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Winner)","Hardcover","9780735243415","AN INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLERWINNER OF THE 2026 WOMEN'S PRIZE FOR NON-FICTIONWINNER OF THE 2026 RAKUTEN KOBO EMERGING WRITER PRIZE FOR NON-FICTIONA NEW YORK TIMES EDITORS’ CHOICEThe story of a hotel. The story of a nation.When the Inter-Continental Kabul opened in 1969, Afghanistan’s first luxury hotel symbolised a dream of a modernising country connected to the world.More than fifty years on, the Inter-Continental is still standing. It has endured Soviet occupation, multiple coups, a grievous civil war, a US invasion and the rise, fall and rise of the Taliban. History lives within its scarred windows and walls. Lyse Doucet, the BBC’s Chief International Correspondent, has been checking into the Inter-Continental since 1988. And here, she uses its story to craft a richly immersive history of modern Afghanistan. It is the story of Hazrat, the septuagenarian housekeeper who still holds fast to his Inter-Continental training from the hotel’s 1970s glory days—an era of haute cuisine and high fashion, when Afghanistan was a kingdom and Kabul was the ‘Paris of Asia’. It is the story of Abida, who became the first female chef to cook in the Inter-Con’s famous kitchen after the fall of the Taliban in 2001. And it is the story of Malalai and Sadeq, the twenty-something staff who seized every opportunity offered by two decades of fragile democracy—only to witness the Taliban roaring back in 2021. The result is a remarkably vivid history of how Afghans have survived a half century of destruction and disruption. It is the story of a hotel but also the story of a people.","AN INTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER
WINNER OF THE 2026 WOMEN'S PRIZE FOR NON-FICTION
WINNER OF THE 2026 RAKUTEN KOBO EMERGING WRITER PRIZE FOR NON-FICTION
A NEW YORK TIMES EDITORS’ CHOICE

The story of a hotel. The story of a nation.

When the Inter-Continental Kabul opened in 1969, Afghanistan’s first luxury hotel symbolised a dream of a modernising country connected to the world.

More than fifty years on, the Inter-Continental is still standing. It has endured Soviet occupation, multiple coups, a grievous civil war, a US invasion and the rise, fall and rise of the Taliban. History lives within its scarred windows and walls.

Lyse Doucet, the BBC’s Chief International Correspondent, has been checking into the Inter-Continental since 1988. And here, she uses its story to craft a richly immersive history of modern Afghanistan.

It is the story of Hazrat, the septuagenarian housekeeper who still holds fast to his Inter-Continental training from the hotel’s 1970s glory days—an era of haute cuisine and high fashion, when Afghanistan was a kingdom and Kabul was the ‘Paris of Asia’. It is the story of Abida, who became the first female chef to cook in the Inter-Con’s famous kitchen after the fall of the Taliban in 2001. And it is the story of Malalai and Sadeq, the twenty-something staff who seized every opportunity offered by two decades of fragile democracy—only to witness the Taliban roaring back in 2021.

The result is a remarkably vivid history of how Afghans have survived a half century of destruction and disruption. It is the story of a hotel but also the story of a people.","featuredImage",{"_45":2487,"_58":2488,"_60":2489,"_54":2490,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47597229900017","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780735243415_p0.jpg?v=1781318567",1307,2000,{"_964":2492},{"_966":2493,"_968":969},"29.0",{"_964":2495,"_970":2496},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_966":975,"_968":969},"variants",{"_979":2499},[2500],{"_45":2501,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":-5,"_717":2502,"_1010":2503,"_942":2504,"_1013":2505,"_1017":2482,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46662596591857",{"_45":2487,"_58":2488,"_984":-5,"_60":2489,"_54":2490},{"_966":2493,"_968":969},{"_76":2480,"_837":2482},[2506],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":2482},{"_1016":2481},[2510,-5,-5,2513,2515,-5,2517,2520,2524,2527,2530,-5,-5,2532,-5,2534,2536,2541],{"_45":2511,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":2512},"gid://shopify/Metafield/58182737002737","[{\"contributorId\":14618578,\"fullName\":\"Lyse Doucet\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":2514,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/58182738018545",{"_45":2516,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/58182736707825",{"_45":2518,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":2519},"gid://shopify/Metafield/58182738051313","118",{"_45":2521,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":2523},"gid://shopify/Metafield/58353224745201","commentary","[{\"id\":\"127753559T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"A NATIONAL BESTSELLER
WINNER OF THE 2026 WOMEN'S PRIZE FOR NON-FICTION
WINNER OF THE 2026 RAKUTEN KOBO EMERGING WRITER PRIZE FOR NON-FICTION
INSTANT SUNDAY TIMES BESTSELLER
LONGLISTED FOR THE 2025 BAILLIE GIFFORD PRIZE FOR NON-FICTION
A NPR BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR

PRAISE FOR THE FINEST HOTEL IN KABUL:

“The Finest Hotel in Kabul plays to all Lyse Doucet’s strengths. Clarity, empathy, depth of knowledge and innate grasp of fine detail. Her subject is not just a hotel, but a hotel that tells the story of four decades of Afghanistan's proud and sometimes unbelievably painful history. This is a most readable account of joy, despair and resilience in one of the world’s most fascinating countries.” —Michael Palin, actor, comedian, and bestselling author of Erebus

“Lyse Doucet has turned bricks and mortar into flesh and blood and in so doing lifted this biography of a glittering hotel into a lyrical, devastating, powerful homage to the powerless. In The Finest Hotel in Kabul we follow the fortunes and misfortunes not of those making decisions, but of the cooks, the receptionists, the wedding guests, the servers. It is intimate, aching, tragic and inspiring. When I began this book I had Afghanistan in my head. By the time I finished it was in my heart. Doucet’s descriptions are glorious, her use of language evocative. Her people are fully formed, alive and breathing. This is a thrilling achievement, a beautiful book. I’m off to re-read it. To revisit the finest hotel in Kabul!” —Louise Penny, bestselling author of the Chief Inspector Armand Gamache series

“An incredible book—vivid and beautifully written, it captures the soul of Afghanistan through an age of hopes and heartbreak, as well as one of constant change. A tender, wise and quietly devastating book.” —Peter Frankopan, author of The Silk Roads

“A book brimming with deep insight, courage and conscience. Everyone should read this. Astonishingly beautiful, subtle and simply unforgettable.” —Elif Shafak, author of There Are Rivers in the Sky

“A story of a country and a people, told with knowledge, insight and tenderness. I’ve been waiting for a Lyse Doucet book for a long time and what she has produced here is testament to her humanity as well as her journalistic eye.” —Mishal Husain, Sunday Times bestselling author of Broken Threads

“If you want to know the story of Afghanistan, of its people, its passion, its betrayals and ancient traditions, read this book. Lyse Doucet has written this amazing story, the same way she reports for the BBC from trouble spots around the world, with accuracy and splendid attention to detail, with excitement and hard truths. But above all she goes behind the political scenes to the people who frequent or work at The Finest Hotel in Kabul and brings us a story rich in intrigue and history. The princes and kings and wannabe deal makers have come and gone from this country that can’t keep itself out of the news. But the hotel desk manager knows what most of the world missed; Lyse Doucet chronicles that tale, and with an abiding faith in the Afghan people, sings a song of love throughout this remarkable book.” —Sally Armstrong, award winning author, journalist and human rights activist

“The Finest Hotel in Kabul offers an unflinching and intimate portrait of contemporary Afghanistan, from the hopeful days following the fall of the Taliban’s first regime to the chilling return of fear under their second rule. At the heart of the story is a woman who prepares food with her hands, yet in doing so, is quietly shaping the future. As the Taliban return, laughter fades, and like thousands of other women, she is pushed to the margins. This book is a powerful historical account of lives lived in the crossfire of conflict and power, a story too rarely heard, and too often overlooked. Broken promises of peace for a people who have lived, generation after generation, in the shadow of war and politics.” —Zahra Joya, founder of Rukhshana Media

“As with the voice, so with the book: distinct, original, humane, powerful and utterly compelling.” —Philippe Sands, author of East West Street

“What a beautiful book—inventive, compassionate, witty, brilliantly structured. An extraordinary introduction to Afghanistan, and a tribute to one of the finest correspondents of our age.” —Rory Stewart, author of Politics On the Edge and The Places in Between

“An ingenious method of storytelling, and what a story the Inter-Continental Kabul has to tell. Lyse Doucet writes with verve and insight, and a clear warmth of feeling for Afghanistan and its people.” —Kamila Shamsie, author of Home Fire

“Inside The Finest Hotel in Kabul beats the heart of Afghanistan. Lyse Doucet, who reveals herself as a master storyteller, welcomes us to Kabul’s iconic Inter-Continental hotel. . . . She gently places us in the care of the many Afghans, on whose shoulders The Finest Hotel in Kabul rests, and it’s through the beauty of her writing that we discover the very soul of Afghans. . . . The depth of Lyse’s knowledge, and the power of her writing reveals a country many have seen, but few truly know.” —Kathy Gannon, Canadian journalist and author of I is for Infidel

“This extraordinary history of modern Afghanistan is told from the inside-out, through the lives of everyday workers at a landmark hotel. . . . The Finest Hotel in Kabul is a quiet masterpiece of literary nonfiction. It is one of those rare books written out of deep love and an unwavering commitment to complexity. After decades of building trust and listening closely, Doucet brings to vivid, complicated life a place that otherwise risks being a news headline at best, at worst an abstraction.” —2026 Rakuten Kobo Emerging Writer Prize for Non-Fiction Jury citation

“A deeply humane story of Afghanistan revealing the impact of decades of upheaval on everyday lives.” —Judges of the Baillie Gifford Prize for Non-Fiction

“[The Finest Hotel in Kabul] is a history less political than human, one that brings both clarity and emotional resonance to a nation too often reduced to tragic headlines and geopolitics.” —The Globe and Mail

“Drawing on her more than 30 years of reporting from that country, it is a captivating debut in which Doucet gives herself only a tiny walk-on part. Instead, she centres the lives and recollections of those who have worked at Kabul’s renowned Inter-Continental Hotel across five decades . . . The Finest Hotel in Kabul concludes in a spirit of enduring optimism, or at least with the inshallah tenacity that seems to characterise the Afghan people.” —The Bookseller, Book of the Month

\\\"Fabulous . . . A cross between the novel A Gentleman in Moscow and Wes Anderson’s The Grand Budapest Hotel. Doucet has taken the Hotel Inter-Continental on the hill overlooking Afghanistan’s capital and written about the country’s hopes, travails, invasions and civil wars using the people who came through the increasingly battered doors.” —Alice Thomson, The Times

“Lyse Doucet is a consummate storyteller and first class journalist . . . A powerful and evocative account of a people who have borne tumultuous waves of progress and repression, from mini skirts and white weddings to burqas and gross Taliban denials of freedoms. A brilliant and important reminder of the cost of wars.” —Helena Kennedy

“The Finest Hotel in Kabul tells the story of Afghanistan through the Hotel Inter-Continental Kabul, a sexy splash of glamour in a poor, mostly illiterate country when it opened in 1969. Afghanistan was a kingdom then and in the years since, the hotel and its staff have seen coups, a Soviet invasion, a Marxist dictatorship, civil war, the Taliban, western invasion and occupation, the Taliban again. Doucet, the BBC’s chief international correspondent, does a terrific, novelistic job of telling the story of the people who’ve worked there and what this tumultuous change has meant for them.” ―Robbie Millen, The Times

“Doucet is a must-watch, always alive to the personal stories and tribulations of the people she encounters. But is she a must-read? On the evidence of The Finest Hotel in Kabul . . . the answer must be a resounding yes . . . Doucet is a consummate storyteller who can recognise a great yarn when she sees one and the real strength of this book is her ability to get under the skin of a country through its people. . . . Haunting, hopeful and occasionally harrowing, The Finest Hotel in Kabul is much more than a history. It is a love letter to Afghanistan and its people.” —The Sunday Times

“Full of warmth, wit, and a lovely eye for the human stories that make the hotel not just a monument to tragedy, but also love and resilience. . . . What Doucet achieves is both powerful and charming at the same time. The Finest Hotel in Kabul is a meditation on memory, resilience, and the strange intimacy of public spaces. In an age when most hotels blur into the anonymous comfort of global chains, the Inter-Con reminds us that some buildings are so much more.”
—The Financial Times

“It is difficult to think of anyone as well qualified to write a book about the hotel as Doucet. It is not just that she has been a regular visitor there since 1988. It's also that she has an extraordinary sensitivity to the experiences of individuals, no matter their station . . . the book is rich in detail, moving and never wearisome.” —Literary Review

“The history of [Doucet's] ‘first Afghan home’—Kabul’s Intercontinental Hotel—through the eyes of its staff, men and women, young and old, whose personal tales encapsulate those of a whole nation. . . . Rich in evocative detail after countless hours of interviews, including with people who worked there from the start.” ―iPAPER

“The Finest Hotel in Kabul reads like a tender love letter. . . . [it] captures Afghanistan’s indomitable spirit through a monument that is still standing, adapting to change and defying peril while holding onto its legacy.” —Policy Magazine\"},{\"id\":\"132225770T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"A NATIONAL BESTSELLER
WINNER OF THE 2026 WOMEN'S PRIZE FOR NON-FICTION
WINNER OF THE 2026 RAKUTEN KOBO EMERGING WRITER PRIZE FOR NON-FICTION
INSTANT SUNDAY TIMES BESTSELLER
LONGLISTED FOR THE 2025 BAILLIE GIFFORD PRIZE FOR NON-FICTION
A NPR BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR

PRAISE FOR THE FINEST HOTEL IN KABUL

\\\"The Finest Hotel in Kabul plays to all Lyse Doucet's strengths. Clarity, empathy, depth of knowledge and innate grasp of fine detail. Her subject is not just a hotel, but a hotel that tells the story of four decades of Afghanistan's proud and sometimes unbelievably painful history. This is a most readable account of joy, despair and resilience in one of the world's most fascinating countries.\\\" --Michael Palin, actor, comedian, and bestselling author of Erebus

\\\"Lyse Doucet has turned bricks and mortar into flesh and blood and in so doing lifted this biography of a glittering hotel into a lyrical, devastating, powerful homage to the powerless. In The Finest Hotel in Kabul we follow the fortunes and misfortunes not of those making decisions, but of the cooks, the receptionists, the wedding guests, the servers. It is intimate, aching, tragic and inspiring. When I began this book I had Afghanistan in my head. By the time I finished it was in my heart. Doucet's descriptions are glorious, her use of language evocative. Her people are fully formed, alive and breathing. This is a thrilling achievement, a beautiful book. I'm off to re-read it. To revisit the finest hotel in Kabul!\\\" --Louise Penny, bestselling author of the Chief Inspector Armand Gamache series

\\\"An incredible book--vivid and beautifully written, it captures the soul of Afghanistan through an age of hopes and heartbreak, as well as one of constant change. A tender, wise and quietly devastating book.\\\" --Peter Frankopan, author of The Silk Roads

\\\"A book brimming with deep insight, courage and conscience. Everyone should read this. Astonishingly beautiful, subtle and simply unforgettable.\\\" --Elif Shafak, author of There Are Rivers in the Sky

\\\"A story of a country and a people, told with knowledge, insight and tenderness. I've been waiting for a Lyse Doucet book for a long time and what she has produced here is testament to her humanity as well as her journalistic eye.\\\" --Mishal Husain, Sunday Times bestselling author of Broken Threads

\\\"If you want to know the story of Afghanistan, of its people, its passion, its betrayals and ancient traditions, read this book. Lyse Doucet has written this amazing story, the same way she reports for the BBC from trouble spots around the world, with accuracy and splendid attention to detail, with excitement and hard truths. But above all she goes behind the political scenes to the people who frequent or work at The Finest Hotel in Kabul and brings us a story rich in intrigue and history. The princes and kings and wannabe deal makers have come and gone from this country that can't keep itself out of the news. But the hotel desk manager knows what most of the world missed; Lyse Doucet chronicles that tale, and with an abiding faith in the Afghan people, sings a song of love throughout this remarkable book.\\\" --Sally Armstrong, award winning author, journalist and human rights activist

\\\"The Finest Hotel in Kabul offers an unflinching and intimate portrait of contemporary Afghanistan, from the hopeful days following the fall of the Taliban's first regime to the chilling return of fear under their second rule. At the heart of the story is a woman who prepares food with her hands, yet in doing so, is quietly shaping the future. As the Taliban return, laughter fades, and like thousands of other women, she is pushed to the margins. This book is a powerful historical account of lives lived in the crossfire of conflict and power, a story too rarely heard, and too often overlooked. Broken promises of peace for a people who have lived, generation after generation, in the shadow of war and politics.\\\" --Zahra Joya, founder of Rukhshana Media

\\\"As with the voice, so with the book: distinct, original, humane, powerful and utterly compelling.\\\" --Philippe Sands, author of East West Street

\\\"What a beautiful book--inventive, compassionate, witty, brilliantly structured. An extraordinary introduction to Afghanistan, and a tribute to one of the finest correspondents of our age.\\\" --Rory Stewart, author of Politics On the Edge and The Places in Between

\\\"An ingenious method of storytelling, and what a story the Inter-Continental Kabul has to tell. Lyse Doucet writes with verve and insight, and a clear warmth of feeling for Afghanistan and its people.\\\" --Kamila Shamsie, author of Home Fire

\\\"Inside The Finest Hotel in Kabul beats the heart of Afghanistan. Lyse Doucet, who reveals herself as a master storyteller, welcomes us to Kabul's iconic Inter-Continental hotel. . . . She gently places us in the care of the many Afghans, on whose shoulders The Finest Hotel in Kabul rests, and it's through the beauty of her writing that we discover the very soul of Afghans. . . . The depth of Lyse's knowledge, and the power of her writing reveals a country many have seen, but few truly know.\\\" --Kathy Gannon, Canadian journalist and author of I is for Infidel

