witches and familiars traditionally go hand in hand, and there’s a line from The Book of Magic saying, “When you had a familiar you had a soul mate.” Can you tell us about an animal that has been special in your life?

AH: I have had many animals that have been special to me, but the one I was closest to was a German Shepherd dog named Houdini, whom I still miss every day.

“The best stories begin in a library.” How have libraries played a role in your life? Do you have any special memories from libraries?

AH: Libraries completely changed my life. When I was growing up, I became a huge reader, and I am still grateful for the Malverne Public Library which allowed me to have a library card even though I didn’t live in that town.

Do you ever have chocolate cake for breakfast?

AH: Whenever possible!

By the end of The Book of Magic, readers have met new Owens family members and said goodbye to others. Did you know where each of the characters would end up when you began writing? Were there any whose journeys surprised you while the novel came together?

AH: I always think that I know how a character’s journey will end, and I am always surprised. The Book of Magic surprised me every day, and that was part of the pleasure of writing it.

Do you have a favorite line from The Book of Magic?

AH: My favorite line is the first line of the novel, “Some stories begin at the beginning and others begin at the end, but all the best stories begin in a library.”

The detailed historical note about Amelia Bassano at the end of the book is fascinating! How were you inspired to incorporate a true historical figure? Are there any parallels between Amelia and characters in The Book of Magic?

AH: Amelia Bassano was the first woman to publish a book of poems in the United Kingdom. She is the author of the imaginary Grimoire that is discovered by the Owens family in Magic Lessons. I think she reflects the difficulties that women who have ambition face and those who may be viewed as different.

You’ve written more than thirty novels. Where do you find your inspiration? Is there a moment when you know a story is ready to be written, or will become a novel?

AH: I find my inspiration in different places. Sometimes in a museum as I did with The Marriage of Opposites, sometimes while traveling which happened with The World That We Knew, and sometimes I am lucky and a story just presents itself to me as it did with Practical Magic, the first book in the Practical Magic series.

What have you learned from these characters since first imagining them more than twenty-five years ago? What do you hope readers will take away from the Owens family?

AH: I have learned that love is the only thing that matters, and I hope that my readers take that message to heart.

Can you tell us what you’re working on now?

AH: I don’t like to talk about a book until a book is ready to be published. I can only say that the book I am working on now happens in ancient times, centered on a woman who wasn’t able to tell her own story.\"},{\"id\":\"132806684T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Alice Hoffman is the author of thirty works of fiction, including Practical Magic, Practical Magic 2, The Dovekeepers, and Magic Lessons. Visit her website: AliceHoffman.com.

\"},{\"id\":\"132806688T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Alice Hoffman is the author of thirty works of fiction, including Practical Magic, The Dovekeepers, Magic Lessons, and The Book of Magic. Visit her website: AliceHoffman.com.\"},{\"id\":\"114740871T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Alice Hoffman is the author of more than thirty works of fiction, including The Book of Magic, Magic Lessons, The World That We Knew, Practical Magic, The Rules of Magic (a Reese Witherspoon Book Club Pick), the Oprah’s Book Club Selection Here on Earth, The Red Garden, The Dovekeepers, The Museum of Extraordinary Things, The Marriage of Opposites, and Faithful. She lives near Boston.\"},{\"id\":\"132806681T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"

Alice Hoffman is the author of thirty works of fiction, including Practical Magic, Practical Magic 2, The Dovekeepers, and Magic Lessons. Visit her website: AliceHoffman.com.

\"},{\"id\":\"132806682T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"

Alice Hoffman is the author of thirty works of fiction, including Practical Magic, Practical Magic 2, The Dovekeepers, and Magic Lessons. Visit her website: AliceHoffman.com.

\"},{\"id\":\"132806685T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"6\",\"text\":\"Alice Hoffman is the author of thirty works of fiction, including Practical Magic, The Dovekeepers, Magic Lessons, and The Book of Magic. Visit her website: AliceHoffman.com.\"}]",{"_45":3642,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":3643},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39656787411185","Practical-Magic-2/Alice-Hoffman",{"_45":3645,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":3646},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39656783511793","1150444887",{"_45":3648,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39656785281265",{"_45":3650,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":3622},"gid://shopify/Metafield/83727530033393",{"_45":3652,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":3601},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39656780792049",{"_45":3654,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39656785772785",{"_45":3656,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":2059},"gid://shopify/Metafield/71298236186865",{"_45":3658,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":3659},"gid://shopify/Metafield/60640080101617","3",{"_1887":1888,"_45":3661,"_75":3662,"_1891":1892,"_834":3663,"_1894":3664,"_1896":3665,"_1898":3666,"_1905":3669,"_1913":63,"_1914":3671,"_1920":3674,"_1942":3683,"_1945":3684,"_1947":3685,"_1949":-5,"_1950":3686},"gid://shopify/Product/8846218985713","Verity (Collector's Edition)","9781538739723","SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE!Stay up all night reading the sensational psychological thriller that has readers obsessed-the inspiration for the major motion picture starring Anne Hathaway and Dakota Johnson-from the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Too Late and It Ends With Us.#1 New York Times Bestseller · USA Today Bestseller · Globe and Mail Bestseller · Publishers Weekly Bestseller Lowen Ashleigh is a struggling writer on the brink of financial ruin when she accepts the job offer of a lifetime. Jeremy Crawford, husband of bestselling author Verity Crawford, has hired Lowen to complete the remaining books in a successful series his injured wife is unable to finish. Lowen arrives at the Crawford home, ready to sort through years of Verity's notes and outlines, hoping to find enough material to get her started.What Lowen doesn't expect to uncover in the chaotic office is an unfinished autobiography Verity never intended for anyone to read-page after page of bone-chilling admissions, including Verity's recollection of the night her family was forever altered. Lowen decides to keep the manuscript hidden from Jeremy, knowing its contents could devastate the already grieving father. But as Lowen's feelings for Jeremy begin to intensify, she recognizes all the ways she could benefit if he were to read his wife's words.After all, no matter how devoted Jeremy is to his injured wife, a truth this horrifying would make it impossible for him to continue loving her.\"Sublimely creepy with a true Hoover pulse. I've been waiting for a thriller like this for years.\" -Tarryn Fisher, New York Times bestselling author of The Wrong FamilyRiveting and unexpected. Impossible to put down.\" -Claire Contreras, New York Times bestselling author of Until I Get You","SOON TO BE A MAJOR MOTION PICTURE!

Stay up all night reading the sensational psychological thriller that has readers obsessed-the inspiration for the major motion picture starring Anne Hathaway and Dakota Johnson-from the #1 New York Times bestselling author of Too Late and It Ends With Us.

#1 New York Times Bestseller · USA Today Bestseller · Globe and Mail Bestseller · Publishers Weekly Bestseller

Lowen Ashleigh is a struggling writer on the brink of financial ruin when she accepts the job offer of a lifetime. Jeremy Crawford, husband of bestselling author Verity Crawford, has hired Lowen to complete the remaining books in a successful series his injured wife is unable to finish. Lowen arrives at the Crawford home, ready to sort through years of Verity's notes and outlines, hoping to find enough material to get her started.

What Lowen doesn't expect to uncover in the chaotic office is an unfinished autobiography Verity never intended for anyone to read-page after page of bone-chilling admissions, including Verity's recollection of the night her family was forever altered. Lowen decides to keep the manuscript hidden from Jeremy, knowing its contents could devastate the already grieving father. But as Lowen's feelings for Jeremy begin to intensify, she recognizes all the ways she could benefit if he were to read his wife's words.

After all, no matter how devoted Jeremy is to his injured wife, a truth this horrifying would make it impossible for him to continue loving her.

\"Sublimely creepy with a true Hoover pulse. I've been waiting for a thriller like this for years.\" -Tarryn Fisher, New York Times bestselling author of The Wrong Family

Riveting and unexpected. Impossible to put down.\" -Claire Contreras, New York Times bestselling author of Until I Get You",{"_45":3667,"_58":3668,"_60":2317,"_54":1903,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47675315552497","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781538739723_p0.jpg?v=1765327018",{"_1907":3670},{"_1909":1910,"_1911":1912},{"_1907":3672,"_1918":3673},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":3675},[3676],{"_45":3677,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":-5,"_714":3678,"_1930":3679,"_1932":3680,"_1934":3681,"_1940":3663,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46244176101617",{"_45":3667,"_58":3668,"_1904":-5,"_60":2317,"_54":1903},{"_1909":1910,"_1911":1912},{"_75":3662,"_834":3663},[3682],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":3622},{"_1938":3663},{"_1938":1892},[3687,-5,-5,3690,3692,-5,3694,3696,3699,3702,3705,-5,3707,3709,-5,3711,3713,3715],{"_45":3688,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":3689},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39636697383153","[{\"contributorId\":14147172,\"fullName\":\"Colleen Hoover\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3691,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39636698300657",{"_45":3693,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":1892},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39636695908593",{"_45":3695,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":1967},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39636698497265",{"_45":3697,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":3698},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39636700299505","[{\"id\":\"120567928T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"\\\"Sublimely creepy with a true Hoover pulse. I've been waiting for a thriller like this for years.\\\"-Tarryn Fisher, New York Times bestselling author

\\\"Riveting and unexpected. Impossible to put down.\\\"-Claire Contreras, New York Times bestselling author

\\\"This isn't a book, it's a visceral experience.\\\"-B.B. Easton, bestselling author

\\\"Verity delivers the grand slam of thriller twists-the holy grail of'what the...?!' moments . . . It lit up my brain.\\\"-Washington Post

\\\"If you came here to find a mystery romance book that'll have you on the edge of your seat (and keep you up at night), add Verity by Colleen Hoover to your cart.\\\"-Cosmopolitan

\\\"Unravels a picture-perfect couple's courtship and marriage in truly twisted-and jaw-dropping-fashion.\\\"-Elle magazine

\\\"If you've yet to experience the delight that is reading one of Hoover's novels, we suggest starting with this . . . Prepare for your pulse to race and palms to sweat.\\\"-E! News

\\\"The energy and pace in this book are like a fun house at a carnival. It's ever-changing, and just when you think you know what to expect next, Hoover hits you with another turn. Up until the very final page, readers are mining for clues. Just when you thought you figured out the who, what, when, where, and why, it completely changes, leaving you gobsmacked.\\\"-BuzzFeed

\\\"The perfect choice if you're after a gripping read but be warned, its twists and turns may very well keep you up at night.\\\"-Refinery29

\\\"Colleen Hoover's romances and contemporary fiction novels . . . grip readers with emotionally charged storylines, unique plotlines, and twists that leave us reeling.\\\" -Business Insider

\\\"Talk about a word-of-mouth of page-turner we're still not over . . . Cue the seductive mystery that has one of our all-time fave twists. Run, don't walk.\\\"-The Skimm

\\\"An explosive, sexy thriller full of chilling admissions, incredible twists and turns, and some seriously creepy plotlines. I can honestly say that I've never read another thriller quite like it.\\\"-BookReporter.com