\\\"This extraordinary history of modern Afghanistan is told from the inside-out, through the lives of everyday workers at a landmark hotel. . . . The Finest Hotel in Kabul is a quiet masterpiece of literary nonfiction. It is one of those rare books written out of deep love and an unwavering commitment to complexity. After decades of building trust and listening closely, Doucet brings to vivid, complicated life a place that otherwise risks being a news headline at best, at worst an abstraction.\\\" --2026 Rakuten Kobo Emerging Writer Prize for Non-Fiction Jury citation

\\\"A deeply humane story of Afghanistan revealing the impact of decades of upheaval on everyday lives.\\\" --Judges of the Baillie Gifford Prize for Non-Fiction

\\\"[The Finest Hotel in Kabul] is a history less political than human, one that brings both clarity and emotional resonance to a nation too often reduced to tragic headlines and geopolitics.\\\" --The Globe and Mail

\\\"Drawing on her more than 30 years of reporting from that country, it is a captivating debut in which Doucet gives herself only a tiny walk-on part. Instead, she centres the lives and recollections of those who have worked at Kabul's renowned Inter-Continental Hotel across five decades . . . The Finest Hotel in Kabul concludes in a spirit of enduring optimism, or at least with the inshallah tenacity that seems to characterise the Afghan people.\\\" --The Bookseller, Book of the Month

\\\"Fabulous . . . A cross between the novel A Gentleman in Moscow and Wes Anderson's The Grand Budapest Hotel. Doucet has taken the Hotel Inter-Continental on the hill overlooking Afghanistan's capital and written about the country's hopes, travails, invasions and civil wars using the people who came through the increasingly battered doors.\\\" --Alice Thomson, The Times

\\\"Lyse Doucet is a consummate storyteller and first class journalist . . . A powerful and evocative account of a people who have borne tumultuous waves of progress and repression, from mini skirts and white weddings to burqas and gross Taliban denials of freedoms. A brilliant and important reminder of the cost of wars.\\\" --Helena Kennedy

\\\"The Finest Hotel in Kabul tells the story of Afghanistan through the Hotel Inter-Continental Kabul, a sexy splash of glamour in a poor, mostly illiterate country when it opened in 1969. Afghanistan was a kingdom then and in the years since, the hotel and its staff have seen coups, a Soviet invasion, a Marxist dictatorship, civil war, the Taliban, western invasion and occupation, the Taliban again. Doucet, the BBC's chief international correspondent, does a terrific, novelistic job of telling the story of the people who've worked there and what this tumultuous change has meant for them.\\\" ―Robbie Millen, The Times

\\\"Doucet is a must-watch, always alive to the personal stories and tribulations of the people she encounters. But is she a must-read? On the evidence of The Finest Hotel in Kabul . . . the answer must be a resounding yes . . . Doucet is a consummate storyteller who can recognise a great yarn when she sees one and the real strength of this book is her ability to get under the skin of a country through its people. . . . Haunting, hopeful and occasionally harrowing, The Finest Hotel in Kabul is much more than a history. It is a love letter to Afghanistan and its people.\\\" --The Sunday Times

\\\"Full of warmth, wit, and a lovely eye for the human stories that make the hotel not just a monument to tragedy, but also love and resilience. . . . What Doucet achieves is both powerful and charming at the same time. The Finest Hotel in Kabul is a meditation on memory, resilience, and the strange intimacy of public spaces. In an age when most hotels blur into the anonymous comfort of global chains, the Inter-Con reminds us that some buildings are so much more.\\\"
--The Financial Times

\\\"It is difficult to think of anyone as well qualified to write a book about the hotel as Doucet. It is not just that she has been a regular visitor there since 1988. It's also that she has an extraordinary sensitivity to the experiences of individuals, no matter their station . . . the book is rich in detail, moving and never wearisome.\\\" --Literary Review

\\\"The history of [Doucet's] 'first Afghan home'--Kabul's Intercontinental Hotel--through the eyes of its staff, men and women, young and old, whose personal tales encapsulate those of a whole nation. . . . Rich in evocative detail after countless hours of interviews, including with people who worked there from the start.\\\" ―iPAPER

\\\"The Finest Hotel in Kabul reads like a tender love letter. . . . [it] captures Afghanistan's indomitable spirit through a monument that is still standing, adapting to change and defying peril while holding onto its legacy.\\\" --Policy Magazine\"},{\"id\":\"127753566T\",\"type\":\"Bookseller Content\",\"linkText\":\"B&N Says\",\"typeId\":\"1027\",\"abbr\":\"BSC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Notes From Your Bookseller

Founded in 1969, the halls of the Inter-Continental Kabul are rich in history. Lyse Doucet takes readers through every inch of Afghanistan’s first luxury hotel by detailing the inspiring, hopeful and sometimes tragic lives of those who work, visit and live there.

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LYSE DOUCET is a Canadian journalist and the BBC's Chief International Correspondent. In the course of a career spanning four decades, she has reported from countries around the world and was based as a correspondent in Jerusalem, Amman, Islamabad, Kabul, and Abidjan. She has played a leading role in the BBC's coverage of major events including the recent Iran-Israel war, the Gaza war, the Arab Spring, and the US-led invasion of Afghanistan. She received an OBE in the Queen's Honours list in 2014, and was admitted to the Order of Canada in 2019. She has received many awards, including most recently the 2024 Zenger Award for Press Freedom from the University of Arizona and the 2019 Trailblazer Award from Georgetown University. She was a recipient of the Colombia School of Journalism Award in 2016, an Emmy in 2014 for her team’s reporting from Syria, Peabody and David Bloom Awards for her work from Syria and Afghanistan, and an Edward R. Murrow award for her team’s reporting from Tunisia. In 2021, she was nominated for a Peabody for her work as a writer and reporter on the BBC podcast Afghanistan: Documenting A Crucial Year. Doucet has eighteen honorary doctorates from leading British and Canadian Universities. She has a Master’s degree in International Relations from the University of Toronto, and a BA Hons. from Queen’s University in Kingston. She is also a senior fellow of Massey College of the University of Toronto. Doucet has been reporting on Afghanistan since 1988. She visits the Inter-Continental whenever she is in Kabul.

\"},{\"id\":\"117707919T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"127753570T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"LYSE DOUCET is a Canadian-born journalist and the BBC's Chief International Correspondent. In the course of a career spanning four decades, she has reported from countries including Egypt, Iran, Iraq, Israel, and Syria, leading the BBC's coverage of events including the invasion of Afghanistan, the Arab Spring, and the Syrian Civil War. She received an OBE in the Queen's Honours list in 2014, and was admitted to the Order of Canada in 2019. Her awards include the Columbia School of Journalism Award in 2016 and an Emmy in 2014 for her team's reporting from Syria. In 2021, she was nominated for a Peabody Award for her work as a writer and reporter on the BBC podcast Afghanistan: Documenting A Crucial Year. Doucet has fifteen honorary doctorates from leading British and Canadian Universities. She has a Master’s degree in International Relations from the University of Toronto, and a BA Hons. from Queen’s University in Kingston. She is also a senior fellow of Massey College of the University of Toronto. Doucet has been reporting on Afghanistan since 1988. She visits the Inter-Continental whenever she is in Kabul.\"},{\"id\":\"133705363T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"127753572T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"LYSE DOUCET is a Canadian journalist and the BBC's Chief International Correspondent. In the course of a career spanning four decades, she has reported from countries around the world and was based as a correspondent in Jerusalem, Amman, Islamabad, Kabul, and Abidjan. She has played a leading role in the BBC's coverage of major events including the recent Iran-Israel war, the Gaza war, the Arab Spring, and the US-led invasion of Afghanistan. She received an OBE in the Queen's Honours list in 2014, and was admitted to the Order of Canada in 2019. She has received many awards, including most recently the 2024 Zenger Award for Press Freedom from the University of Arizona and the 2019 Trailblazer Award from Georgetown University. She was a recipient of the Colombia School of Journalism Award in 2016, an Emmy in 2014 for her team’s reporting from Syria, Peabody and David Bloom Awards for her work from Syria and Afghanistan, and an Edward R. Murrow award for her team’s reporting from Tunisia. In 2021, she was nominated for a Peabody for her work as a writer and reporter on the BBC podcast Afghanistan: Documenting A Crucial Year. Doucet has eighteen honorary doctorates from leading British and Canadian Universities. She has a Master’s degree in International Relations from the University of Toronto, and a BA Hons. from Queen’s University in Kingston. She is also a senior fellow of Massey College of the University of Toronto. Doucet has been reporting on Afghanistan since 1988. She visits the Inter-Continental whenever she is in Kabul.\"},{\"id\":\"134217126T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"6\",\"text\":\"

LYSE DOUCET is a Canadian journalist and the BBC's Chief International Correspondent. In the course of a career spanning four decades, she has reported from countries around the world and was based as a correspondent in Jerusalem, Amman, Islamabad, Kabul, and Abidjan. She has played a leading role in the BBC's coverage of major events including the recent Iran-Israel war, the Gaza war, the Arab Spring, and the US-led invasion of Afghanistan. She received an OBE in the Queen's Honours list in 2014, and was admitted to the Order of Canada in 2019. She has received many awards, including most recently the 2024 Zenger Award for Press Freedom from the University of Arizona and the 2019 Trailblazer Award from Georgetown University. She was a recipient of the Colombia School of Journalism Award in 2016, an Emmy in 2014 for her team's reporting from Syria, Peabody and David Bloom Awards for her work from Syria and Afghanistan, and an Edward R. Murrow award for her team's reporting from Tunisia. In 2021, she was nominated for a Peabody for her work as a writer and reporter on the BBC podcast Afghanistan: Documenting A Crucial Year. Doucet has eighteen honorary doctorates from leading British and Canadian Universities. She has a Master's degree in International Relations from the University of Toronto, and a BA Hons. from Queen's University in Kingston. She is also a senior fellow of Massey College of the University of Toronto. Doucet has been reporting on Afghanistan since 1988. She visits the Inter-Continental whenever she is in Kabul.

\"}]",{"_45":2525,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":2526},"gid://shopify/Metafield/58182738510065","The-Finest-Hotel-in-Kabul/Lyse-Doucet",{"_45":2528,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":2529},"gid://shopify/Metafield/58182736576753","1144604429",{"_45":2531,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/58182737953009",{"_45":2533,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":2482},"gid://shopify/Metafield/58182735298801",{"_45":2535,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/58182738116849",{"_45":2537,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":2540},"gid://shopify/Metafield/97411344761073","reviews","rating","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.0\"}",{"_45":2542,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":903},"gid://shopify/Metafield/97411344728305","rating_count",{"_1008":2478,"_45":2545,"_76":2546,"_960":961,"_837":2547,"_951":2548,"_949":2549,"_2485":2550,"_962":2554,"_1004":63,"_972":2557,"_2497":2560,"_1070":2569,"_1031":2571,"_1064":2572,"_1094":-5,"_1102":2573},"gid://shopify/Product/9404951986417","The Corrections: A Novel (25th Anniversary Edition)","9781250460486","#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER * NATIONAL BOOK AWARD WINNER * A NEW YORK TIMES BEST BOOK OF THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY: TOP TENThe twenty-fifth anniversary edition of Jonathan Franzen’s landmark novel The Corrections, now in a beautiful deluxe edition with french flaps, interior cover art, and a new afterword by Adam Moss. “A spellbinding novel” (People) from the New York Times bestselling author Jonathan Franzen, the author of Crossroads, The Corrections is a comic, tragic family story and epic of worlds colliding. After almost fifty years as a wife and mother, Enid Lambert is ready to have some fun. Unfortunately, her husband, Alfred, is losing his sanity to Parkinson’s disease, and their children have long since flown the family nest to the catastrophes of their own lives. Desperate for some pleasure to look forward to, Enid has set her heart on an elusive goal: bringing her family together for one last Christmas at home.An epic comedy stretching from the American heartland to Wall Street and Eastern Europe, The Corrections brings an old-fashioned world of civic virtue and sexual inhibitions into violent collision with the era of home surveillance, hands-off parenting, do-it-yourself mental health care, and globalized greed. Timely in its themes, it is timeless in its portrait of a family in crisis.","

#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER * NATIONAL BOOK AWARD WINNER * A NEW YORK TIMES BEST BOOK OF THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY: TOP TEN

The twenty-fifth anniversary edition of Jonathan Franzen’s landmark novel The Corrections, now in a beautiful deluxe edition with french flaps, interior cover art, and a new afterword by Adam Moss.

“A spellbinding novel” (People) from the New York Times bestselling author Jonathan Franzen, the author of Crossroads, The Corrections is a comic, tragic family story and epic of worlds colliding. After almost fifty years as a wife and mother, Enid Lambert is ready to have some fun. Unfortunately, her husband, Alfred, is losing his sanity to Parkinson’s disease, and their children have long since flown the family nest to the catastrophes of their own lives. Desperate for some pleasure to look forward to, Enid has set her heart on an elusive goal: bringing her family together for one last Christmas at home.

An epic comedy stretching from the American heartland to Wall Street and Eastern Europe, The Corrections brings an old-fashioned world of civic virtue and sexual inhibitions into violent collision with the era of home surveillance, hands-off parenting, do-it-yourself mental health care, and globalized greed. Timely in its themes, it is timeless in its portrait of a family in crisis.

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“You will laugh, wince, groan, weep, leave the table and maybe the country, promise never to go home again, and be reminded of why you read serious fiction in the first place.”
—The New York Review of Books

“Marvelous . . . Everything we want in a novel—except, when it’s rocking along, for it never to be over.”
—The New York Times Book Review

“Jonathan Franzen has built a powerful novel out of the swarming consciousness of a marriage, a family, a whole culture—our culture.”
—Don DeLillo

“Looms as a model for what ambitious storytelling can still say about modern life . . . Franzen swings for the fences and clears them with yards to spare.”
—San Francisco Chronicle

“The novel we’ve been waiting for . . . A stunning anatomy of family dysfunction . . . A contemporary novel that will endure.”
—Esquire

“In its complexity, its scrutinizing and utterly unsentimental humanity, and its grasp of the subtle relationships between domestic drama and global events . . . it is a major accomplishment.”
—Michael Cunningham

“Frighteningly, luminously authentic.”
—The Boston Globe

“A genuine masterpiece . . . This novel is a wisecracking, eloquent, heartbreaking beauty.”
—Elle

“The brightest, boldest, and most ambitious novel I’ve read in many years.”
—Pat Conroy

“Brilliant . . . Almost unbearably lifelike.”
—The New York Observer

“Funny and deeply sad, large-hearted and merciless, The Corrections is a testament to the range and depth of pleasures great fiction affords.”
—David Foster Wallace

“This is a spellbinding novel . . . that is both funny and piercing.”
—People

\"},{\"id\":\"120600384T\",\"type\":\"Award Note\",\"linkText\":\"Award Note\",\"typeId\":\"1036\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"2003 International IMPAC Dublin Literary Award - Nominee, Nominated
2002 PEN/Faulkner Award - Nominee, Nominated
2002 Book Sense Book of the Year Award - Nominee, Nominated
2001 National Book Awards - Winner, Winner
2001 (Selected for) Oprah's Book Club, Long-listed
2001 L.A. Times Book Prize - Finalist, Short-listed
2002 Pulitzer Prize - Finalist, Short-listed
2002 ALA Notable Books - Winner, Winner
\"},{\"id\":\"120600388T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Jonathan Franzen is the author of six novels, including Freedom, Purity, and Crossroads, and five works of nonfiction, including Farther Away and The End of the End of the Earth, all published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux. He lives in Santa Cruz, California.

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A Katie Couric Book Club Pick / One of President Obama's '26 Summer Reading List Picks / A Good Housekeeping Book Club Pick / A GoodReads Most Anticipated Book of Summer

“Ann Patchett’s new novel is a rare phenomenon in contemporary fiction: a novel both majestic and intimate, original and masterful in its structure, crystalline in its prose, revelatory in its insights, utterly devastating yet ultimately uplifting in its emotional impact. . . . I think it is her best novel yet.” —The Boston Globe

The acclaimed, prize-winning #1 New York Times bestselling writer returns with a moving, luminous novel that reminds us of the sweetness and impermanence of life and the power of connection to defy time.

When Daphne Fuller and her husband Jonathan visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art, they notice an older, white-haired gentleman following them. The man turns out to be Eddie Triplett, her former stepfather, who had been married to her mother for a little more than year when Daphne was nine. Now fifty-three, Daphne hasn’t seen Eddie for many years, not since the fateful event that changed the direction of both their lives. Meeting again, time falls away; while their relationship was brief, it had a profound impact on them both, and now that they are reunited, they have no intention of ever being separated again.

Whistler is a story about two adults looking back over the choices they made, and the choices that were made for them. It’s a story about bravery, memory, the often small yet consequential moments that define our lives, and the endless stream of loss that in time comes for us all. Beautiful in its simplicity, it is ultimately about how love endures, and how the feeling of being known by one other person, even for a short period of time, can change everything.