\\\"Seamlessly blends romance and horror.\\\"-New York Post

\\\"Full of suspense with steamy scenes and creepy undertones.\\\"-Plymouth Magazine

\\\"Hoover always tells her stories so beautifully . . . [An] ideal holiday gift.\\\"-Houstonia magazine

\\\"Emotionally charged, sinister, evocative, fascinating and very addictive. We read Verity with a knot in our stomachs from the first to last page! What a brilliant read!\\\"-TotallyBooked Blog

\\\"Wow I'm speechless, I don't know where to start with this one. Verity was a captivating, fast paced, twisted, and addictive story.\\\"-Read More Sleep Less Blog

\\\"If you've read any of our recent book round-ups here on The Everygirl, you know how much our editors love this book. It created quite the chain reaction, and now, those who have not yet read it are in the minority. Obviously, this means it is a great book, but the real reason we can't stop talking about it is because of the story-it is truly the most shocking book I have ever read. It also started a huge internet book debate about what really happened, so you'll be wrapped up in this world even after you finish reading.\\\"-The EveryGirl

\\\"I recommend this book to everyone I come across!\\\"-Her Campus

\\\"Solidified my love for romantic suspense.\\\"-She Reads

\\\"There are genuinely spooky moments that had me squirming, and all sorts of twists and turns.\\\"-Business Insider

\\\"If you're a book lover drawn to dark thrillers, start with the stand-alone page-turner Verity.\\\"-Reader's Digest

\\\"You'll stay up all night reading this . . . Hoover expertly combines thriller with romance to test the boundaries of who is telling the truth, and who is lying.\\\"-Woman's Day

\\\"What makes Verity so good is that it is both a steamy romance novel as well as a deeply twisted and disturbing psychological thriller, flawlessly wrapped into one story . . . steamy, disturbing, and surprising.\\\"-The Mary Sue

\\\"Twisted . . . a thrilling deviation from her typical romance books.\\\" -HelloGiggles\"},{\"id\":\"84950952T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Warning: This book is IMPOSSIBLE to put down. Verity's story keeps you turning page after page, and Lowen's story keeps you on the edge of your seat. This book is the definition of a gripping thriller with a bit of romance (it is a Colleen Hoover novel, after all) and an ending that will have you simply stunned.

\"},{\"id\":\"84198215T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

\"},{\"id\":\"120567929T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Colleen Hoover is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Hopeless series, the Maybe Someday series, Ugly Love, Confess, It Ends with Us, All Your Perfects, and many more. She lives in Texas with her husband and their three boys. Please visit www.ColleenHoover.com.

\"},{\"id\":\"84950953T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Colleen Hoover is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Hopeless series, the Maybe Someday series, Ugly Love, Confess, It Ends with Us, All Your Perfects, and many more. She lives in Texas with her husband and their three boys. Please visit www.ColleenHoover.com.\"},{\"id\":\"84950955T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Colleen Hoover is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of the Hopeless series, the Maybe Someday series, Ugly Love, Confess, It Ends with Us, All Your Perfects, and many more. She lives in Texas with her husband and their three boys. Please visit www.ColleenHoover.com.\"}]",{"_45":3700,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1974,"_1938":3701},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39636699578609","Verity/Colleen-Hoover",{"_45":3703,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1978,"_1938":3704},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39636694991089","1141833713",{"_45":3706,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1982,"_1938":1983},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39636698136817",{"_45":3708,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1942,"_1938":3622},"gid://shopify/Metafield/92776078344433",{"_45":3710,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1945,"_1938":3663},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39636689813745",{"_45":3712,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1990,"_1938":1991},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39636698726641",{"_45":3714,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1995,"_1938":2628},"gid://shopify/Metafield/69011374473457",{"_45":3716,"_1954":1994,"_1956":1999,"_1938":3717},"gid://shopify/Metafield/69011374440689","16",{"_1887":1888,"_45":3719,"_75":3720,"_1891":2004,"_834":3721,"_1894":3722,"_1896":3723,"_1898":3724,"_1905":3727,"_1913":63,"_1914":3730,"_1920":3733,"_1942":3742,"_1945":3744,"_1947":3745,"_1949":-5,"_1950":3746},"gid://shopify/Product/8836381606129","East of Eden","9780142004234","A masterpiece of Biblical scope, and the magnum opus of one of America's most enduring authors, in a deluxe Centennial editionIn his journal, Nobel Prize winner John Steinbeck called East of Eden \"the first book,\" and indeed it has the primordial power and simplicity of myth. Set in the rich farmland of California's Salinas Valley, this sprawling and often brutal novel follows the intertwined destinies of two families-the Trasks and the Hamiltons-whose generations helplessly reenact the fall of Adam and Eve and the poisonous rivalry of Cain and Abel.The masterpiece of Steinbeck's later years, East of Eden is a work in which Steinbeck created his most mesmerizing characters and explored his most enduring themes: the mystery of identity, the inexplicability of love, and the murderous consequences of love's absence. Adapted for the 1955 film directed by Elia Kazan introducing James Dean, and read by thousands as the book that brought Oprah's Book Club back, East of Eden has remained vitally present in American culture for over half a century. This Centennial edition, specially designed to commemorate one hundred years of Steinbeck, features french flaps and deckle-edged pages.Penguin Classics is the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world, representing a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.","A masterpiece of Biblical scope, and the magnum opus of one of America's most enduring authors, in a deluxe Centennial edition

In his journal, Nobel Prize winner John Steinbeck called East of Eden \"the first book,\" and indeed it has the primordial power and simplicity of myth. Set in the rich farmland of California's Salinas Valley, this sprawling and often brutal novel follows the intertwined destinies of two families-the Trasks and the Hamiltons-whose generations helplessly reenact the fall of Adam and Eve and the poisonous rivalry of Cain and Abel.