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Patchett is even more entrancing, radiant, and heart-seizing than she is in Tom Lake in this tale of complicated marriages, secret love, fear, fury, courage, and reconciliation. - Booklist (starred review)

Like many of Patchett’s works, this beautiful and generous novel feels effortless, never straining for effect. It’s one of her best. - Publishers Weekly (starred review)

An evocative and moving tribute to the death-defying, heart-opening, infinitely redemptive power of storytelling. - Kirkus (starred review)

Patchett is a clarion voice who can persuade any reader to devour her books without pause. Her latest is no exception, with strong characters, compelling circumstances, and the one detail on which lives can pivot to ruin or to happiness. Patchett devises for her characters an incident with edge-of-one’s-seat suspense in this novel overflowing with rewards for all. - Library Journal

\\\"A modern family's platonic, later-in-life love story. . . . intimate and entertaining [with a] generous worldview.\\\" - Helen Schulman, The New York Times

\\\"This exquisite writer has once again delivered an incandescent work of fiction — sweet, but never sentimental, infinitely wise and suffused with love. It’s also an ode to New York City itself…. While Patchett has clearly drawn on actual events and individuals to produce this luminous work, she exhibits the expert novelist’s knack for following a plot where the imagination takes it.... I didn't want it to end.\\\" - Leigh Haber, The Los Angeles Times

\\\"Ann Patchett’s new novel, Whistler, is that loveliest of summer gifts, a story of reconciliation, of old affections renewed, of a family’s circumference enlarged. Fans of the author’s previous work will open these pages like an old shoebox of family photos. Newcomers — how I envy them those first moments — will discover a writer of gentle wit and quiet grace.\\\" - Ron Charles

\\\"Patchett. . . has a penchant for capturing the bittersweet nuances of family and friendship with wit and candor. . . . It's a simple yet soaring tale of love, memory and one extraordinary horse.\\\" - Elle

\\\"NPR's reviewer Heller McAlpin [once] observed that [Patchett] 'may well be the most beloved book person in America.' The author...only burnishes that sterling reputation with Whistler, her finely crafted account of a reunion between daughter and stepfather.\\\" - NPR

“Patchett’s reputation precedes her enough that just seeing her name on the cover means you’re in for a moving, captivating work of literature. And Whistler is no different.\\\" — E! News

“In her next life, let us hope that Ann Patchett will have the opportunity to read her novels from the perspective of an outsider and have the same awe-inspiring reading experience that we do.” — Harvard Crimson

\"},{\"id\":\"131115093T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

Like many of Patchett's works, this beautiful and generous novel feels effortless, never straining for effect. It's one of her best. - Publishers Weekly (starred review)

An evocative and moving tribute to the death-defying, heart-opening, infinitely redemptive power of storytelling. - Kirkus (starred review)

Patchett is a clarion voice who can persuade any reader to devour her books without pause. Her latest is no exception, with strong characters, compelling circumstances, and the one detail on which lives can pivot to ruin or to happiness. Patchett devises for her characters an incident with edge-of-one's-seat suspense in this novel overflowing with rewards for all. - Library Journal

\\\"A modern family's platonic, later-in-life love story. . . . intimate and entertaining [with a] generous worldview.\\\" - Helen Schulman, The New York Times

\\\"This exquisite writer has once again delivered an incandescent work of fiction -- sweet, but never sentimental, infinitely wise and suffused with love. It's also an ode to New York City itself.... While Patchett has clearly drawn on actual events and individuals to produce this luminous work, she exhibits the expert novelist's knack for following a plot where the imagination takes it.... I didn't want it to end.\\\" - Leigh Haber, The Los Angeles Times

\\\"Ann Patchett's new novel is a rare phenomenon in contemporary fiction: a novel both majestic and intimate, original and masterful in its structure, crystalline in its prose, revelatory in its insights, utterly devastating yet ultimately uplifting in its emotional impact. . . . I think it is her best novel yet.\\\" - Priscilla Gilman, The Boston Globe

\\\"Ann Patchett's new novel, Whistler, is that loveliest of summer gifts, a story of reconciliation, of old affections renewed, of a family's circumference enlarged. Fans of the author's previous work will open these pages like an old shoebox of family photos. Newcomers -- how I envy them those first moments -- will discover a writer of gentle wit and quiet grace.\\\" - Ron Charles

\\\"Patchett's reputation precedes her enough that just seeing her name on the cover means you're in for a moving, captivating work of literature. And Whistler is no different.\\\" -- E! News

\\\"In her next life, let us hope that Ann Patchett will have the opportunity to read her novels from the perspective of an outsider and have the same awe-inspiring reading experience that we do.\\\" -- Harvard Crimson

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Ann Patchett returns with a powerful novel about the choices we make and the ones that are made for us. After reuniting with a prominent figure from her past, Daphne confronts the impermanence of life and the beauty of connection in Whistler: A Novel.

\"},{\"id\":\"132215903T\",\"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\":\"118591276T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Ann Patchett is the author of novels, most recently the #1 New York Times bestselling Tom Lake, works of nonfiction, and children's books. She has been the recipient of numerous awards, including the PEN/Faulkner, the Women's Prize for Fiction in the UK, and the Book Sense Book of the Year. Her novel The Dutch House was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. Her work has been translated into more than thirty languages, and Time magazine named her one of the 100 Most Influential People in the World. President Biden awarded her the National Humanities Medal in recognition of her contributions to American culture. She lives in Nashville, Tennessee, where she is the owner of Parnassus Books.

\"},{\"id\":\"116218127T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Ann Patchett is the author of novels, most recently the #1 New York Times bestselling Tom Lake, works of nonfiction, and children's books. She has been the recipient of numerous awards, including the PEN/Faulkner, the Women's Prize for Fiction in the UK, and the Book Sense Book of the Year. Her novel The Dutch House was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. Her work has been translated into more than thirty languages, and Time magazine named her one of the 100 Most Influential People in the World. President Biden awarded her the National Humanities Medal in recognition of her contributions to American culture. She lives in Nashville, Tennessee, where she is the owner of Parnassus Books.

\"},{\"id\":\"118591279T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"116226658T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Ann Patchett is the author of novels, most recently the #1 New York Times bestselling Tom Lake, works of nonfiction, and children's books. She has been the recipient of numerous awards, including the PEN/Faulkner, the Women's Prize for Fiction in the UK, and the Book Sense Book of the Year. Her novel The Dutch House was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize. Her work has been translated into more than thirty languages, and Time magazine named her one of the 100 Most Influential People in the World. President Biden awarded her the National Humanities Medal in recognition of her contributions to American culture. She lives in Nashville, Tennessee, where she is the owner of Parnassus Books.

\"}]",{"_45":2645,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":2646},"gid://shopify/Metafield/61633145864433","Whistler/Ann-Patchett",{"_45":2648,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":2649},"gid://shopify/Metafield/61633144652017","1148504538",{"_45":2651,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/61633145241841",{"_45":2653,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1070,"_1016":2628},"gid://shopify/Metafield/73446341476593",{"_45":2655,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":2603},"gid://shopify/Metafield/61633143406833",{"_45":2657,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/61633145438449",{"_45":2659,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":2660},"gid://shopify/Metafield/81433823576305","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.7\"}",{"_45":2662,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":2663},"gid://shopify/Metafield/81433823543537","96",{"_1008":2478,"_45":2665,"_76":2666,"_960":2481,"_837":2667,"_951":2668,"_949":2669,"_2485":2670,"_962":2673,"_1004":63,"_972":2675,"_2497":2678,"_1070":2687,"_1031":2689,"_1064":2690,"_1094":-5,"_1102":2691},"gid://shopify/Product/8873560277233","A Christmas Memory / One Christmas / The Thanksgiving Visitor","9780679602378","Three holiday stories in one festive volume from literary titan Truman Capote: “A Christmas Memory,” “The Thanksgiving Visitor,” and “One Christmas”“Capote, in a bright, fluttering, wheeling way, makes all the tinsel and confetti and embroidery that bind together such delicate emotions as nostalgia and sentimentality come vigorously to life.”—The New Yorker, on “A Christmas Memory”Here are three holiday stories that Truman Capote himself regarded as among his greatest works of short fiction. “A Christmas Memory” and “The Thanksgiving Visitor” were inspired by Capote’s early years with a family of distant relatives in rural Alabama. These two childhood tales pay loving tribute to an eccentric old-maid cousin, Miss Sook Faulk, who became Capote’s best friend. In “A Christmas Memory,” Miss Sook, Buddy (the narrator), and their dog, Queenie, celebrate the yuletide in a hilariously tipsy state. In the poignant reminiscence “One Christmas,” six-year-old Buddy journeys to New Orleans for a reunion with his estranged father that shatters many illusions. And in “The Thanksgiving Visitor,” Miss Sook invites an unexpected guest to the holiday meal: the school bully, Odd Henderson, whom Buddy calls “the meanest human creature in my experience.”Distinguished by Capote’s delicate interplay of childhood sensibility and recollective vision, these three classics are gems that celebrate the unique bonds of friends and family.","Three holiday stories in one festive volume from literary titan Truman Capote: “A Christmas Memory,” “The Thanksgiving Visitor,” and “One Christmas”

“Capote, in a bright, fluttering, wheeling way, makes all the tinsel and confetti and embroidery that bind together such delicate emotions as nostalgia and sentimentality come vigorously to life.”—The New Yorker, on “A Christmas Memory”

Here are three holiday stories that Truman Capote himself regarded as among his greatest works of short fiction. “A Christmas Memory” and “The Thanksgiving Visitor” were inspired by Capote’s early years with a family of distant relatives in rural Alabama. These two childhood tales pay loving tribute to an eccentric old-maid cousin, Miss Sook Faulk, who became Capote’s best friend.

In “A Christmas Memory,” Miss Sook, Buddy (the narrator), and their dog, Queenie, celebrate the yuletide in a hilariously tipsy state. In the poignant reminiscence “One Christmas,” six-year-old Buddy journeys to New Orleans for a reunion with his estranged father that shatters many illusions. And in “The Thanksgiving Visitor,” Miss Sook invites an unexpected guest to the holiday meal: the school bully, Odd Henderson, whom Buddy calls “the meanest human creature in my experience.”

Distinguished by Capote’s delicate interplay of childhood sensibility and recollective vision, these three classics are gems that celebrate the unique bonds of friends and family.",{"_45":2671,"_58":2672,"_60":2609,"_54":2490,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47579499036913","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780679602378_p0.jpg?v=1768975793",{"_964":2674},{"_966":2556,"_968":969},{"_964":2676,"_970":2677},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_979":2679},[2680],{"_45":2681,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":-5,"_717":2682,"_1010":2683,"_942":2684,"_1013":2685,"_1017":2667,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46274426208497",{"_45":2671,"_58":2672,"_984":-5,"_60":2609,"_54":2490},{"_966":2556,"_968":969},{"_76":2666,"_837":2667},[2686],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":2688},"[\"Classroom Literature & Nonfiction (p5500)\"]",{"_1016":2667},{"_1016":2481},[2692,2695,-5,2698,2700,-5,2702,2704,2707,2710,2713,-5,2715,2717,-5,2719,2721,2724],{"_45":2693,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":2694},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40966137938161","[{\"contributorId\":166338,\"fullName\":\"Truman Capote\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":6}]",{"_45":2696,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1048,"_1016":2697},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40966138298609","Modern Library Series",{"_45":2699,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40966138659057",{"_45":2701,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40966137315569",{"_45":2703,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":2519},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40966138757361",{"_45":2705,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":2706},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40966140821745","[{\"id\":\"58841403T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Imagine a morning in late November. A coming of winter morning more than twenty years ago. Consider the kitchen of a spreading old house in a country town. A great black stove is its main feature; but there is also a big round table and a fireplace with two rocking chairs placed in front of it. Just today the fireplace commenced its seasonal roar.
(Continues…)

Excerpted from "A Christmas Memory"
by .
Copyright © 1996 Truman Capote.
Excerpted by permission of Random House 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\":\"126962983T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Imagine a morning in late November. A coming of winter morning more than twenty years ago. Consider the kitchen of a spreading old house in a country town. A great black stove is its main feature; but there is also a big round table and a fireplace with two rocking chairs placed in front of it. Just today the fireplace commenced its seasonal roar.

A woman with shorn white hair is standing at the kitchen window. She is wearing tennis shoes and a shapeless gray sweater over a summery calico dress. She is small and sprightly, like a bantam hen; but, due to a long youthful illness, her shoulders are pitifully hunched. Her face is remarkable-not unlike Lincoln's, craggy like that, and tinted by sun and wind; but it is delicate too, finely boned, and her eyes are sherry-colored and timid. \\\"Oh my,\\\" she exclaims, her breath smoking the windowpane, \\\"It's fruitcake weather!\\\"

The person to whom she is speaking is myself. I am seven; she is sixty-something. We are cousins, very distant ones, and we have lived together--well, as long as I can remember. Other people inhabit the house, relatives; and though they have power over us, and frequently make us cry, we are not, on the whole, too much aware of them. We are each other's best friend. She calls me Buddy, in memory of a boy who was formerly her best friend. The other Buddy died in the 1880's, when she was still a child. She is still a child.

\\\"I knew it before I got out of bed,\\\" she says, turning away from the window with a purposeful excitement in her eyes. \\\"The courthouse bell sounded so cold and clear. And there were no birds singing; they've gone to warmer country, yes indeed. Oh, Buddy, stop stuffing biscuit and fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat. We've thirty cakes to bake.\\\"

It's always the same: a morning arrives in November, and my friend, as though officially inaugurating the Christmas time of year that exhilarates her imagination and fuels the blaze of her heart, announces: \\\"It's fruitcake weather! Fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat.\\\"

The hat is found, a straw cartwheel corsaged with velvet roses out-of-doors has faded: it once belonged to a more fashionable relative. Together, we guide our buggy, a dilapidated baby carriage, out to the garden and into a grove of pecan trees. The buggy is mine; that is, it was bought for me when I was born. It is made of wicker, rather unraveled, and the wheels wobble like a drunkard's legs. But it is a faithful object; springtimes, we take it to the woods and fill it with flowers, herbs, wild fern for our porch pots; in the summer, we pile it with picnic paraphernalia and sugar-cane fishing poles and roll it down to the edge of a creek; it has its winter uses, too: as a truck for hauling firewood from the yard to the kitchen, as a warm bed for Queenie, our tough little orange and white rat terrier who has survived distemper and two rattlesnake bites. Queenie is trotting beside it now.

Three hours later we are back in the kitchen hulling a heaping buggyload of windfall pecans. Our backs hurt from gathering them: how hard they were to find (the main crop having been shaken off the trees and sold by the orchard's owners, who are not us) among the concealing leaves, the frosted, deceiving grass. Caarackle! A cheery crunch, scraps of miniature thunder sound as the shells collapse and the golden mound of sweet oily ivory meat mounts in the milkglass bowl. Queenie begs to taste, and now and again my friend sneaks her a mite, though insisting we deprive ourselves. \\\"We mustn't, Buddy. If we start, we won't stop. And there's scarcely enough as there is. For thirty cakes.\\\" The kitchen is growing dark. Dusk turns the window into a mirror: our reflections mingle with the rising moon as we work by the fireside in the firelight. At last, when the moon is quite high, we toss the final hull into the fire and, with joined sighs, watch it catch flame. The buggy is empty, the bowl is brimful.

We eat our supper (cold biscuits, bacon, blackberry jam) and discuss tomorrow. Tomorrow the kind of work I like best begins: buying. Cherries and citron, ginger and vanilla and canned Hawaiian pineapple, rinds and raisins and walnuts and whiskey and oh, so much flour, butter, so many eggs, spices, flavorings: why, we'll need a pony to pull the buggy home.

But before these purchases can be made, there is the question of money. Neither of us has any. Except for skinflint sums persons in the house occasionally provide (a dime is considered very big money); or what we earn ourselves from various activities: holding rummage sales, selling buckets of hand-picked blackberries, jars of homemade jam and apple jelly and peach preserves, rounding up flowers for funerals and weddings. Once we won seventy-ninth prize, five dollars, in a national football contest. Not that we know a fool thing about football. It's just that we enter any contest we hear about: at the moment our hopes are centered on the fifty-thousand-dollar Grand Prize being offered to name a new brand of coffee (we suggested \\\"A.M.\\\"; and, after some hesitation, for my friend thought it perhaps sacrilegious, the slogan \\\"A.M.! Amen!\\\"). To tell the truth, our only really profitable enterprise was the Fun and Freak Museum we conducted in a back-yard woodshed two summers ago. The Fun was a stereopticon with slide views of Washington and New York lent us by a relative who had been to those places (she was furious when she discovered why we'd borrowed it); the Freak was a three-legged biddy chicken hatched by one of our own hens. Everybody hereabouts wanted to see that biddy: we charged grownups a nickel, kids two cents. And took in a good twenty dollars before the museum shut down due to the decease of the main attraction.

But one way and another we do each year accumulate Christmas savings, a Fruitcake Fund. These moneys we keep hidden in an ancient bead purse under a loose board under the floor under a chamber pot under my friend's bed. The purse is seldom removed from this safe location except to make a deposit, or, as happens every Saturday, a withdrawal; for on Saturdays I am allowed ten cents to go to the picture show. My friend has never been to a picture show, nor does she intend to: \\\"I'd rather hear you tell the story, Buddy. That way I can imagine it more. Besides, a person my age shouldn't squander their eyes. When the Lord comes, let me see him clear.\\\" In addition to never having seen a movie, she has never: eaten in a restaurant, traveled more than five miles from home, received or sent a telegram, read anything except funny papers and the Bible, worn cosmetics, cursed, wished someone harm, told a lie on purpose, let a hungry dog go hungry. Here are a few things she has done, does do: killed with a hoe the biggest rattlesnake ever seen in this county (sixteen rattles), dip snuff (secretly), tame hummingbirds (just try it) till they balance on her finger, tell ghost stories (we both believe in ghosts) so tingling they chill you in July, talk to herself, take walks in the rain, grow the prettiest japonicas in town, know the recipe for every sort of old-time Indian cure, including a magical wart-remover.