The masterpiece of Steinbeck's later years, East of Eden is a work in which Steinbeck created his most mesmerizing characters and explored his most enduring themes: the mystery of identity, the inexplicability of love, and the murderous consequences of love's absence. Adapted for the 1955 film directed by Elia Kazan introducing James Dean, and read by thousands as the book that brought Oprah's Book Club back, East of Eden has remained vitally present in American culture for over half a century. This Centennial edition, specially designed to commemorate one hundred years of Steinbeck, features french flaps and deckle-edged pages.

Penguin Classics is the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world, representing a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.",{"_45":3725,"_58":3726,"_60":2641,"_54":1903,"_1904":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47645700063473","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780142004234_p0.jpg?v=1768988972",{"_1907":3728},{"_1909":3729,"_1911":1912},"25.0",{"_1907":3731,"_1918":3732},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1909":2018,"_1911":1912},{"_1922":3734},[3735],{"_45":3736,"_1913":63,"_1926":63,"_1927":-5,"_714":3737,"_1930":3738,"_1932":3739,"_1934":3740,"_1940":3721,"_75":1939,"_1941":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46233042551025",{"_45":3725,"_58":3726,"_1904":-5,"_60":2641,"_54":1903},{"_1909":3729,"_1911":1912},{"_75":3720,"_834":3721},[3741],{"_805":1937,"_1938":1939},{"_1938":3743},"[\"Oprah’s Book Club (p6)\",\"High School & College (p9064)\",\"Page & Screen (p4180)\",\"Oprah's Book Club (p3693)\",\"Classroom Literature & Nonfiction (p5500)\",\"B|Bestseller|#007C6C (p7858)\",\"Paperbacks of the Year (p10818)\",\"Barnes & Noble Holiday Gift Guide (p5430)\",\"BADGE - Best Seller (p7883)\"]",{"_1938":3721},{"_1938":2004},[3747,3750,-5,3753,3755,-5,3757,3759,3762,3765,3768,-5,3770,3772,-5,3774,3776,3779],{"_45":3748,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1957,"_1938":3749},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39159514595569","[{\"contributorId\":171038,\"fullName\":\"John Steinbeck\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3751,"_1954":1955,"_1956":2277,"_1938":3752},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39159515021553","Oprah's Book Club Series",{"_45":3754,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1961,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39159515676913",{"_45":3756,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1947,"_1938":2004},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39159514005745",{"_45":3758,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1966,"_1938":2041},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39159515873521",{"_45":3760,"_1954":1955,"_1956":1970,"_1938":3761},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39159517806833","[{\"id\":\"117562300T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Chapter 1

[1]

THE SALINAS VALLEY is in Northern California. It is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the Salinas River winds and twists up the center until it falls at last into Monterey Bay.

I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer-and what trees and seasons smelled like-how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.

I remember that the Gabilan Mountains to the east of the valley were light gay mountains full of sun and loveliness and a kind of invitation, so that you wanted to climb into their warm foothills almost as you want to climb into the lap of a beloved mother. They were beckoning mountains with a brown grass love. The Santa Lucias stood up against the sky to the west and kept the valley from the open sea, and they were dark and brooding-unfriendly and dangerous. I always found in myself a dread of west and a love of east. Where I ever got such an idea I cannot say, unless it could be that the morning came over the peaks of the Gabilans and the night drifted back from the ridges of the Santa Lucias. It may be that the birth and death of the day had some part in my feeling about the two ranges of mountains.

From both sides of the valley little streams slipped out of the hill canyons and fell into the bed of the Salinas River. In the winter of wet years the streams ran full-freshet, and they swelled the river until sometimes it raged and boiled, bank full, and then it was a destroyer. The river tore the edges of the farm lands and washed whole acres down; it toppled barns and houses into itself, to go floating and bobbing away. It trapped cows and pigs and sheep and drowned them in its muddy brown water and carried them to the sea. Then when the late spring came, the river drew in from its edges and the sand banks appeared. And in the summer the river didn't run at all above ground. Some pools would be left in the deep swirl places under a high bank. The tules and grasses grew back, and willows straightened up with the flood debris in their upper branches. The Salinas was only a part-time river. The summer sun drove it underground. It was not a fine river at all, but it was the only one we had and so we boasted about it-how dangerous it was in a wet winter and how dry it was in a dry summer. You can boast about anything if it's all you have. Maybe the less you have, the more you are required to boast.

\"},{\"id\":\"68983968T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Chapter 1

[1]

THE SALINAS VALLEY is in Northern California. It is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the Salinas River winds and twists up the center until it falls at last into Monterey Bay.

I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer—and what trees and seasons smelled like—how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.

I remember that the Gabilan Mountains to the east of the valley were light gay mountains full of sun and loveliness and a kind of invitation, so that you wanted to climb into their warm foothills almost as you want to climb into the lap of a beloved mother. They were beckoning mountains with a brown grass love. The Santa Lucias stood up against the sky to the west and kept the valley from the open sea, and they were dark and brooding—unfriendly and dangerous. I always found in myself a dread of west and a love of east. Where I ever got such an idea I cannot say, unless it could be that the morning came over the peaks of the Gabilans and the night drifted back from the ridges of the Santa Lucias. It may be that the birth and death of the day had some part in my feeling about the two ranges of mountains.

From both sides of the valley little streams slipped out of the hill canyons and fell into the bed of the Salinas River. In the winter of wet years the streams ran full-freshet, and they swelled the river until sometimes it raged and boiled, bank full, and then it was a destroyer. The river tore the edges of the farm lands and washed whole acres down; it toppled barns and houses into itself, to go floating and bobbing away. It trapped cows and pigs and sheep and drowned them in its muddy brown water and carried them to the sea. Then when the late spring came, the river drew in from its edges and the sand banks appeared. And in the summer the river didn’t run at all above ground. Some pools would be left in the deep swirl places under a high bank. The tules and grasses grew back, and willows straightened up with the flood debris in their upper branches. The Salinas was only a part-time river. The summer sun drove it underground. It was not a fine river at all, but it was the only one we had and so we boasted about it—how dangerous it was in a wet winter and how dry it was in a dry summer. You can boast about anything if it’s all you have. Maybe the less you have, the more you are required to boast.

\"},{\"id\":\"47298909T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"

Chapter 1
(Continues…)

Excerpted from "East of Eden"
by .
Copyright © 2003 John Steinbeck.
Excerpted by permission of Penguin Publishing Group.
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\":\"116245646T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"

Chapter 1

[1]

THE SALINAS VALLEY is in Northern California. It is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the Salinas River winds and twists up the center until it falls at last into Monterey Bay.

I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer—and what trees and seasons smelled like—how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.

I remember that the Gabilan Mountains to the east of the valley were light gay mountains full of sun and loveliness and a kind of invitation, so that you wanted to climb into their warm foothills almost as you want to climb into the lap of a beloved mother. They were beckoning mountains with a brown grass love. The Santa Lucias stood up against the sky to the west and kept the valley from the open sea, and they were dark and brooding—unfriendly and dangerous. I always found in myself a dread of west and a love of east. Where I ever got such an idea I cannot say, unless it could be that the morning came over the peaks of the Gabilans and the night drifted back from the ridges of the Santa Lucias. It may be that the birth and death of the day had some part in my feeling about the two ranges of mountains.

From both sides of the valley little streams slipped out of the hill canyons and fell into the bed of the Salinas River. In the winter of wet years the streams ran full-freshet, and they swelled the river until sometimes it raged and boiled, bank full, and then it was a destroyer. The river tore the edges of the farm lands and washed whole acres down; it toppled barns and houses into itself, to go floating and bobbing away. It trapped cows and pigs and sheep and drowned them in its muddy brown water and carried them to the sea. Then when the late spring came, the river drew in from its edges and the sand banks appeared. And in the summer the river didn’t run at all above ground. Some pools would be left in the deep swirl places under a high bank. The tules and grasses grew back, and willows straightened up with the flood debris in their upper branches. The Salinas was only a part-time river. The summer sun drove it underground. It was not a fine river at all, but it was the only one we had and so we boasted about it—how dangerous it was in a wet winter and how dry it was in a dry summer. You can boast about anything if it’s all you have. Maybe the less you have, the more you are required to boast.

\"},{\"id\":\"43387784T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"Chapter 1

[1]

THE SALINAS VALLEY is in Northern California. It is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the Salinas River winds and twists up the center until it falls at last into Monterey Bay.

I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer—and what trees and seasons smelled like—how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.

I remember that the Gabilan Mountains to the east of the valley were light gay mountains full of sun and loveliness and a kind of invitation, so that you wanted to climb into their warm foothills almost as you want to climb into the lap of a beloved mother. They were beckoning mountains with a brown grass love. The Santa Lucias stood up against the sky to the west and kept the valley from the open sea, and they were dark and brooding—unfriendly and dangerous. I always found in myself a dread of west and a love of east. Where I ever got such an idea I cannot say, unless it could be that the morning came over the peaks of the Gabilans and the night drifted back from the ridges of the Santa Lucias. It may be that the birth and death of the day had some part in my feeling about the two ranges of mountains.

From both sides of the valley little streams slipped out of the hill canyons and fell into the bed of the Salinas River. In the winter of wet years the streams ran full-freshet, and they swelled the river until sometimes it raged and boiled, bank full, and then it was a destroyer. The river tore the edges of the farm lands and washed whole acres down; it toppled barns and houses into itself, to go floating and bobbing away. It trapped cows and pigs and sheep and drowned them in its muddy brown water and carried them to the sea. Then when the late spring came, the river drew in from its edges and the sand banks appeared. And in the summer the river didn’t run at all above ground. Some pools would be left in the deep swirl places under a high bank. The tules and grasses grew back, and willows straightened up with the flood debris in their upper branches. The Salinas was only a part-time river. The summer sun drove it underground. It was not a fine river at all, but it was the only one we had and so we boasted about it—how dangerous it was in a wet winter and how dry it was in a dry summer. You can boast about anything if it’s all you have. Maybe the less you have, the more you are required to boast.

\"},{\"id\":\"116245648T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"\\\"A novel planned on the grandest possible scale...One of those occasions when a writer has aimed high and then summoned every ounce of energy, talent, seriousness, and passion of which he was capable...It is an entirely interesting and impressive book.\\\"
-The New York Herald Tribune

\\\"A fantasia and myth...a strange and original work of art.\\\"
-The New York Times Book Review

\\\"A moving, crying pageant with wilderness strengths.\\\"
-Carl Sandburg

\\\"When the book club ended a year ago, I said I would bring it back when I found the book that was moving...and this is a great one. I read it for myself for the first time and then I had some friends read it. And we think it might be the best novel we've ever read!\\\"
-Oprah Winfrey\"},{\"id\":\"116245647T\",\"type\":\"Award Note\",\"linkText\":\"Award Note\",\"typeId\":\"1036\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Oprah Book Club, Winner
\"},{\"id\":\"127004781T\",\"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 of the greatest novels of our time, John Steinbeck’s emotionally charged multigenerational saga follows the fate of two families as they grapple with love, rivalry and redemption.