Now, with supper finished, we retire to the room in a faraway part of the house where my friend sleeps in a scrap-quilt-covered iron bed painted rose pink, her favorite color. Silently, wallowing in the pleasures of conspiracy, we take the bead purse from its secret place and spill its contents on the scrap quilt. Dollar bills, tightly rolled and green as May buds. Somber fifty-cent pieces, heavy enough to weight a dead man's eyes. Lovely dimes, the liveliest coin, the one that really jingles. Nickels and quarters, worn smooth as creek pebbles. But mostly a hateful heap of bitter-odored pennies. Last summer others in the house contracted to pay us a penny for every twenty-five flies we killed. Oh, the carnage of August: the flies that flew to heaven! Yet it was not work in which we took pride. And, as we sit counting pennies, it is as though we were back tabulating dead flies. Neither of us had a head for figures; we count slowly, lose track, start again. According to her calculations, we have $12.73. According to mine, exactly $13. I do hope you're wrong, Buddy. We can't mess around with thirteen. The cakes will fall. Or put somebody in the cemetery. Why, I wouldn't dream of getting out of bed on the thirteenth.\\\" This is true: she always spends thirteenths in bed. So, to be on the safe side, we subtract a penny and toss it out the window.\"},{\"id\":\"47603870T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Imagine a morning in late November. A coming of winter morning more than twenty years ago. Consider the kitchen of a spreading old house in a country town. A great black stove is its main feature; but there is also a big round table and a fireplace with two rocking chairs placed in front of it. Just today the fireplace commenced its seasonal roar.

A woman with shorn white hair is standing at the kitchen window. She is wearing tennis shoes and a shapeless gray sweater over a summery calico dress. She is small and sprightly, like a bantam hen; but, due to a long youthful illness, her shoulders are pitifully hunched. Her face is remarkable-not unlike Lincoln's, craggy like that, and tinted by sun and wind; but it is delicate too, finely boned, and her eyes are sherry-colored and timid. "Oh my," she exclaims, her breath smoking the windowpane, "It's fruitcake weather!"

The person to whom she is speaking is myself. I am seven; she is sixty-something. We are cousins, very distant ones, and we have lived together—well, as long as I can remember. Other people inhabit the house, relatives; and though they have power over us, and frequently make us cry, we are not, on the whole, too much aware of them. We are each other's best friend. She calls me Buddy, in memory of a boy who was formerly her best friend. The other Buddy died in the 1880's, when she was still a child. She is still a child.

"I knew it before I got out of bed," she says, turning away from the window with a purposeful excitement in her eyes. "The courthouse bell sounded so cold and clear. And there were no birds singing; they've gone to warmer country, yes indeed. Oh, Buddy, stop stuffing biscuit and fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat. We've thirty cakes to bake."

It's always the same: a morning arrives in November, and my friend, as though officially inaugurating the Christmas time of year that exhilarates her imagination and fuels the blaze of her heart, announces: "It's fruitcake weather! Fetch our buggy. Help me find my hat."

The hat is found, a straw cartwheel corsaged with velvet roses out-of-doors has faded: it once belonged to a more fashionable relative. Together, we guide our buggy, a dilapidated baby carriage, out to the garden and into a grove of pecan trees. The buggy is mine; that is, it was bought for me when I was born. It is made of wicker, rather unraveled, and the wheels wobble like a drunkard's legs. But it is a faithful object; springtimes, we take it to the woods and fill it with flowers, herbs, wild fern for our porch pots; in the summer, we pile it with picnic paraphernalia and sugar-cane fishing poles and roll it down to the edge of a creek; it has its winter uses, too: as a truck for hauling firewood from the yard to the kitchen, as a warm bed for Queenie, our tough little orange and white rat terrier who has survived distemper and two rattlesnake bites. Queenie is trotting beside it now.

Three hours later we are back in the kitchen hulling a heaping buggyload of windfall pecans. Our backs hurt from gathering them: how hard they were to find (the main crop having been shaken off the trees and sold by the orchard's owners, who are not us) among the concealing leaves, the frosted, deceiving grass. Caarackle! A cheery crunch, scraps of miniature thunder sound as the shells collapse and the golden mound of sweet oily ivory meat mounts in the milkglass bowl. Queenie begs to taste, and now and again my friend sneaks her a mite, though insisting we deprive ourselves. "We mustn't, Buddy. If we start, we won't stop. And there's scarcely enough as there is. For thirty cakes." The kitchen is growing dark. Dusk turns the window into a mirror: our reflections mingle with the rising moon as we work by the fireside in the firelight. At last, when the moon is quite high, we toss the final hull into the fire and, with joined sighs, watch it catch flame. The buggy is empty, the bowl is brimful.

We eat our supper (cold biscuits, bacon, blackberry jam) and discuss tomorrow. Tomorrow the kind of work I like best begins: buying. Cherries and citron, ginger and vanilla and canned Hawaiian pineapple, rinds and raisins and walnuts and whiskey and oh, so much flour, butter, so many eggs, spices, flavorings: why, we'll need a pony to pull the buggy home.

But before these purchases can be made, there is the question of money. Neither of us has any. Except for skinflint sums persons in the house occasionally provide (a dime is considered very big money); or what we earn ourselves from various activities: holding rummage sales, selling buckets of hand-picked blackberries, jars of homemade jam and apple jelly and peach preserves, rounding up flowers for funerals and weddings. Once we won seventy-ninth prize, five dollars, in a national football contest. Not that we know a fool thing about football. It's just that we enter any contest we hear about: at the moment our hopes are centered on the fifty-thousand-dollar Grand Prize being offered to name a new brand of coffee (we suggested "A.M."; and, after some hesitation, for my friend thought it perhaps sacrilegious, the slogan "A.M.! Amen!"). To tell the truth, our only really profitable enterprise was the Fun and Freak Museum we conducted in a back-yard woodshed two summers ago. The Fun was a stereopticon with slide views of Washington and New York lent us by a relative who had been to those places (she was furious when she discovered why we'd borrowed it); the Freak was a three-legged biddy chicken hatched by one of our own hens. Everybody hereabouts wanted to see that biddy: we charged grownups a nickel, kids two cents. And took in a good twenty dollars before the museum shut down due to the decease of the main attraction.

But one way and another we do each year accumulate Christmas savings, a Fruitcake Fund. These moneys we keep hidden in an ancient bead purse under a loose board under the floor under a chamber pot under my friend's bed. The purse is seldom removed from this safe location except to make a deposit, or, as happens every Saturday, a withdrawal; for on Saturdays I am allowed ten cents to go to the picture show. My friend has never been to a picture show, nor does she intend to: "I'd rather hear you tell the story, Buddy. That way I can imagine it more. Besides, a person my age shouldn't squander their eyes. When the Lord comes, let me see him clear." In addition to never having seen a movie, she has never: eaten in a restaurant, traveled more than five miles from home, received or sent a telegram, read anything except funny papers and the Bible, worn cosmetics, cursed, wished someone harm, told a lie on purpose, let a hungry dog go hungry. Here are a few things she has done, does do: killed with a hoe the biggest rattlesnake ever seen in this county (sixteen rattles), dip snuff (secretly), tame hummingbirds (just try it) till they balance on her finger, tell ghost stories (we both believe in ghosts) so tingling they chill you in July, talk to herself, take walks in the rain, grow the prettiest japonicas in town, know the recipe for every sort of old-time Indian cure, including a magical wart-remover.

Now, with supper finished, we retire to the room in a faraway part of the house where my friend sleeps in a scrap-quilt-covered iron bed painted rose pink, her favorite color. Silently, wallowing in the pleasures of conspiracy, we take the bead purse from its secret place and spill its contents on the scrap quilt. Dollar bills, tightly rolled and green as May buds. Somber fifty-cent pieces, heavy enough to weight a dead man's eyes. Lovely dimes, the liveliest coin, the one that really jingles. Nickels and quarters, worn smooth as creek pebbles. But mostly a hateful heap of bitter-odored pennies. Last summer others in the house contracted to pay us a penny for every twenty-five flies we killed. Oh, the carnage of August: the flies that flew to heaven! Yet it was not work in which we took pride. And, as we sit counting pennies, it is as though we were back tabulating dead flies. Neither of us had a head for figures; we count slowly, lose track, start again. According to her calculations, we have $12.73. According to mine, exactly $13. I do hope you're wrong, Buddy. We can't mess around with thirteen. The cakes will fall. Or put somebody in the cemetery. Why, I wouldn't dream of getting out of bed on the thirteenth." This is true: she always spends thirteenths in bed. So, to be on the safe side, we subtract a penny and toss it out the window.\"},{\"id\":\"126962984T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"“Capote, in a bright, fluttering, wheeling way, makes all the tinsel and confetti and embroidery that bind together such delicate emotions as nostalgia and sentimentality come vigorously to life.”—The New Yorker

“An enduring gift for all seasons.”—HuffPost

“[A] gem of a holiday story.”—School Library Journal (starred review)\"},{\"id\":\"27830284T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"New Yorker\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Capote, in a bright, fluttering, wheeling way, makes all the tinsel and confetti and embroidery that bind together such delicate emotions in nostalgia and sentimentality come vigorously to life. \"},{\"id\":\"126962985T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

Truman Capote was born September 30, 1924, in New Orleans. After his parents’ divorce, he was sent to live with relatives in Monroeville, Alabama. It was here he would meet his lifelong friend, the author Harper Lee. Capote rose to international prominence in 1948 with the publication of his debut novel, Other Voices, Other Rooms. Among his celebrated works are Breakfast at Tiffany’s, A Tree of Night, The Grass Harp, Summer Crossing, A Christmas Memory, and In Cold Blood, widely considered one of the greatest books of the twentieth century. Twice awarded the O. Henry Short Story Prize, Capote was also the recipient of a National Institute of Arts and Letters Creative Writing Award and an Edgar Award. He died August 25, 1984, shortly before his sixtieth birthday.

\"},{\"id\":\"27830290T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Truman Capote was born September 30, 1924, in New Orleans. After his parents’ divorce, he was sent to live with relatives in Monroeville, Alabama. It was here he would meet his lifelong friend, the author Harper Lee. Capote rose to international prominence in 1948 with the publication of his debut novel, Other Voices, Other Rooms. Among his celebrated works are Breakfast at Tiffany’s, A Tree of Night, The Grass Harp, Summer Crossing, A Christmas Memory, and In Cold Blood, widely considered one of the greatest books of the twentieth century. Twice awarded the O. Henry Short Story Prize, Capote was also the recipient of a National Institute of Arts and Letters Creative Writing Award and an Edgar Award. He died August 25, 1984, shortly before his sixtieth birthday.\"}]",{"_45":2708,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":2709},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40966139969777","A-Christmas-Memory-One-Christmas-the-Thanksgiving-Visitor/Truman-Capote",{"_45":2711,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":2712},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40966136922353","1112030424",{"_45":2714,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40966138560753",{"_45":2716,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1070,"_1016":2688},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40966141083889",{"_45":2718,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":2667},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40966134563057",{"_45":2720,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40966138855665",{"_45":2722,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":2723},"gid://shopify/Metafield/66663616151793","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.9\"}",{"_45":2725,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":2726},"gid://shopify/Metafield/66663616119025","7",{"_1008":2478,"_45":2728,"_76":2729,"_960":961,"_837":2730,"_951":2731,"_949":2732,"_2485":2733,"_962":2738,"_1004":63,"_972":2740,"_2497":2743,"_1070":2752,"_1031":2754,"_1064":2755,"_1094":-5,"_1102":2756},"gid://shopify/Product/8848129065201","A Man Called Ove","9781476738024","In this New York Times bestselling “charming debut” (People)—soon to be a major motion picture starring Tom Hanks—from one of Sweden’s most successful authors, a grumpy yet loveable man finds his solitary world turned on its head when a boisterous young family moves in next door.Meet Ove. He’s a curmudgeon—the kind of man who points at people he dislikes as if they were burglars caught outside his bedroom window. He has staunch principles, strict routines, and a short fuse. People call him “the bitter neighbor from hell.” But must Ove be bitter just because he doesn’t walk around with a smile plastered to his face all the time? Behind the cranky exterior there is a story and a sadness. So when one November morning a chatty young couple with two chatty young daughters move in next door and accidentally flatten Ove’s mailbox, it is the lead-in to a comical and heartwarming tale of unkempt cats, unexpected friendship, and the ancient art of backing up a U-Haul. All of which will change one cranky old man and a local residents’ association to their very foundations. A feel-good story in the spirit of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry and Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand, Fredrik Backman’s novel about the angry old man next door is a thoughtful exploration of the profound impact one life has on countless others. “If there was an award for ‘Most Charming Book of the Year,’ this first novel by a Swedish blogger-turned-overnight-sensation would win hands down” (Booklist, starred review).","In this New York Times bestselling “charming debut” (People)—soon to be a major motion picture starring Tom Hanks—from one of Sweden’s most successful authors, a grumpy yet loveable man finds his solitary world turned on its head when a boisterous young family moves in next door.

Meet Ove. He’s a curmudgeon—the kind of man who points at people he dislikes as if they were burglars caught outside his bedroom window. He has staunch principles, strict routines, and a short fuse. People call him “the bitter neighbor from hell.” But must Ove be bitter just because he doesn’t walk around with a smile plastered to his face all the time?

Behind the cranky exterior there is a story and a sadness. So when one November morning a chatty young couple with two chatty young daughters move in next door and accidentally flatten Ove’s mailbox, it is the lead-in to a comical and heartwarming tale of unkempt cats, unexpected friendship, and the ancient art of backing up a U-Haul. All of which will change one cranky old man and a local residents’ association to their very foundations.

A feel-good story in the spirit of The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry and Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand, Fredrik Backman’s novel about the angry old man next door is a thoughtful exploration of the profound impact one life has on countless others. “If there was an award for ‘Most Charming Book of the Year,’ this first novel by a Swedish blogger-turned-overnight-sensation would win hands down” (Booklist, starred review).",{"_45":2734,"_58":2735,"_60":2736,"_54":2737,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47482885079281","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781476738024_p0.jpg?v=1790908519",871,1356,{"_964":2739},{"_966":2556,"_968":969},{"_964":2741,"_970":2742},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_979":2744},[2745],{"_45":2746,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":-5,"_717":2747,"_1010":2748,"_942":2749,"_1013":2750,"_1017":2730,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46246257033457",{"_45":2734,"_58":2735,"_984":-5,"_60":2736,"_54":2737},{"_966":2556,"_968":969},{"_76":2729,"_837":2730},[2751],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":2753},"[\"Page & Screen (p4180)\",\"Classroom Literature & Nonfiction (p5500)\"]",{"_1016":2730},{"_1016":961},[2757,-5,-5,2760,2762,-5,2764,2766,2769,2772,2775,-5,2777,2779,-5,2781,2783,2786],{"_45":2758,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":2759},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39729685070065","[{\"contributorId\":16235088,\"fullName\":\"Fredrik Backman\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":2761,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39729685201137",{"_45":2763,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39729684906225",{"_45":2765,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":1117},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39729685233905",{"_45":2767,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":2768},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39729685889265","[{\"id\":\"119725244T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Chapter 1: A Man Called Ove Buys a Computer That Is Not a Computer 1 A MAN CALLED OVE BUYS A COMPUTER THAT IS NOT A COMPUTER
Ove is fifty-nine.

He drives a Saab. He’s the kind of man who points at people he doesn’t like the look of, as if they were burglars and his forefinger a policeman’s flashlight. He stands at the counter of a shop where owners of Japanese cars come to purchase white cables. Ove eyes the sales assistant for a long time before shaking a medium-sized white box at him.

“So this is one of those O-Pads, is it?” he demands.

The assistant, a young man with a single-digit body mass index, looks ill at ease. He visibly struggles to control his urge to snatch the box out of Ove’s hands.

“Yes, exactly. An iPad. Do you think you could stop shaking it like that…?”

Ove gives the box a skeptical glance, as if it’s a highly dubious sort of box, a box that rides a scooter and wears tracksuit pants and just called Ove “my friend” before offering to sell him a watch.

“I see. So it’s a computer, yes?”

The sales assistant nods. Then hesitates and quickly shakes his head.

“Yes… or, what I mean is, it’s an iPad. Some people call it a ‘tablet’ and others call it a ‘surfing device.’ There are different ways of looking at it.…”

Ove looks at the sales assistant as if he has just spoken backwards, before shaking the box again.

“But is it good, this thing?”

The assistant nods confusedly. “Yes. Or… How do you mean?”

Ove sighs and starts talking slowly, articulating his words as if the only problem here is his adversary’s impaired hearing.

“Is. It. Goooood? Is it a good computer?”

The assistant scratches his chin.

“I mean… yeah… it’s really good… but it depends what sort of computer you want.”

Ove glares at him.

“I want a computer! A normal bloody computer!”

Silence descends over the two men for a short while. The assistant clears his throat.

“Well… it isn’t really a normal computer. Maybe you’d rather have a…”

The assistant stops and seems to be looking for a word that falls within the bounds of comprehension of the man facing him. Then he clears his throat again and says:

“… a laptop?”

Ove shakes his head wildly and leans menacingly over the counter.

“No, I don’t want a ‘laptop.’ I want a computer.”

The assistant nods pedagogically.

“A laptop is a computer.”

Ove, insulted, glares at him and stabs his forefinger at the counter.

“You think I don’t know that!”

Another silence, as if two gunmen have suddenly realized they have forgotten to bring their pistols. Ove looks at the box for a long time, as though he’s waiting for it to make a confession.

“Where does the keyboard pull out?” he mutters eventually.

The sales assistant rubs his palms against the edge of the counter and shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot, as young men employed in retail outlets often do when they begin to understand that something is going to take considerably more time than they had initially hoped.