\"},{\"id\":\"42991668T\",\"type\":\"Reading Group Guide\",\"linkText\":\"Reading Group Guide\",\"typeId\":\"1021\",\"abbr\":\"RGG\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"INTRODUCTION

East of Eden, John Steinbeck's passionate and exhilarating epic, re-creates the seminal stories of Genesis through the intertwined lives of two American families. The result is a purely American saga set in Steinbeck's own childhood home, the Salinas Valley of northern California. The valley is a new world both idyllic and harsh, and Steinbeck sings to it with a personal nostalgia that is clouded by the knowledge that this valley-as all human dwellings-is the location for as much tragedy as triumph.

The first family whose story is told in this novel is the Hamiltons, led by the charismatic poet-patriarch Samuel Hamilton, an Irish immigrant who raises a large and boisterous family on a mean and unyielding plot of land through charm, ingenuity, and adaptability. The Hamiltons are penniless, but Samuel and Liza's strong and traditional marriage yields nine children of every type and talent who brim with affection and potential. The children act out the numerous possibilities of American life, some making money in business and advertising, some seeking love and home life, others failing utterly in their struggle to find meaning and clarity in the chaotic possibility of a new century.

The second family, the Trasks, is introduced to us as a Connecticut father-a false war hero with a fortune of mysterious origin-his used-up wives, and his two sons: the murderous Charles and the sensitive, searching Adam. After a stint in the army and aimless years as a hobo, Adam falls in love and migrates to Salinas, intending to create his own Garden of Eden. There he presides over a fractured home, raising twin sons Caleb and Aron alone after the dissolution of his marriage to the unfathomable, treacherous Catherine Ames. Catherine herself-later known as Kate-represents the potential for evil in the world. Her life in the valley is the antithesis of that which the Trasks and Hamiltons seek to achieve, as she sinks into a limited life of meanness.

The Trasks are what Steinbeck called his \\\"symbol people,\\\" and their story reenacts the saga of Cain and Abel, for Steinbeck one of the world's greatest stories of love, rejection, jealousy, and redemption. But Adam and his sons are held together as a family by the Chinese-American philosopher-servant Lee, who offers wisdom in the face of painful circumstances. Together the characters try to formulate personal paradises that can withstand the inevitable challenges of human existence, battling the contradiction between the desire to submit to God and tradition and the human need for self-realization and fulfillment. Much as the United States itself had to resolve its roots in Europe as it absorbed the labor of immigrants from around the world in the creation of a new nation, East of Eden's path-breaking Americans seek to free themselves from the chains of the past and achieve personal freedom.

A brilliant novel of ideas, East of Eden is far-reaching in its effort to explicate the most fundamental trials of mankind. Brutally realistic-and sometimes fatalistic-about people's ability to harm themselves and those around them, it is also a celebration of perseverance, enduring love, and the noble yearning to better oneself. And it is a work of profound optimism about the capacity of humans to triumph over adversity and determine their own fates. In prose both evanescent and dignified, Steinbeck creates in these characters and for the reader \\\"a new love for that glittering instrument, the human soul. It is a lovely and unique thing in the universe. It is always attacked and never destroyed.\\\"

ABOUT JOHN STEINBECK

No writer is more quintessentially American than John Steinbeck. Born in 1902 in Salinas, California, Steinbeck attended Stanford University before working at a series of mostly blue-collar jobs and embarking on his literary career. Profoundly committed to social progress, he used his writing to raise issues of labor exploitation and the plight of the common man, penning some of the greatest American novels of the twentieth century and winning such prestigious awards as the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award. He received the Nobel Prize in 1962, \\\"for his realistic and imaginative writings, combining as they do sympathetic humor and keen social perception.\\\" Today, more than thirty years after his death, he remains one of America's greatest writers and cultural figures. East of Eden, the novel he called \\\"the big one,\\\" was published in 1952.

DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

Steinbeck has a character refer to Americans as a \\\"breed,\\\" and near the end of the book Lee says to a conflicted Cal that \\\"We are all descended from the restless, the nervous, the criminals, the arguers and brawlers, but also the brave and independent and generous. If our ancestors had not been that, they would have stayed in their home plots in the other world and starved over the squeezed-out soil.\\\" What makes this a quintessentially American book? Can you identify archetypically American qualities—perhaps some of those listed above—in the characters?

Sam Hamilton—called a \\\"shining man\\\"—and his children are an immigrant family in the classic American model. What comes with Sam and his wife Liza from the \\\"old country\\\"? How does living in America change them and their children? What opportunities does America provide for the clan, and what challenges?

Adam Trask struggles to overcome the actions of others—his father, brother, and wife—and make his own life. What is the lesson that he learns that frees him from Kate and allows him to love his sons? He says to Cal near the end that \\\"if you want to give me a present—give me a good life. That would be something I could value.\\\" Does Adam have a good life? What hinders him? Would you characterize his life as successful in the end?

Lee is one of the most remarkable characters in American literature, a philosopher trapped by the racial expectations of his time. He is the essence of compassion, erudition, and calm, serving the Trasks while retaining a complex interior and emotional life. Do you understand why he speaks in pidgin, as he explains it to Sam Hamilton? How does his character change—in dress, speech, and action—over the course of the book? And why do you think Lee stays with the Trasks, instead of living on his own in San Francisco and pursuing his dream?