“Well, this one doesn’t actually have a keyboard.”

Ove does something with his eyebrows. “Ah, of course,” he splutters. “Because you have to buy it as an ‘extra,’ don’t you?”

“No, what I mean is that the computer doesn’t have a separate keyboard. You control everything from the screen.”

Ove shakes his head in disbelief, as if he’s just witnessed the sales assistant walking around the counter and licking the glass-fronted display cabinet.

“But I have to have a keyboard. You do understand that?”

The young man sighs deeply, as if patiently counting to ten.

“Okay. I understand. In that case I don’t think you should go for this computer. I think you should buy something like a MacBook instead.”

“A McBook?” Ove says, far from convinced. “Is that one of those blessed ‘eReaders’ everyone’s talking about?”

“No. A MacBook is a… it’s a… laptop, with a keyboard.”

“Okay!” Ove hisses. He looks around the shop for a moment. “So are they any good, then?”

The sales assistant looks down at the counter in a way that seems to reveal a fiercely yet barely controlled desire to begin clawing his own face. Then he suddenly brightens, flashing an energetic smile.

“You know what? Let me see if my colleague has finished with his customer, so he can come and give you a demonstration.”

Ove checks his watch and grudgingly agrees, reminding the assistant that some people have better things to do than stand around all day waiting. The assistant gives him a quick nod, then disappears and comes back after a few moments with a colleague. The colleague looks very happy, as people do when they have not been working for a sufficient stretch of time as sales assistants.

“Hi, how can I help you?”

Ove drills his police-flashlight finger into the counter.

“I want a computer!”

The colleague no longer looks quite as happy. He gives the first sales assistant an insinuating glance as if to say he’ll pay him back for this.

In the meantime the first sales assistant mutters, “I can’t take anymore, I’m going for lunch.”

“Lunch,” snorts Ove. “That’s the only thing people care about nowadays.”

“I’m sorry?” says the colleague and turns around.

“Lunch!” He sneers, then tosses the box onto the counter and swiftly walks out.\"},{\"id\":\"43868962T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Chapter 1: A Man Called Ove Buys a Computer That Is Not a Computer 1 A MAN CALLED OVE BUYS A COMPUTER THAT IS NOT A COMPUTER
Ove is fifty—nine.

He drives a Saab. He’s the kind of man who points at people he doesn’t like the look of, as if they were burglars and his forefinger a policeman’s flashlight. He stands at the counter of a shop where owners of Japanese cars come to purchase white cables. Ove eyes the sales assistant for a long time before shaking a medium—sized white box at him.

“So this is one of those O—Pads, is it?” he demands.

The assistant, a young man with a single—digit body mass index, looks ill at ease. He visibly struggles to control his urge to snatch the box out of Ove’s hands.

“Yes, exactly. An iPad. Do you think you could stop shaking it like that...?”

Ove gives the box a skeptical glance, as if it’s a highly dubious sort of box, a box that rides a scooter and wears tracksuit pants and just called Ove “my friend” before offering to sell him a watch.

“I see. So it’s a computer, yes?”

The sales assistant nods. Then hesitates and quickly shakes his head.

“Yes... or, what I mean is, it’s an iPad. Some people call it a ‘tablet’ and others call it a ‘surfing device.’ There are different ways of looking at it....”

Ove looks at the sales assistant as if he has just spoken backwards, before shaking the box again.

“But is it good, this thing?”

The assistant nods confusedly. “Yes. Or... How do you mean?”

Ove sighs and starts talking slowly, articulating his words as if the only problem here is his adversary’s impaired hearing.

“Is. It. Goooood? Is it a good computer?”

The assistant scratches his chin.

“I mean... yeah... it’s really good... but it depends what sort of computer you want.”

Ove glares at him.

“I want a computer! A normal bloody computer!”

Silence descends over the two men for a short while. The assistant clears his throat.

“Well... it isn’t really a normal computer. Maybe you’d rather have a...”

The assistant stops and seems to be looking for a word that falls within the bounds of comprehension of the man facing him. Then he clears his throat again and says:

“... a laptop?”

Ove shakes his head wildly and leans menacingly over the counter.

“No, I don’t want a ‘laptop.’ I want a computer.”

The assistant nods pedagogically.

“A laptop is a computer.”

Ove, insulted, glares at him and stabs his forefinger at the counter.

“You think I don’t know that!”

Another silence, as if two gunmen have suddenly realized they have forgotten to bring their pistols. Ove looks at the box for a long time, as though he’s waiting for it to make a confession.

“Where does the keyboard pull out?” he mutters eventually.

The sales assistant rubs his palms against the edge of the counter and shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot, as young men employed in retail outlets often do when they begin to understand that something is going to take considerably more time than they had initially hoped.

“Well, this one doesn’t actually have a keyboard.”

Ove does something with his eyebrows. “Ah, of course,” he splutters. “Because you have to buy it as an ‘extra,’ don’t you?”

“No, what I mean is that the computer doesn’t have a separate keyboard. You control everything from the screen.”

Ove shakes his head in disbelief, as if he’s just witnessed the sales assistant walking around the counter and licking the glass—fronted display cabinet.

“But I have to have a keyboard. You do understand that?”

The young man sighs deeply, as if patiently counting to ten.

“Okay. I understand. In that case I don’t think you should go for this computer. I think you should buy something like a MacBook instead.”

“A McBook?” Ove says, far from convinced. “Is that one of those blessed ‘eReaders’ everyone’s talking about?”

“No. A MacBook is a... it’s a... laptop, with a keyboard.”

“Okay!” Ove hisses. He looks around the shop for a moment. “So are they any good, then?”

The sales assistant looks down at the counter in a way that seems to reveal a fiercely yet barely controlled desire to begin clawing his own face. Then he suddenly brightens, flashing an energetic smile.

“You know what? Let me see if my colleague has finished with his customer, so he can come and give you a demonstration.”

Ove checks his watch and grudgingly agrees, reminding the assistant that some people have better things to do than stand around all day waiting. The assistant gives him a quick nod, then disappears and comes back after a few moments with a colleague. The colleague looks very happy, as people do when they have not been working for a sufficient stretch of time as sales assistants.

“Hi, how can I help you?”

Ove drills his police—flashlight finger into the counter.

“I want a computer!”

The colleague no longer looks quite as happy. He gives the first sales assistant an insinuating glance as if to say he’ll pay him back for this.

In the meantime the first sales assistant mutters, “I can’t take anymore, I’m going for lunch.”

“Lunch,” snorts Ove. “That’s the only thing people care about nowadays.”

“I’m sorry?” says the colleague and turns around.

“Lunch!” He sneers, then tosses the box onto the counter and swiftly walks out.
\"},{\"id\":\"67052405T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"Chapter 1: A Man Called Ove Buys a Computer That Is Not a Computer 1 A MAN CALLED OVE BUYS A COMPUTER THAT IS NOT A COMPUTER
Ove is fifty-nine.

He drives a Saab. He’s the kind of man who points at people he doesn’t like the look of, as if they were burglars and his forefinger a policeman’s flashlight. He stands at the counter of a shop where owners of Japanese cars come to purchase white cables. Ove eyes the sales assistant for a long time before shaking a medium-sized white box at him.

“So this is one of those O-Pads, is it?” he demands.

The assistant, a young man with a single-digit body mass index, looks ill at ease. He visibly struggles to control his urge to snatch the box out of Ove’s hands.

“Yes, exactly. An iPad. Do you think you could stop shaking it like that...?”

Ove gives the box a skeptical glance, as if it’s a highly dubious sort of box, a box that rides a scooter and wears tracksuit pants and just called Ove “my friend” before offering to sell him a watch.

“I see. So it’s a computer, yes?”

The sales assistant nods. Then hesitates and quickly shakes his head.

“Yes... or, what I mean is, it’s an iPad. Some people call it a ‘tablet’ and others call it a ‘surfing device.’ There are different ways of looking at it....”

Ove looks at the sales assistant as if he has just spoken backwards, before shaking the box again.

“But is it good, this thing?”

The assistant nods confusedly. “Yes. Or... How do you mean?”

Ove sighs and starts talking slowly, articulating his words as if the only problem here is his adversary’s impaired hearing.

“Is. It. Goooood? Is it a good computer?”

The assistant scratches his chin.

“I mean... yeah... it’s really good... but it depends what sort of computer you want.”

Ove glares at him.

“I want a computer! A normal bloody computer!”

Silence descends over the two men for a short while. The assistant clears his throat.

“Well... it isn’t really a normal computer. Maybe you’d rather have a...”

The assistant stops and seems to be looking for a word that falls within the bounds of comprehension of the man facing him. Then he clears his throat again and says:

“... a laptop?”

Ove shakes his head wildly and leans menacingly over the counter.

“No, I don’t want a ‘laptop.’ I want a computer.”

The assistant nods pedagogically.

“A laptop is a computer.”

Ove, insulted, glares at him and stabs his forefinger at the counter.

“You think I don’t know that!”

Another silence, as if two gunmen have suddenly realized they have forgotten to bring their pistols. Ove looks at the box for a long time, as though he’s waiting for it to make a confession.

“Where does the keyboard pull out?” he mutters eventually.

The sales assistant rubs his palms against the edge of the counter and shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot, as young men employed in retail outlets often do when they begin to understand that something is going to take considerably more time than they had initially hoped.

“Well, this one doesn’t actually have a keyboard.”

Ove does something with his eyebrows. “Ah, of course,” he splutters. “Because you have to buy it as an ‘extra,’ don’t you?”

“No, what I mean is that the computer doesn’t have a separate keyboard. You control everything from the screen.”

Ove shakes his head in disbelief, as if he’s just witnessed the sales assistant walking around the counter and licking the glass-fronted display cabinet.

“But I have to have a keyboard. You do understand that?”

The young man sighs deeply, as if patiently counting to ten.

“Okay. I understand. In that case I don’t think you should go for this computer. I think you should buy something like a MacBook instead.”

“A McBook?” Ove says, far from convinced. “Is that one of those blessed ‘eReaders’ everyone’s talking about?”

“No. A MacBook is a... it’s a... laptop, with a keyboard.”

“Okay!” Ove hisses. He looks around the shop for a moment. “So are they any good, then?”

The sales assistant looks down at the counter in a way that seems to reveal a fiercely yet barely controlled desire to begin clawing his own face. Then he suddenly brightens, flashing an energetic smile.

“You know what? Let me see if my colleague has finished with his customer, so he can come and give you a demonstration.”

Ove checks his watch and grudgingly agrees, reminding the assistant that some people have better things to do than stand around all day waiting. The assistant gives him a quick nod, then disappears and comes back after a few moments with a colleague. The colleague looks very happy, as people do when they have not been working for a sufficient stretch of time as sales assistants.

“Hi, how can I help you?”

Ove drills his police-flashlight finger into the counter.

“I want a computer!”

The colleague no longer looks quite as happy. He gives the first sales assistant an insinuating glance as if to say he’ll pay him back for this.

In the meantime the first sales assistant mutters, “I can’t take anymore, I’m going for lunch.”

“Lunch,” snorts Ove. “That’s the only thing people care about nowadays.”

“I’m sorry?” says the colleague and turns around.

“Lunch!” He sneers, then tosses the box onto the counter and swiftly walks out.
\"},{\"id\":\"85599084T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"Chapter 1: A Man Called Ove Buys a Computer That Is Not a Computer 1 A MAN CALLED OVE BUYS A COMPUTER THAT IS NOT A COMPUTER
Ove is fifty-nine.

He drives a Saab. He’s the kind of man who points at people he doesn’t like the look of, as if they were burglars and his forefinger a policeman’s flashlight. He stands at the counter of a shop where owners of Japanese cars come to purchase white cables. Ove eyes the sales assistant for a long time before shaking a medium-sized white box at him.

“So this is one of those O-Pads, is it?” he demands.

The assistant, a young man with a single-digit body mass index, looks ill at ease. He visibly struggles to control his urge to snatch the box out of Ove’s hands.

“Yes, exactly. An iPad. Do you think you could stop shaking it like that...?”

Ove gives the box a skeptical glance, as if it’s a highly dubious sort of box, a box that rides a scooter and wears tracksuit pants and just called Ove “my friend” before offering to sell him a watch.

“I see. So it’s a computer, yes?”

The sales assistant nods. Then hesitates and quickly shakes his head.

“Yes... or, what I mean is, it’s an iPad. Some people call it a ‘tablet’ and others call it a ‘surfing device.’ There are different ways of looking at it....”

Ove looks at the sales assistant as if he has just spoken backwards, before shaking the box again.

“But is it good, this thing?”

The assistant nods confusedly. “Yes. Or... How do you mean?”

Ove sighs and starts talking slowly, articulating his words as if the only problem here is his adversary’s impaired hearing.

“Is. It. Goooood? Is it a good computer?”

The assistant scratches his chin.

“I mean... yeah... it’s really good... but it depends what sort of computer you want.”

Ove glares at him.

“I want a computer! A normal bloody computer!”

Silence descends over the two men for a short while. The assistant clears his throat.

“Well... it isn’t really a normal computer. Maybe you’d rather have a...”

The assistant stops and seems to be looking for a word that falls within the bounds of comprehension of the man facing him. Then he clears his throat again and says:

“... a laptop?”

Ove shakes his head wildly and leans menacingly over the counter.

“No, I don’t want a ‘laptop.’ I want a computer.”

The assistant nods pedagogically.

“A laptop is a computer.”

Ove, insulted, glares at him and stabs his forefinger at the counter.

“You think I don’t know that!”

Another silence, as if two gunmen have suddenly realized they have forgotten to bring their pistols. Ove looks at the box for a long time, as though he’s waiting for it to make a confession.

“Where does the keyboard pull out?” he mutters eventually.

The sales assistant rubs his palms against the edge of the counter and shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot, as young men employed in retail outlets often do when they begin to understand that something is going to take considerably more time than they had initially hoped.

“Well, this one doesn’t actually have a keyboard.”

Ove does something with his eyebrows. “Ah, of course,” he splutters. “Because you have to buy it as an ‘extra,’ don’t you?”

“No, what I mean is that the computer doesn’t have a separate keyboard. You control everything from the screen.”

Ove shakes his head in disbelief, as if he’s just witnessed the sales assistant walking around the counter and licking the glass-fronted display cabinet.

“But I have to have a keyboard. You do understand that?”

The young man sighs deeply, as if patiently counting to ten.

“Okay. I understand. In that case I don’t think you should go for this computer. I think you should buy something like a MacBook instead.”

“A McBook?” Ove says, far from convinced. “Is that one of those blessed ‘eReaders’ everyone’s talking about?”

“No. A MacBook is a... it’s a... laptop, with a keyboard.”

“Okay!” Ove hisses. He looks around the shop for a moment. “So are they any good, then?”

The sales assistant looks down at the counter in a way that seems to reveal a fiercely yet barely controlled desire to begin clawing his own face. Then he suddenly brightens, flashing an energetic smile.

“You know what? Let me see if my colleague has finished with his customer, so he can come and give you a demonstration.”

Ove checks his watch and grudgingly agrees, reminding the assistant that some people have better things to do than stand around all day waiting. The assistant gives him a quick nod, then disappears and comes back after a few moments with a colleague. The colleague looks very happy, as people do when they have not been working for a sufficient stretch of time as sales assistants.

“Hi, how can I help you?”

Ove drills his police-flashlight finger into the counter.

“I want a computer!”

The colleague no longer looks quite as happy. He gives the first sales assistant an insinuating glance as if to say he’ll pay him back for this.

In the meantime the first sales assistant mutters, “I can’t take anymore, I’m going for lunch.”

“Lunch,” snorts Ove. “That’s the only thing people care about nowadays.”

“I’m sorry?” says the colleague and turns around.

“Lunch!” He sneers, then tosses the box onto the counter and swiftly walks out.
\"},{\"id\":\"82679313T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"

A Man Called Ove

A MAN CALLED OVE BUYS A COMPUTER THAT IS NOT A COMPUTER

Ove is fifty-nine.

He drives a Saab. He’s the kind of man who points at people he doesn’t like the look of, as if they were burglars and his forefinger a policeman’s flashlight. He stands at the counter of a shop where owners of Japanese cars come to purchase white cables. Ove eyes the sales assistant for a long time before shaking a medium-sized white box at him.

“So this is one of those O-Pads, is it?” he demands.

The assistant, a young man with a single-digit body mass index, looks ill at ease. He visibly struggles to control his urge to snatch the box out of Ove’s hands.

“Yes, exactly. An iPad. Do you think you could stop shaking it like that . . . ?”

Ove gives the box a skeptical glance, as if it’s a highly dubious sort of box, a box that rides a scooter and wears tracksuit pants and just called Ove “my friend” before offering to sell him a watch.

“I see. So it’s a computer, yes?”

The sales assistant nods. Then hesitates and quickly shakes his head.

“Yes . . . or, what I mean is, it’s an iPad. Some people call it a ‘tablet’ and others call it a ‘surfing device.’ There are different ways of looking at it. . . .”

Ove looks at the sales assistant as if he has just spoken backwards, before shaking the box again.

“But is it good, this thing?”

The assistant nods confusedly. “Yes. Or . . . How do you mean?”

Ove sighs and starts talking slowly, articulating his words as if the only problem here is his adversary’s impaired hearing.

“Is. It. Goooood? Is it a good computer?”

The assistant scratches his chin.

“I mean . . . yeah . . . it’s really good . . . but it depends what sort of computer you want.”

Ove glares at him.

“I want a computer! A normal bloody computer!”

Silence descends over the two men for a short while. The assistant clears his throat.

“Well . . . it isn’t really a normal computer. Maybe you’d rather have a . . .”