Women in the novel are not always as fully realized as the main male characters. The great exception is Adam Trask's wife, Cathy, later Kate the brothel owner. Clearly Kate's evil is meant to be of biblical proportions. Can you understand what motivates her? Is she truly evil or does Steinbeck allow some traces of humanity in his characterization of her? What does her final act, for Aron Trask, indicate about her (well-hidden) emotions?

Sibling rivalry is a crushing reoccurrence in East of Eden. First Adam and his brother Charles, then Adam's sons Cal and Aron, act out a drama of jealousy and competition that seems fated: Lee calls the story of Cain and Abel the \\\"symbol story of the human soul.\\\" Why do you think this is so, or do you disagree? Have you ever experienced or witnessed such a rivalry? Do all of the siblings in the book act out this drama or do some escape it? If so, how? If all of the \\\"C\\\" characters seem initially to embody evil and all the \\\"A\\\" characters good—in this novel that charts the course of good and evil in human experience—is it true that good and evil are truly separate? Are the C characters also good, the A characters capable of evil?

Abra, at first simply an object of sexual competition to Cal and Aron, becomes a more complex character in her relationships with the brothers but also with Lee and her own family. She rebels against Aron's insistence that she be a one-dimensional symbol of pure femininity. What is it that she's really looking for? Compare her to some of the other women in the book (Kate, Liza, Adam's stepmother) and try to identify some of the qualities that set her apart. Do you think she might embody the kind of \\\"modern\\\" woman that emerged in postwar America?

Some of Steinbeck's ethnic and racial characterizations are loaded with stereotype. Yet he also makes extremely prescient comments about the role that many races played in the building of America, and he takes the time to give dignity to all types of persons. Lee is one example of a character that constantly subverts expectations. Can you think of other scenes or characters that might have challenged conventional notions in Steinbeck's time? In ours? How unusual do you think it might have been to write about America as a multicultural haven in the 1950s? And do you agree that that is what Steinbeck does, or do you think he reveals a darker side to American diversity?

What constitutes true wealth in the book? The Hamiltons and the Trasks are most explicitly differentiated by their relationship to money: though Sam Hamilton works hard he accumulates little, while Adam Trask moons and mourns and lives off the money acquired by his father. Think of different times that money is sought after or rejected by characters (such as Will Hamilton and Cal Trask) and the role that it plays to help and hinder them in realizing their dreams. Does the quest for money ever obscure deeper desires?

During the naming of the twins, Lee, Sam, and Adam have a long conversation about a sentence from Genesis, disagreeing over whether God has said an act is ordered or predetermined. Lee continues to think about this conversation and enlists the help of a group of Chinese philosophers to come to a conclusion: that God has given humans choice by saying that they may (the Hebrew word for \\\"may,\\\" timshel, becomes a key trope in the novel), that people can choose for themselves. What is Steinbeck trying to say about guilt and forgiveness? About family inheritance versus free will? Think of instances where this distinction is important in the novel, and in your own life.

The end of the novel and the future of the Trasks seems to rest with Cal, the son least liked and least understood by his father and the town. What does Cal come to understand about his relationship to his past and to each member of his family? The last scene between Adam and Cal is momentous; what exactly happens between them, and how hopeful a note is this profound ending? Why is Lee trying to force Cal to overturn the assumption that lives are \\\"all inherited\\\"? What do you think Cal's future will be?

East of Eden is a combination novel/memoir; Steinbeck writes himself in as a minor character in the book, a member of the Hamilton family. What do you think he gained by morphing genres in this fashion? What distinguishes this from a typical autobiography? What do you think Steinbeck's extremely personal relationship to the material contributes to the novel?

\"},{\"id\":\"117562303T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

John Steinbeck, born in Salinas, California, in 1902, grew up in a fertile agricultural valley, about twenty-five miles from the Pacific Coast. Both the valley and the coast would serve as settings for some of his best fiction. In 1919 he went to Stanford University, where he intermittently enrolled in literature and writing courses until he left in 1925 without taking a degree. During the next five years he supported himself as a laborer and journalist in New York City, all the time working on his first novel, Cup of Gold (1929).

After marriage and a move to Pacific Grove, he published two California books, The Pastures of Heaven (1932) and To a God Unknown (1933), and worked on short stories later collected in The Long Valley (1938). Popular success and financial security came only with Tortilla Flat (1935), stories about Monterey's paisanos. A ceaseless experimenter throughout his career, Steinbeck changed courses regularly. Three powerful novels of the late 1930s focused on the California laboring class: In Dubious Battle (1936), Of Mice and Men (1937), and the book considered by many his finest, The Grapes of Wrath (1939). The Grapes of Wrath won both the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize in 1939.

Early in the 1940s, Steinbeck became a filmmaker with The Forgotten Village (1941) and a serious student of marine biology with Sea of Cortez (1941). He devoted his services to the war, writing Bombs Away (1942) and the controversial play-novelette The Moon is Down (1942). Cannery Row (1945), The Wayward Bus (1948), another experimental drama, Burning Bright (1950), and The Log from the Sea of Cortez (1951) preceded publication of the monumental East of Eden (1952), an ambitious saga of the Salinas Valley and his own family's history.