The assistant stops and seems to be looking for a word that falls within the bounds of comprehension of the man facing him. Then he clears his throat again and says:

“. . . a laptop?”

Ove shakes his head wildly and leans menacingly over the counter.

“No, I don’t want a ‘laptop.’ I want a computer.”

The assistant nods pedagogically.

“A laptop is a computer.”

Ove, insulted, glares at him and stabs his forefinger at the counter.

“You think I don’t know that!”

Another silence, as if two gunmen have suddenly realized they have forgotten to bring their pistols. Ove looks at the box for a long time, as though he’s waiting for it to make a confession.

“Where does the keyboard pull out?” he mutters eventually.

The sales assistant rubs his palms against the edge of the counter and shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot, as young men employed in retail outlets often do when they begin to understand that something is going to take considerably more time than they had initially hoped.

“Well, this one doesn’t actually have a keyboard.”

Ove does something with his eyebrows. “Ah, of course,” he splutters. “Because you have to buy it as an ‘extra,’ don’t you?”

“No, what I mean is that the computer doesn’t have a separate keyboard. You control everything from the screen.”

Ove shakes his head in disbelief, as if he’s just witnessed the sales assistant walking around the counter and licking the glass-fronted display cabinet.

“But I have to have a keyboard. You do understand that?”

The young man sighs deeply, as if patiently counting to ten.

“Okay. I understand. In that case I don’t think you should go for this computer. I think you should buy something like a MacBook instead.”

“A McBook?” Ove says, far from convinced. “Is that one of those blessed ‘eReaders’ everyone’s talking about?”

“No. A MacBook is a . . . it’s a . . . laptop, with a keyboard.”

“Okay!” Ove hisses. He looks around the shop for a moment. “So are they any good, then?”

The sales assistant looks down at the counter in a way that seems to reveal a fiercely yet barely controlled desire to begin clawing his own face. Then he suddenly brightens, flashing an energetic smile.

“You know what? Let me see if my colleague has finished with his customer, so he can come and give you a demonstration.”

Ove checks his watch and grudgingly agrees, reminding the assistant that some people have better things to do than stand around all day waiting. The assistant gives him a quick nod, then disappears and comes back after a few moments with a colleague. The colleague looks very happy, as people do when they have not been working for a sufficient stretch of time as sales assistants.

“Hi, how can I help you?”

Ove drills his police-flashlight finger into the counter.

“I want a computer!”

The colleague no longer looks quite as happy. He gives the first sales assistant an insinuating glance as if to say he’ll pay him back for this.

In the meantime the first sales assistant mutters, “I can’t take anymore, I’m going for lunch.”

“Lunch,” snorts Ove. “That’s the only thing people care about nowadays.”

“I’m sorry?” says the colleague and turns around.

“Lunch!” He sneers, then tosses the box onto the counter and swiftly walks out.\"},{\"id\":\"54037465T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"6\",\"text\":\"

A Man Called Ove

A MAN CALLED OVE BUYS A COMPUTER THAT IS NOT A COMPUTER

Ove is fifty-nine.

“So this is one of those O-Pads, is it?” he demands.

The assistant, a young man with a single-digit body mass index, looks ill at ease. He visibly struggles to control his urge to snatch the box out of Ove’s hands.

“Yes, exactly. An iPad. Do you think you could stop shaking it like that . . . ?”

“I see. So it’s a computer, yes?”

The sales assistant nods. Then hesitates and quickly shakes his head.

“Yes . . . or, what I mean is, it’s an iPad. Some people call it a ‘tablet’ and others call it a ‘surfing device.’ There are different ways of looking at it. . . .”

Ove looks at the sales assistant as if he has just spoken backwards, before shaking the box again.

“But is it good, this thing?”

The assistant nods confusedly. “Yes. Or . . . How do you mean?”

Ove sighs and starts talking slowly, articulating his words as if the only problem here is his adversary’s impaired hearing.

“Is. It. Goooood? Is it a good computer?”

The assistant scratches his chin.

“I mean . . . yeah . . . it’s really good . . . but it depends what sort of computer you want.”

Ove glares at him.

“I want a computer! A normal bloody computer!”

Silence descends over the two men for a short while. The assistant clears his throat.

“Well . . . it isn’t really a normal computer. Maybe you’d rather have a . . .”

The assistant stops and seems to be looking for a word that falls within the bounds of comprehension of the man facing him. Then he clears his throat again and says:

“. . . a laptop?”

Ove shakes his head wildly and leans menacingly over the counter.

“No, I don’t want a ‘laptop.’ I want a computer.”

The assistant nods pedagogically.

“A laptop is a computer.”

Ove, insulted, glares at him and stabs his forefinger at the counter.

“You think I don’t know that!”

Another silence, as if two gunmen have suddenly realized they have forgotten to bring their pistols. Ove looks at the box for a long time, as though he’s waiting for it to make a confession.

“Where does the keyboard pull out?” he mutters eventually.

“Well, this one doesn’t actually have a keyboard.”

Ove does something with his eyebrows. “Ah, of course,” he splutters. “Because you have to buy it as an ‘extra,’ don’t you?”

“No, what I mean is that the computer doesn’t have a separate keyboard. You control everything from the screen.”

Ove shakes his head in disbelief, as if he’s just witnessed the sales assistant walking around the counter and licking the glass-fronted display cabinet.

“But I have to have a keyboard. You do understand that?”

The young man sighs deeply, as if patiently counting to ten.

“Okay. I understand. In that case I don’t think you should go for this computer. I think you should buy something like a MacBook instead.”

“A McBook?” Ove says, far from convinced. “Is that one of those blessed ‘eReaders’ everyone’s talking about?”

“No. A MacBook is a . . . it’s a . . . laptop, with a keyboard.”

“Okay!” Ove hisses. He looks around the shop for a moment. “So are they any good, then?”

“You know what? Let me see if my colleague has finished with his customer, so he can come and give you a demonstration.”

“Hi, how can I help you?”

Ove drills his police-flashlight finger into the counter.

“I want a computer!”

The colleague no longer looks quite as happy. He gives the first sales assistant an insinuating glance as if to say he’ll pay him back for this.

In the meantime the first sales assistant mutters, “I can’t take anymore, I’m going for lunch.”

“Lunch,” snorts Ove. “That’s the only thing people care about nowadays.”

“I’m sorry?” says the colleague and turns around.

“Lunch!” He sneers, then tosses the box onto the counter and swiftly walks out.\"},{\"id\":\"119882391T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"7\",\"text\":\"Chapter 1: A Man Called Ove Buys a Computer That Is Not a Computer 1 A MAN CALLED OVE BUYS A COMPUTER THAT IS NOT A COMPUTER
Ove is fifty-nine.

He drives a Saab. He’s the kind of man who points at people he doesn’t like the look of, as if they were burglars and his forefinger a policeman’s flashlight. He stands at the counter of a shop where owners of Japanese cars come to purchase white cables. Ove eyes the sales assistant for a long time before shaking a medium-sized white box at him.

“So this is one of those O-Pads, is it?” he demands.

The assistant, a young man with a single-digit body mass index, looks ill at ease. He visibly struggles to control his urge to snatch the box out of Ove’s hands.

“Yes, exactly. An iPad. Do you think you could stop shaking it like that…?”

Ove gives the box a skeptical glance, as if it’s a highly dubious sort of box, a box that rides a scooter and wears tracksuit pants and just called Ove “my friend” before offering to sell him a watch.

“I see. So it’s a computer, yes?”

The sales assistant nods. Then hesitates and quickly shakes his head.

“Yes… or, what I mean is, it’s an iPad. Some people call it a ‘tablet’ and others call it a ‘surfing device.’ There are different ways of looking at it.…”

Ove looks at the sales assistant as if he has just spoken backwards, before shaking the box again.

“But is it good, this thing?”

The assistant nods confusedly. “Yes. Or… How do you mean?”

Ove sighs and starts talking slowly, articulating his words as if the only problem here is his adversary’s impaired hearing.

“Is. It. Goooood? Is it a good computer?”

The assistant scratches his chin.

“I mean… yeah… it’s really good… but it depends what sort of computer you want.”

Ove glares at him.

“I want a computer! A normal bloody computer!”

Silence descends over the two men for a short while. The assistant clears his throat.

“Well… it isn’t really a normal computer. Maybe you’d rather have a…”

The assistant stops and seems to be looking for a word that falls within the bounds of comprehension of the man facing him. Then he clears his throat again and says:

“… a laptop?”

Ove shakes his head wildly and leans menacingly over the counter.

“No, I don’t want a ‘laptop.’ I want a computer.”

The assistant nods pedagogically.

“A laptop is a computer.”

Ove, insulted, glares at him and stabs his forefinger at the counter.

“You think I don’t know that!”

Another silence, as if two gunmen have suddenly realized they have forgotten to bring their pistols. Ove looks at the box for a long time, as though he’s waiting for it to make a confession.

“Where does the keyboard pull out?” he mutters eventually.

The sales assistant rubs his palms against the edge of the counter and shifts his weight nervously from foot to foot, as young men employed in retail outlets often do when they begin to understand that something is going to take considerably more time than they had initially hoped.

“Well, this one doesn’t actually have a keyboard.”

Ove does something with his eyebrows. “Ah, of course,” he splutters. “Because you have to buy it as an ‘extra,’ don’t you?”

“No, what I mean is that the computer doesn’t have a separate keyboard. You control everything from the screen.”

Ove shakes his head in disbelief, as if he’s just witnessed the sales assistant walking around the counter and licking the glass-fronted display cabinet.

“But I have to have a keyboard. You do understand that?”

The young man sighs deeply, as if patiently counting to ten.

“Okay. I understand. In that case I don’t think you should go for this computer. I think you should buy something like a MacBook instead.”

“A McBook?” Ove says, far from convinced. “Is that one of those blessed ‘eReaders’ everyone’s talking about?”

“No. A MacBook is a… it’s a… laptop, with a keyboard.”

“Okay!” Ove hisses. He looks around the shop for a moment. “So are they any good, then?”

The sales assistant looks down at the counter in a way that seems to reveal a fiercely yet barely controlled desire to begin clawing his own face. Then he suddenly brightens, flashing an energetic smile.

“You know what? Let me see if my colleague has finished with his customer, so he can come and give you a demonstration.”

Ove checks his watch and grudgingly agrees, reminding the assistant that some people have better things to do than stand around all day waiting. The assistant gives him a quick nod, then disappears and comes back after a few moments with a colleague. The colleague looks very happy, as people do when they have not been working for a sufficient stretch of time as sales assistants.

“Hi, how can I help you?”

Ove drills his police-flashlight finger into the counter.

“I want a computer!”

The colleague no longer looks quite as happy. He gives the first sales assistant an insinuating glance as if to say he’ll pay him back for this.

In the meantime the first sales assistant mutters, “I can’t take anymore, I’m going for lunch.”

“Lunch,” snorts Ove. “That’s the only thing people care about nowadays.”

“I’m sorry?” says the colleague and turns around.

“Lunch!” He sneers, then tosses the box onto the counter and swiftly walks out.\"},{\"id\":\"132677048T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"\\\"A charming debut...You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll feel new sympathy for the curmudgeons in your life. You'll also want to move to Scandinavia, where everything's cuter.\\\"\"},{\"id\":\"119725245T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"“A charming debut…You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll feel new sympathy for the curmudgeons in your life. You’ll also want to move to Scandinavia, where everything’s cuter.”— People

\\\"A Man Called Ove is exquisite. The lyrical language is the confetti thrown liberally throughout this celebration-of-life story, adding sparkle and color to an already spectacular party. Backman's characters feel so authentic that readers will likely find analogues living in their own neighborhoods.\\\"— Shelf Awareness (starred review)

\\\"Readers seeking feel-good tales with a message will rave about the rantings of this solitary old man with a singular outlook. If there was an award for 'Most Charming Book of the Year,' this first novel by a Swedish blogger-turned-overnight-sensation would win hands down.\\\"— Booklist, Starred Review

“A funny crowd-pleaser that serves up laughs to accompany a thoughtful reflection on loss and love… The author writes with winning charm.”— Publishers Weekly, starred review

“This charming debut novel by Backman should find a ready audience with English-language readers… hysterically funny… wry descriptions, excellent pacing… In the contest of Most Winning Combination, it would be hard to beat grumpy Ove and his hidden,generous heart.”— Kirkus Reviews

\\\"There are characters who amuse us, and stories that touch us. But this character and his story do even more: A Man Called Ove makes us think about who we are and how we want to live our lives. A Man Called Ove seems deceptively simple at the start, yet Frederik Backman packs a lifetime's worth of hilarity and heartbreak into this novel. Even the most crusty curmudgeon will love Ove!\\\"— Lois Leveen, author of Juliet's Nurse and The Secrets of Mary Bowser

“One of the most moving novels I have read this year. I defy anyone to read this book and look at a quiet withdrawn person the same way ever again.”— Cayacosta Reviews

“[T]he revelations about his past are what make the story so endearing. Suffice it to say that along with the characters in the story, who come to discover that Ove is more than just the grumpy old man they first met, the reader is in for an enjoyable ride. A Man Called Ove reminds us that even the most difficult people have a back story that helps explain their current way of interacting- and perhaps, reveals the positive side of those qualities.”— eMissourian.com

\\\"If you have not heard of this author, Fredrik Backman, you are in for a major treat. Major.”— Dunn County News\"},{\"id\":\"85823163T\",\"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 Man Called Ove is a paean to the transformative power of finding friendship where you least expect it and the companionship you thought you never wanted.

\"},{\"id\":\"48432557T\",\"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 A Man Called Ove includes an introduction, discussion questions, and ideas for enhancing your book club. 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

Ove is getting older. He’s the kind of man who points at people he dislikes as if they were burglars caught outside his bedroom window. He has staunch principles, strict routines, and a short fuse. People in Ove’s neighborhood call him “the bitter neighbor from hell.” But behind Ove’s cranky exterior lies a story and a sadness. When an accident-prone young couple with two young daughters moves in next door and accidentally flatten Ove’s mailbox one November morning, overturning his well-ordered routine, it is the spark in a surprising, enlivening chain of events—featuring unkempt cats, unexpected friendships, arrogant bureaucrats, several trips to the hospital, and the ancient art of backing up a U-Haul. Swept along in the tide, Ove is forced to change and learn to understand his neighbors and the modern times into which he has been grudgingly dragged. But as his neighbors learn more about the reasons behind Ove’s grumpy façade, they must also band together to protect each other and their neighborhood in a struggle that will leave no one, including Ove, unchanged.

Topics & Questions for Discussion

1. How does the opening scene, in which Ove attempts to purchase a computer, succinctly express the main points of Ove’s ongoing battle with the stupidities of the modern world?

2. Ove loves things that have a purpose, that are useful. How does this worldview fail him when he believes himself to be useless? How is he convinced that he can still be useful?

3. As readers, we get to know Ove slowly, with his past only being revealed piece by piece. What surprised you about Ove’s past? Why do you think the author revealed Ove’s past the way that he did?

4. We all know our own grumpy old men. How do Ove’s core values lead him to appear as such a cranky old coot, when he is in fact nothing of the sort? Which of these values do you agree or disagree with?

5. Although Ove has some major “disagreements” with the way the world turned out, there are some undeniable advantages to the modernization he finds so hollow. How do these advantages improve Ove’s life, even if he can’t admit it?

6. Parveneh’s perspective on life, as radically different from Ove’s as it is, eventually succeeds in breaking Ove out of his shell, even if she can’t change his feelings about Saabs. How does her brash, extroverted attitude manage to somehow be both rude and helpful?

7. Ove strives to be “as little unlike his father as possible.” Although this emulation provides much of the strength that helps Ove persevere through a difficult life, it also has some disadvantages. What are some of the ways that Ove grows into a new way of thinking over the course of the book?

8. Ove is a believer in the value of routine—how can following a routine be both comforting and stultifying? How can we balance routine and spontaneity? Should we? Or is there sense in eating sausage and potatoes your whole life?

9. The truism “it takes a village to raise a child” has some resonance with A Man Called Ove. How does the eclectic cast of posers, suits, deadbeats, and teens each help Ove in their own way?

10. Although we all identify with Ove to some extent, especially by the end of the story, we certainly also have our differences with him. Which of the supporting cast (Parveneh, Jimmy, the Lanky One, Anita) did you find yourself identifying with most?

11. What did you make of Ove’s ongoing battle with the bureaucracies that persist in getting in his way? Is Ove’s true fight with the various ruling bodies, or are they stand-ins, scapegoats, for something else?

12. On page 113, after a younger Ove punches Tom, the author reflects: “A time like that comes for all men, when they choose what sort of men they want to be.” Do you agree with this sentiment, especially in this context? How does the book deal with varying ideas of masculinity?

13. On page 246, the author muses that when people don’t share sorrow, it can drive them apart. Do you agree with this? Why or why not?

14. What do you think of Ove’s relationship with the mangy cat he adopts? What does the cat allow him to express that he couldn’t otherwise say?

15. On Ove and Sonja’s trip to Spain, Ove spends his time helping the locals and fixing things. How does Ove the “hero” compare and contrast to his behavior in the rest of the book? Is that Ove’s true personality?

16. Ove and Sonja’s love story is one of the most affecting, tender parts of the book. What is the key to their romance? Why do they fit so well together?

17. Saab? Volvo? BMW? Scania?

Enhance Your Book Club

1. Grumpy old men like Ove pop up in various forms throughout popular culture. Have a movie night for your group, and screen a film that reminds you of Ove. Perhaps try About Schmidt, As Good as It Gets, Up, or, obviously, Grumpy Old Men. Examine how the characters differ from Ove, or share his grouchy worldview. How did what you watched change the way you thought about the book? Alternatively, screen a movie you think Ove would enjoy, like a Saab commercial.

2. Parveneh and the rest of Ove’s neighbors succeed in breaking Ove out of his shell by encouraging him to reengage with people, and with life. Many of the crotchety oldsters in our lives could use a similar kind of encouragement—reach out to someone you know who could use a little company, either solo or with your group. Discuss your experiences, sharing what you learned from the Ove in your world.

3. Much of the story of Ove’s life remains untold. Imagine a scene from Ove’s life that we didn’t see, and try your hand at writing it out. Short or long, funny or serious, do your best to get into Ove’s head and depict an event that led him to become the lovable pain in the neck that we meet in the book. Share your stories with your group!
\"},{\"id\":\"67053387T\",\"type\":\"Reading Group Guide\",\"linkText\":\"Reading Group Guide\",\"typeId\":\"1021\",\"abbr\":\"RGG\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"This reading group guide for A Man Called Ove includes an introduction, discussion questions, and ideas for enhancing your book club. 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

Ove is getting older. He’s the kind of man who points at people he dislikes as if they were burglars caught outside his bedroom window. He has staunch principles, strict routines, and a short fuse. People in Ove’s neighborhood call him “the bitter neighbor from hell.” But behind Ove’s cranky exterior lies a story and a sadness. When an accident-prone young couple with two young daughters moves in next door and accidentally flatten Ove’s mailbox one November morning, overturning his well-ordered routine, it is the spark in a surprising, enlivening chain of events—featuring unkempt cats, unexpected friendships, arrogant bureaucrats, several trips to the hospital, and the ancient art of backing up a U-Haul. Swept along in the tide, Ove is forced to change and learn to understand his neighbors and the modern times into which he has been grudgingly dragged. But as his neighbors learn more about the reasons behind Ove’s grumpy façade, they must also band together to protect each other and their neighborhood in a struggle that will leave no one, including Ove, unchanged.

Topics & Questions for Discussion

1. How does the opening scene, in which Ove attempts to purchase a computer, succinctly express the main points of Ove’s ongoing battle with the stupidities of the modern world?

2. Ove loves things that have a purpose, that are useful. How does this worldview fail him when he believes himself to be useless? How is he convinced that he can still be useful?

3. As readers, we get to know Ove slowly, with his past only being revealed piece by piece. What surprised you about Ove’s past? Why do you think the author revealed Ove’s past the way that he did?

4. We all know our own grumpy old men. How do Ove’s core values lead him to appear as such a cranky old coot, when he is in fact nothing of the sort? Which of these values do you agree or disagree with?

5. Although Ove has some major “disagreements” with the way the world turned out, there are some undeniable advantages to the modernization he finds so hollow. How do these advantages improve Ove’s life, even if he can’t admit it?

6. Parveneh’s perspective on life, as radically different from Ove’s as it is, eventually succeeds in breaking Ove out of his shell, even if she can’t change his feelings about Saabs. How does her brash, extroverted attitude manage to somehow be both rude and helpful?

7. Ove strives to be “as little unlike his father as possible.” Although this emulation provides much of the strength that helps Ove persevere through a difficult life, it also has some disadvantages. What are some of the ways that Ove grows into a new way of thinking over the course of the book?

8. Ove is a believer in the value of routine—how can following a routine be both comforting and stultifying? How can we balance routine and spontaneity? Should we? Or is there sense in eating sausage and potatoes your whole life?

9. The truism “it takes a village to raise a child” has some resonance with A Man Called Ove. How does the eclectic cast of posers, suits, deadbeats, and teens each help Ove in their own way?

10. Although we all identify with Ove to some extent, especially by the end of the story, we certainly also have our differences with him. Which of the supporting cast (Parveneh, Jimmy, the Lanky One, Anita) did you find yourself identifying with most?

11. What did you make of Ove’s ongoing battle with the bureaucracies that persist in getting in his way? Is Ove’s true fight with the various ruling bodies, or are they stand-ins, scapegoats, for something else?

12. On page 113, after a younger Ove punches Tom, the author reflects: “A time like that comes for all men, when they choose what sort of men they want to be.” Do you agree with this sentiment, especially in this context? How does the book deal with varying ideas of masculinity?

13. On page 246, the author muses that when people don’t share sorrow, it can drive them apart. Do you agree with this? Why or why not?

14. What do you think of Ove’s relationship with the mangy cat he adopts? What does the cat allow him to express that he couldn’t otherwise say?

15. On Ove and Sonja’s trip to Spain, Ove spends his time helping the locals and fixing things. How does Ove the “hero” compare and contrast to his behavior in the rest of the book? Is that Ove’s true personality?

16. Ove and Sonja’s love story is one of the most affecting, tender parts of the book. What is the key to their romance? Why do they fit so well together?

17. Saab? Volvo? BMW? Scania?

Enhance Your Book Club

1. Grumpy old men like Ove pop up in various forms throughout popular culture. Have a movie night for your group, and screen a film that reminds you of Ove. Perhaps try About Schmidt, As Good as It Gets, Up, or, obviously, Grumpy Old Men. Examine how the characters differ from Ove, or share his grouchy worldview. How did what you watched change the way you thought about the book? Alternatively, screen a movie you think Ove would enjoy, like a Saab commercial.

2. Parveneh and the rest of Ove’s neighbors succeed in breaking Ove out of his shell by encouraging him to reengage with people, and with life. Many of the crotchety oldsters in our lives could use a similar kind of encouragement—reach out to someone you know who could use a little company, either solo or with your group. Discuss your experiences, sharing what you learned from the Ove in your world.

3. Much of the story of Ove’s life remains untold. Imagine a scene from Ove’s life that we didn’t see, and try your hand at writing it out. Short or long, funny or serious, do your best to get into Ove’s head and depict an event that led him to become the lovable pain in the neck that we meet in the book. Share your stories with your group!
\"},{\"id\":\"54037467T\",\"type\":\"Reading Group Guide\",\"linkText\":\"Reading Group Guide\",\"typeId\":\"1021\",\"abbr\":\"RGG\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"This reading group guide for A Man Called Ove includes an introduction, discussion questions, and ideas for enhancing your book club. 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

Ove is getting older. He’s the kind of man who points at people he dislikes as if they were burglars caught outside his bedroom window. He has staunch principles, strict routines, and a short fuse. People in Ove’s neighborhood call him “the bitter neighbor from hell.” But behind Ove’s cranky exterior lies a story and a sadness. When an accident-prone young couple with two young daughters moves in next door and accidentally flatten Ove’s mailbox one November morning, overturning his well-ordered routine, it is the spark in a surprising, enlivening chain of events—featuring unkempt cats, unexpected friendships, arrogant bureaucrats, several trips to the hospital, and the ancient art of backing up a U-Haul. Swept along in the tide, Ove is forced to change and learn to understand his neighbors and the modern times into which he has been grudgingly dragged. But as his neighbors learn more about the reasons behind Ove’s grumpy façade, they must also band together to protect each other and their neighborhood in a struggle that will leave no one, including Ove, unchanged.

Topics & Questions for Discussion

1. How does the opening scene, in which Ove attempts to purchase a computer, succinctly express the main points of Ove’s ongoing battle with the stupidities of the modern world?

2. Ove loves things that have a purpose, that are useful. How does this worldview fail him when he believes himself to be useless? How is he convinced that he can still be useful?

3. As readers, we get to know Ove slowly, with his past only being revealed piece by piece. What surprised you about Ove’s past? Why do you think the author revealed Ove’s past the way that he did?

4. We all know our own grumpy old men. How do Ove’s core values lead him to appear as such a cranky old coot, when he is in fact nothing of the sort? Which of these values do you agree or disagree with?

5. Although Ove has some major “disagreements” with the way the world turned out, there are some undeniable advantages to the modernization he finds so hollow. How do these advantages improve Ove’s life, even if he can’t admit it?

6. Parveneh’s perspective on life, as radically different from Ove’s as it is, eventually succeeds in breaking Ove out of his shell, even if she can’t change his feelings about Saabs. How does her brash, extroverted attitude manage to somehow be both rude and helpful?

7. Ove strives to be “as little unlike his father as possible.” Although this emulation provides much of the strength that helps Ove persevere through a difficult life, it also has some disadvantages. What are some of the ways that Ove grows into a new way of thinking over the course of the book?

8. Ove is a believer in the value of routine—how can following a routine be both comforting and stultifying? How can we balance routine and spontaneity? Should we? Or is there sense in eating sausage and potatoes your whole life?

9. The truism “it takes a village to raise a child” has some resonance with A Man Called Ove. How does the eclectic cast of posers, suits, deadbeats, and teens each help Ove in their own way?

10. Although we all identify with Ove to some extent, especially by the end of the story, we certainly also have our differences with him. Which of the supporting cast (Parveneh, Jimmy, the Lanky One, Anita) did you find yourself identifying with most?

11. What did you make of Ove’s ongoing battle with the bureaucracies that persist in getting in his way? Is Ove’s true fight with the various ruling bodies, or are they stand-ins, scapegoats, for something else?

12. On page 113, after a younger Ove punches Tom, the author reflects: “A time like that comes for all men, when they choose what sort of men they want to be.” Do you agree with this sentiment, especially in this context? How does the book deal with varying ideas of masculinity?

13. On page 246, the author muses that when people don’t share sorrow, it can drive them apart. Do you agree with this? Why or why not?

14. What do you think of Ove’s relationship with the mangy cat he adopts? What does the cat allow him to express that he couldn’t otherwise say?

15. On Ove and Sonja’s trip to Spain, Ove spends his time helping the locals and fixing things. How does Ove the “hero” compare and contrast to his behavior in the rest of the book? Is that Ove’s true personality?

16. Ove and Sonja’s love story is one of the most affecting, tender parts of the book. What is the key to their romance? Why do they fit so well together?

17. Saab? Volvo? BMW? Scania?

Enhance Your Book Club

1. Grumpy old men like Ove pop up in various forms throughout popular culture. Have a movie night for your group, and screen a film that reminds you of Ove. Perhaps try About Schmidt, As Good as It Gets, Up, or, obviously, Grumpy Old Men. Examine how the characters differ from Ove, or share his grouchy worldview. How did what you watched change the way you thought about the book? Alternatively, screen a movie you think Ove would enjoy, like a Saab commercial.

2. Parveneh and the rest of Ove’s neighbors succeed in breaking Ove out of his shell by encouraging him to reengage with people, and with life. Many of the crotchety oldsters in our lives could use a similar kind of encouragement—reach out to someone you know who could use a little company, either solo or with your group. Discuss your experiences, sharing what you learned from the Ove in your world.

3. Much of the story of Ove’s life remains untold. Imagine a scene from Ove’s life that we didn’t see, and try your hand at writing it out. Short or long, funny or serious, do your best to get into Ove’s head and depict an event that led him to become the lovable pain in the neck that we meet in the book. Share your stories with your group!
\"},{\"id\":\"40617723T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"Fredrik Backman is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of A Man Called Ove, My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry, Britt—Marie Was Here, Beartown, Us Against You, Anxious People, The Winners, and My Friends, as well as two novellas and one work of nonfiction. His books are published in more than forty countries. He lives in Stockholm, Sweden, with his wife and two children. Connect with him on Facebook and X @BackmanLand and on Instagram @Backmansk.\"},{\"id\":\"85599093T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"Fredrik Backman is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of A Man Called Ove, My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry, Britt-Marie Was Here, Beartown, Us Against You, and Anxious People, as well as two novellas and one work of nonfiction. His books are published in more than forty countries. He lives in Stockholm, Sweden, with his wife and two children. Connect with him on Facebook and Twitter @BackmanLand and on Instagram @Backmansk.\"},{\"id\":\"54037468T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"

Fredrik Backman is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of A Man Called Ove (soon to be a major motion picture starring Tom Hanks), My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry, Britt-Marie Was Here, Beartown, Us Against You, as well as two novellas, And Every Morning the Way Home Gets Longer and Longer and The Deal of a Lifetime. His books are published in more than forty countries. He lives in Stockholm, Sweden, with his wife and two children.\"},{\"id\":\"43988680T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"text\":\"

Fredrik Backman is a Swedish blogger and columnist. A Man Called Ove, his first novel, has sold more than 500,000 copies in its native country and has been published in more than twenty-five languages all over the world. His second novel, My Grandmother Sent Me to Tell You She’s Sorry, will be published by Atria in 2015.\"},{\"id\":\"119725246T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"5\",\"text\":\"

Fredrik Backman is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of A Man Called Ove, My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry, Britt-Marie Was Here, Beartown, Us Against You, Anxious People, The Winners, and My Friends, as well as two novellas and one work of nonfiction. His books are published in more than forty countries. He lives in Stockholm, Sweden, with his wife and two children. Connect with him on Facebook and X @BackmanLand and on Instagram @Backmansk.

\"},{\"id\":\"119882394T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"6\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"67057656T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"7\",\"text\":\"Fredrik Backman is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of A Man Called Ove, My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She’s Sorry, Britt-Marie Was Here, Beartown, Us Against You, Anxious People, The Winners, and My Friends, as well as two novellas and one work of nonfiction. His books are published in more than forty countries. He lives in Stockholm, Sweden, with his wife and two children. Connect with him on Facebook and X @BackmanLand and on Instagram @Backmansk.\"},{\"id\":\"105888065T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"8\",\"text\":\"Fredrik Backman is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of A Man Called Ove, My Grandmother Asked Me to Tell You She's Sorry, Britt-Marie Was Here, Beartown, Us Against You, Anxious People, The Winners, My Friends, as well as two novellas and one work of nonfiction. His books are published in more than forty countries. He lives in Stockholm, Sweden, with his wife and two children. Connect with him on Facebook and X @BackmanLand and on Instagram @Backmansk.\"}]",{"_45":2770,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":2771},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39729685594353","A-Man-Called-Ove/Fredrik-Backman",{"_45":2773,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":2774},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39729684807921","1117313627",{"_45":2776,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39729685168369",{"_45":2778,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1070,"_1016":2753},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39729686020337",{"_45":2780,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":2730},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39729684316401",{"_45":2782,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39729685266673",{"_45":2784,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":2785},"gid://shopify/Metafield/59847562100977","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.8\"}",{"_45":2787,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":2788},"gid://shopify/Metafield/59847562068209","78",{"_30":79,"_80":14,"_58":2790},"https://www.barnesandnoble.com/blog/great-books-to-gift-from-our-favorite-authors","Great Books to Gift: From Our Favorite Authors",{"_37":2793,"_30":1574,"_1564":2794,"_76":3087},"27acfe8aa345",{"_1567":2795,"_1576":226,"_1951":1952,"_1953":1954,"_108":-5,"_58":3085},[2796,2859,2916,2973,3030],{"_1008":2478,"_45":2797,"_76":2798,"_960":2481,"_837":2799,"_951":2800,"_949":2801,"_2485":2802,"_962":2806,"_1004":63,"_972":2808,"_2497":2812,"_1070":2822,"_1031":2824,"_1064":2825,"_1094":-5,"_1102":2826},"gid://shopify/Product/9394795512049","Public Access Afterworld: A Novel","9780593978382","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, The New York Times Book Review Podcast, The Boston Globe, Time, St. Louis Post Dispatch, Lit Hub, AV Club, 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."," 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, The New York Times Book Review Podcast, The Boston Globe, Time, St. Louis Post Dispatch, Lit Hub, AV Club, 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.",{"_45":2803,"_58":2804,"_60":2805,"_54":2490,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/49392824877297","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593978382_p0.jpg?v=1786075809",1315,{"_964":2807},{"_966":2615,"_968":969},{"_964":2809,"_970":2811},{"_966":2810,"_968":969},"33.0",{"_966":2810,"_968":969},{"_979":2813},[2814],{"_45":2815,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":2816,"_717":2817,"_1010":2818,"_942":2819,"_1013":2820,"_1017":2799,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47277996900593",{"_966":2810,"_968":969},{"_45":2803,"_58":2804,"_984":-5,"_60":2805,"_54":2490},{"_966":2615,"_968":969},{"_76":2798,"_837":2799},[2821],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":2823},"[\"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)\"]",{"_1016":2799},{"_1016":2481},[2827,-5,-5,2830,2832,-5,2834,2836,2839,2842,2845,-5,2847,2849,-5,2851,2853,2856],{"_45":2828,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":2829},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74220795363569","[{\"contributorId\":31681133,\"fullName\":\"Jane Schoenbrun\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":2831,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74220795822321",{"_45":2833,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74220795068657",{"_45":2835,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":2519},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74220795953393",{"_45":2837,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":2838},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74220798083313","[{\"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.