The last decades of his life were spent in New York City and Sag Harbor with his third wife, with whom he traveled widely. Later books include Sweet Thursday (1954), The Short Reign of Pippin IV: A Fabrication (1957), Once There Was a War (1958), The Winter of Our Discontent (1961), Travels with Charley in Search of America (1962), America and Americans (1966), and the posthumously published Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters (1969), Viva Zapata! (1975), The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights (1976), and Working Days: The Journals of The Grapes of Wrath (1989).

Steinbeck received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1962, and, in 1964, he was presented with the United States Medal of Freedom by President Lyndon B. Johnson. Steinbeck died in New York in 1968. Today, more than thirty years after his death, he remains one of America's greatest writers and cultural figures.

\"},{\"id\":\"68983969T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"John Steinbeck, born in Salinas, California, in 1902, grew up in a fertile agricultural valley, about twenty-five miles from the Pacific Coast. Both the valley and the coast would serve as settings for some of his best fiction. In 1919 he went to Stanford University, where he intermittently enrolled in literature and writing courses until he left in 1925 without taking a degree. During the next five years he supported himself as a laborer and journalist in New York City, all the time working on his first novel, Cup of Gold (1929).

After marriage and a move to Pacific Grove, he published two California books, The Pastures of Heaven (1932) and To a God Unknown (1933), and worked on short stories later collected in The Long Valley (1938). Popular success and financial security came only with Tortilla Flat (1935), stories about Monterey’s paisanos. A ceaseless experimenter throughout his career, Steinbeck changed courses regularly. Three powerful novels of the late 1930s focused on the California laboring class: In Dubious Battle (1936), Of Mice and Men (1937), and the book considered by many his finest, The Grapes of Wrath (1939). The Grapes of Wrath won both the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize in 1939.

\"},{\"id\":\"116245649T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"

After marriage and a move to Pacific Grove, he published two California books, The Pastures of Heaven (1932) and To a God Unknown (1933), and worked on short stories later collected in The Long Valley (1938). Popular success and financial security came only with Tortilla Flat (1935), stories about Monterey’s paisanos. A ceaseless experimenter throughout his career, Steinbeck changed courses regularly. Three powerful novels of the late 1930s focused on the California laboring class: In Dubious Battle (1936), Of Mice and Men (1937), and the book considered by many his finest, The Grapes of Wrath (1939). The Grapes of Wrath won both the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize in 1939.

\"},{\"id\":\"5233944T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"John Steinbeck, born in Salinas, California, in 1902, grew up in a fertile agricultural valley, about twenty-five miles from the Pacific Coast. Both the valley and the coast would serve as settings for some of his best fiction. In 1919 he went to Stanford University, where he intermittently enrolled in literature and writing courses until he left in 1925 without taking a degree. During the next five years he supported himself as a laborer and journalist in New York City, all the time working on his first novel, Cup of Gold (1929).

After marriage and a move to Pacific Grove, he published two California books, The Pastures of Heaven (1932) and To a God Unknown (1933), and worked on short stories later collected in The Long Valley (1938). Popular success and financial security came only with Tortilla Flat (1935), stories about Monterey’s paisanos. A ceaseless experimenter throughout his career, Steinbeck changed courses regularly. Three powerful novels of the late 1930s focused on the California laboring class: In Dubious Battle (1936), Of Mice and Men (1937), and the book considered by many his finest, The Grapes of Wrath (1939). The Grapes of Wrath won both the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize in 1939.

\"},{\"id\":\"108769657T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"John Steinbeck (1902-1968) born in Salinas, California, grew up in a fertile agricultural valley, about twenty-five miles from the Pacific Coast. Both the valley and the coast would serve as settings for some of his best fiction. In 1919 he went to Stanford University, where he intermittently enrolled in literature and writing courses until he left in 1925 without taking a degree. During the next five years he supported himself as a laborer and journalist in New York City, all the time working on his first novel, Cup of Gold (1929).

After marriage and a move to Pacific Grove, he published two California books, The Pastures of Heaven (1932) and To a God Unknown (1933), and worked on short stories later collected in The Long Valley (1938). Popular success and financial security came only with Tortilla Flat (1935), stories about Monterey's paisanos. A ceaseless experimenter throughout his career, Steinbeck changed courses regularly. Three powerful novels of the late 1930s focused on the California laboring class: In Dubious Battle (1936), Of Mice and Men (1937), and the book considered by many his finest, The Grapes of Wrath (1939). The Grapes of Wrath won both the National Book Award and the Pulitzer Prize in 1939.

Early in the 1940s, Steinbeck became a filmmaker with The Forgotten Village (1941) and a serious student of marine biology with Sea of Cortez (1941). He devoted his services to the war, writing Bombs Away (1942) and the controversial play-novelette The Moon is Down (1942). Cannery Row (1945), The Wayward Bus (1948), another experimental drama, Burning Bright (1950), and The Log from the Sea of Cortez (1951) preceded publication of the monumental East of Eden (1952), an ambitious saga of the Salinas Valley and his own family's history.

The last decades of his life were spent in New York City and Sag Harbor with his third wife, with whom he traveled widely. Later books include Sweet Thursday (1954), The Short Reign of Pippin IV: A Fabrication (1957), Once There Was a War (1958), The Winter of Our Discontent (1961), Travels with Charley in Search of America (1962), America and Americans (1966), and the posthumously published Journal of a Novel: The East of Eden Letters (1969), Viva Zapata! (1975), The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights (1976), and Working Days: The Journals of The Grapes of Wrath (1989).

Steinbeck received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1962, and, in 1964, he was presented with the United States Medal of Freedom by President Lyndon B. Johnson. Steinbeck died in New York in 1968. 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George and Martha Series

All Books in George and Martha Series