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“[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":2866,"_58":2867,"_60":2868,"_54":2737,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47559852589297","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593359280_p0.jpg?v=1768955718",903,{"_964":2870},{"_966":2871,"_968":969},"19.0",{"_964":2873,"_970":2874},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_979":2876},[2877],{"_45":2878,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":-5,"_717":2879,"_1010":2880,"_942":2881,"_1013":2882,"_1017":2862,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46271911428337",{"_45":2866,"_58":2867,"_984":-5,"_60":2868,"_54":2737},{"_966":2871,"_968":969},{"_76":2861,"_837":2862},[2883],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":2862},{"_1016":961},[2887,-5,-5,2890,2892,-5,2894,2896,2899,2902,2905,-5,-5,2907,-5,2909,2911,2913],{"_45":2888,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":2889},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859425046769","[{\"contributorId\":11580806,\"fullName\":\"Kiersten White\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":2891,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859425702129",{"_45":2893,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859424784625",{"_45":2895,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":1117},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859425800433",{"_45":2897,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":2898},"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

“White does a great job of creating a creepy history and then revealing it in bits and pieces: through Wikipedia articles, message boards, and so on. This one also has the theme of powerful families trying to maintain their power, with an added dash of controlling parents who want perfect kids. Deliciously creepy.”—GeekDad

“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.”—Library Journal

“In this frightening, nostalgic, and original plot, White explores themes of racism, homophobia, and sexism.”—Booklist, starred review

“Both eerie and surprisingly heartwarming, White’s examination of the perils of nostalgia is sure to win fans.”—Publishers Weekly\"},{\"id\":\"134822184T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"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

\\\"White does a great job of creating a creepy history and then revealing it in bits and pieces: through Wikipedia articles, message boards, and so on. This one also has the theme of powerful families trying to maintain their power, with an added dash of controlling parents who want perfect kids. Deliciously creepy.\\\"--GeekDad

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

\\\"In this frightening, nostalgic, and original plot, White explores themes of racism, homophobia, and sexism.\\\"--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":2900,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":2901},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859427012849","Mister-Magic/Kiersten-White",{"_45":2903,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":2904},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859424686321","1142639624",{"_45":2906,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859425538289",{"_45":2908,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":2862},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859423736049",{"_45":2910,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40859425964273",{"_45":2912,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":2540},"gid://shopify/Metafield/60334471217393",{"_45":2914,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":2915},"gid://shopify/Metafield/60334471184625","37",{"_1008":2478,"_45":2917,"_76":2918,"_960":961,"_837":2919,"_951":2920,"_949":2921,"_2485":2922,"_962":2926,"_1004":63,"_972":2928,"_2497":2931,"_1070":-5,"_1031":2940,"_1064":2941,"_1094":-5,"_1102":2942},"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":2923,"_58":2924,"_60":2925,"_54":2737,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47694679998705","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781250333711_p0.jpg?v=1789791507",882,{"_964":2927},{"_966":2871,"_968":969},{"_964":2929,"_970":2930},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_979":2932},[2933],{"_45":2934,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":-5,"_717":2935,"_1010":2936,"_942":2937,"_1013":2938,"_1017":2919,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47560838938865",{"_45":2923,"_58":2924,"_984":-5,"_60":2925,"_54":2737},{"_966":2871,"_968":969},{"_76":2918,"_837":2919},[2939],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":2919},{"_1016":961},[2943,-5,-5,2946,2948,-5,2950,2952,2955,2958,2961,-5,-5,2963,-5,2965,2967,2970],{"_45":2944,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":2945},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375779352817","[{\"contributorId\":15322646,\"fullName\":\"Michael Wehunt\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":2947,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375779549425",{"_45":2949,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375779188977",{"_45":2951,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":1117},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375779582193",{"_45":2953,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":2954},"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":2956,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":2957},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375779844337","The-October-Film-Haunt/Michael-Wehunt",{"_45":2959,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":2960},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375779057905","1146657385",{"_45":2962,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375779516657",{"_45":2964,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":2919},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375778042097",{"_45":2966,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74375779614961",{"_45":2968,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":2969},"gid://shopify/Metafield/83720033239281","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"3.8\"}",{"_45":2971,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":2972},"gid://shopify/Metafield/83720033206513","27",{"_1008":2478,"_45":2974,"_76":2975,"_960":961,"_837":2976,"_951":2977,"_949":2978,"_2485":2979,"_962":2982,"_1004":63,"_972":2985,"_2497":2988,"_1070":-5,"_1031":2997,"_1064":2998,"_1094":-5,"_1102":2999},"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":2980,"_58":2981,"_60":2868,"_54":2737,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47560086225137","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593471944_p0.jpg?v=1765117636",{"_964":2983},{"_966":2984,"_968":969},"18.0",{"_964":2986,"_970":2987},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_979":2989},[2990],{"_45":2991,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":-5,"_717":2992,"_1010":2993,"_942":2994,"_1013":2995,"_1017":2976,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46272030933233",{"_45":2980,"_58":2981,"_984":-5,"_60":2868,"_54":2737},{"_966":2984,"_968":969},{"_76":2975,"_837":2976},[2996],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":2976},{"_1016":961},[3000,-5,-5,3003,3005,-5,3007,3009,3012,3015,3018,-5,-5,3020,-5,3022,3024,3027],{"_45":3001,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":3002},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864789135601","[{\"contributorId\":28565405,\"fullName\":\"Jimmy Juliano\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3004,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864789889265",{"_45":3006,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864788283633",{"_45":3008,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":1117},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864790085873",{"_45":3010,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":3011},"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":3013,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":3014},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864791462129","Dead-Eleven/Jimmy-Juliano",{"_45":3016,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":3017},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864787628273","1142537254",{"_45":3019,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864789692657",{"_45":3021,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":2976},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864784744689",{"_45":3023,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40864790315249",{"_45":3025,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":3026},"gid://shopify/Metafield/60322854633713","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.4\"}",{"_45":3028,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":3029},"gid://shopify/Metafield/60322854600945","16",{"_1008":2478,"_45":3031,"_76":3032,"_960":961,"_837":3033,"_951":3034,"_949":3035,"_2485":3036,"_962":3040,"_1004":63,"_972":3042,"_2497":3045,"_1070":-5,"_1031":3054,"_1064":3055,"_1094":-5,"_1102":3056},"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":3037,"_58":3038,"_60":3039,"_54":2737,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47561339764977","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593544686_p0.jpg?v=1765119164",878,{"_964":3041},{"_966":2984,"_968":969},{"_964":3043,"_970":3044},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_979":3046},[3047],{"_45":3048,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":-5,"_717":3049,"_1010":3050,"_942":3051,"_1013":3052,"_1017":3033,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46272113115377",{"_45":3037,"_58":3038,"_984":-5,"_60":3039,"_54":2737},{"_966":2984,"_968":969},{"_76":3032,"_837":3033},[3053],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":3033},{"_1016":961},[3057,-5,-5,3060,3062,-5,3064,3066,3069,3072,3075,-5,-5,3077,-5,3079,3081,3083],{"_45":3058,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":3059},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868083237105","[{\"contributorId\":23671987,\"fullName\":\"Josh Winning\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3061,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868083630321",{"_45":3063,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868082745585",{"_45":3065,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":1117},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868083728625",{"_45":3067,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":3068},"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":3070,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":3071},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868084482289","Burn-the-Negative/Josh-Winning",{"_45":3073,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":3074},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868082385137","1142495540",{"_45":3076,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868083564785",{"_45":3078,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":3033},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868080517361",{"_45":3080,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40868083859697",{"_45":3082,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":2540},"gid://shopify/Metafield/68698927661297",{"_45":3084,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":2858},"gid://shopify/Metafield/68698927628529",{"_30":79,"_80":14,"_58":3086},"https://www.barnesandnoble.com/blog/the-best-analog-horror-stories-to-read-right-now","The Best Analog Horror Stories",{"_37":3089,"_30":1574,"_1564":3090,"_76":3417},"dc1c7b0d40c1",{"_1567":3091,"_1576":226,"_1951":1952,"_1953":1954,"_108":-5,"_58":3415},[3092,3159,3230,3292,3357],{"_1008":2478,"_45":3093,"_76":3094,"_960":3095,"_837":3096,"_951":3097,"_949":3098,"_2485":3099,"_962":3103,"_1004":63,"_972":3106,"_2497":3109,"_1070":3118,"_1031":3120,"_1064":3121,"_1094":3122,"_1102":3124},"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.

",{"_45":3100,"_58":3101,"_60":3102,"_54":2490,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/48640864125169","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9798347121151_p0.jpg?v=1770058401",1327,{"_964":3104},{"_966":3105,"_968":969},"12.99",{"_964":3107,"_970":3108},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_979":3110},[3111],{"_45":3112,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":-5,"_717":3113,"_1010":3114,"_942":3115,"_1013":3116,"_1017":3096,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47760414540017",{"_45":3100,"_58":3101,"_984":-5,"_60":3102,"_54":2490},{"_966":3105,"_968":969},{"_76":3094,"_837":3096},[3117],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":3119},"[\"Barnes & Noble Exclusives (p6314)\",\"Membership Discount Exclusion (p236)\",\"Special Editions (p10264)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"B|B&N Exclusive|#956F2D|#4C3E1B (p7920)\",\"BADGE - $5 with purchase (p7863)\",\"BADGE - Best Seller (p7883)\"]",{"_1016":3096},{"_1016":3095},{"_1016":3123},"[{\"Key\":\"formatChicletOverlay\",\"Value\":\"BN Exclusive\"}]",[3125,3128,-5,3131,3133,-5,3135,3137,3140,3143,3146,-5,3148,3150,-5,3152,3154,3156],{"_45":3126,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":3127},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76010485547249","[{\"contributorId\":24313121,\"fullName\":\"Misty Wilson\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3129,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1048,"_1016":3130},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76010485645553","Bramble Falls",{"_45":3132,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76010485809393",{"_45":3134,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":3095},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76010485383409",{"_45":3136,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":1117},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76010485842161",{"_45":3138,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":3139},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76010486431985","[{\"id\":\"122996091T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"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\":\"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.
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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.

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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.

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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":3237,"_58":3238,"_60":3039,"_54":2737,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47563456643313","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593871881_p0.jpg?v=1768967758",{"_964":3240},{"_966":3241,"_968":969},"16.0",{"_964":3243,"_970":3244},{"_966":2871,"_968":969},{"_966":2871,"_968":969},{"_979":3246},[3247],{"_45":3248,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":3249,"_717":3250,"_1010":3251,"_942":3252,"_1013":3253,"_1017":3233,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46272399769841",{"_966":2871,"_968":969},{"_45":3237,"_58":3238,"_984":-5,"_60":3039,"_54":2737},{"_966":3241,"_968":969},{"_76":3232,"_837":3233},[3254],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":3256},"[\"BADGE - $3 OFF (p7877)\",\"B|$3 Off|#DD2A27|#701F15 (p7847)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"Retail Price fixing (p261)\"]",{"_1016":3233},{"_1016":961},[3260,-5,-5,3263,3265,-5,3267,3269,3272,3275,3278,-5,3280,3282,-5,3284,3286,3289],{"_45":3261,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":3262},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879728263409","[{\"contributorId\":29355959,\"fullName\":\"Hannah Bonam-Young\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3264,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879730458865",{"_45":3266,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879727706353",{"_45":3268,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":1117},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879730655473",{"_45":3270,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":3271},"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":3273,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":3274},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879731638513","People-Watching/Hannah-Bonam-Young",{"_45":3276,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":3277},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879727182065","1150229157",{"_45":3279,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879728886001",{"_45":3281,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1070,"_1016":3256},"gid://shopify/Metafield/61708974620913",{"_45":3283,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":3233},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879725117681",{"_45":3285,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40879730819313",{"_45":3287,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":3288},"gid://shopify/Metafield/84996106846449","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.3\"}",{"_45":3290,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":3291},"gid://shopify/Metafield/79078072877297","29",{"_1008":2478,"_45":3293,"_76":3294,"_960":3095,"_837":3295,"_951":3296,"_949":3297,"_2485":3298,"_962":3301,"_1004":63,"_972":3303,"_2497":3306,"_1070":3316,"_1031":3318,"_1064":3319,"_1094":3320,"_1102":3321},"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...

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\\\"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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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":3398,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":3399},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39816545665265","Pumpkin-Spice-Everything-Nice/Katie-Cicatelli-Kuc",{"_45":3401,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":3402},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39816543109361","1144418634",{"_45":3404,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39816544682225",{"_45":3406,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":3360},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39816538718449",{"_45":3408,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39816544977137",{"_45":3410,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":3411},"gid://shopify/Metafield/60043427053809","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"3.2\"}",{"_45":3413,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":3414},"gid://shopify/Metafield/60043427021041","50",{"_30":79,"_80":14,"_58":3416},"https://www.barnesandnoble.com/blog/cozy-reads-pumpkin-spice-make-fall-twice-as-nice","Cozy Reads & Pumpkin Spice Make Fall Twice as Nice",{"_37":3419,"_30":1574,"_1564":3420,"_76":3726},"ba4dc568dfc7",{"_1567":3421,"_1576":226,"_1951":1952,"_1953":1954,"_108":-5,"_58":3724},[3422,3483,3539,3604,3661],{"_1008":2478,"_45":3423,"_76":3424,"_960":2481,"_837":3425,"_951":3426,"_949":3427,"_2485":3428,"_962":3431,"_1004":63,"_972":3433,"_2497":3436,"_1070":3446,"_1031":3448,"_1064":3449,"_1094":-5,"_1102":3450},"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":3429,"_58":3430,"_60":2609,"_54":2490,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/48658131386609","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781668074640_p0.jpg?v=1788439628",{"_964":3432},{"_966":3171,"_968":969},{"_964":3434,"_970":3435},{"_966":2493,"_968":969},{"_966":2493,"_968":969},{"_979":3437},[3438],{"_45":3439,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":3440,"_717":3441,"_1010":3442,"_942":3443,"_1013":3444,"_1017":3425,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47033627574513",{"_966":2493,"_968":969},{"_45":3429,"_58":3430,"_984":-5,"_60":2609,"_54":2490},{"_966":3171,"_968":969},{"_76":3424,"_837":3425},[3445],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":3447},"[\"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)\"]",{"_1016":3425},{"_1016":2481},[3451,-5,-5,3454,3456,-5,3458,3460,3463,3466,3469,-5,3471,3473,-5,3475,3477,3480],{"_45":3452,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":3453},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687268069617","[{\"contributorId\":156487,\"fullName\":\"Alice Hoffman\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3455,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687268495601",{"_45":3457,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687266889969",{"_45":3459,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":2519},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687268593905",{"_45":3461,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":3462},"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\":\"132222392T\",\"type\":\"Excerpt\",\"linkText\":\"Read an Excerpt\",\"typeId\":\"1005\",\"abbr\":\"EXC\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"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\":\"133116955T\",\"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

\\\"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

“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\"},{\"id\":\"133116954T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"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":3464,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":3465},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687269413105","The-Witches-of-Cambridge/Alice-Hoffman",{"_45":3467,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":3468},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687265906929","1148560383",{"_45":3470,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687268331761",{"_45":3472,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1070,"_1016":3447},"gid://shopify/Metafield/78682069893361",{"_45":3474,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":3425},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687262793969",{"_45":3476,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64687268692209",{"_45":3478,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":3479},"gid://shopify/Metafield/82222509752561","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.1\"}",{"_45":3481,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":3482},"gid://shopify/Metafield/82222509719793","44",{"_1008":2478,"_45":3484,"_76":3485,"_960":2481,"_837":3486,"_951":3487,"_949":3488,"_2485":3489,"_962":3493,"_1004":63,"_972":3495,"_2497":3498,"_1070":-5,"_1031":3507,"_1064":3508,"_1094":-5,"_1102":3509},"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

",{"_45":3490,"_58":3491,"_60":3492,"_54":2490,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/48717718880497","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781335003928_p0.jpg?v=1771004111",1333,{"_964":3494},{"_966":2615,"_968":969},{"_964":3496,"_970":3497},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_979":3499},[3500],{"_45":3501,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":-5,"_717":3502,"_1010":3503,"_942":3504,"_1013":3505,"_1017":3486,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47806427693297",{"_45":3490,"_58":3491,"_984":-5,"_60":3492,"_54":2490},{"_966":2615,"_968":969},{"_76":3485,"_837":3486},[3506],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":3486},{"_1016":2481},[3510,-5,-5,3513,3515,-5,3517,3519,3522,3525,3528,-5,-5,3530,-5,3532,3534,3536],{"_45":3511,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":3512},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76638445207793","[{\"contributorId\":17385978,\"fullName\":\"Madeline Martin\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3514,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76638445601009",{"_45":3516,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76638444716273",{"_45":3518,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":2519},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76638445699313",{"_45":3520,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":3521},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76638446944497","[{\"id\":\"127271086T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"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\":\"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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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":3546,"_58":3547,"_60":3548,"_54":3549,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/48832610468081","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9798217192298_p0.jpg?v=1784582093",1070,1617,{"_964":3551},{"_966":2556,"_968":969},{"_964":3553,"_970":3555},{"_966":3554,"_968":969},"22.0",{"_966":3554,"_968":969},{"_979":3557},[3558],{"_45":3559,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":3560,"_717":3561,"_1010":3562,"_942":3563,"_1013":3564,"_1017":3542,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47720472805617",{"_966":3554,"_968":969},{"_45":3546,"_58":3547,"_984":-5,"_60":3548,"_54":3549},{"_966":2556,"_968":969},{"_76":3541,"_837":3542},[3565],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":3567},"[\"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)\"]",{"_1016":3542},{"_1016":961},[3571,3573,3576,3578,3580,-5,3582,3584,3587,3590,3593,-5,3595,3597,-5,3599,-5,3601],{"_45":3572,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":3453},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629413892337",{"_45":3574,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1048,"_1016":3575},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629414088945","Practical Magic Series",{"_45":3577,"_1105":1106,"_1107":3200,"_1016":903},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629414154481",{"_45":3579,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629414383857",{"_45":3581,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629413597425",{"_45":3583,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":1117},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629414482161",{"_45":3585,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":3586},"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":3588,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":3589},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629415006449","Practical-Magic/Alice-Hoffman",{"_45":3591,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":3592},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629413466353","1143547970",{"_45":3594,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629414318321",{"_45":3596,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1070,"_1016":3567},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76638559076593",{"_45":3598,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":3542},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629412679921",{"_45":3600,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75629414547697",{"_45":3602,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":3603},"gid://shopify/Metafield/85916967207153","0",{"_1008":2478,"_45":3605,"_76":3606,"_960":961,"_837":3607,"_951":3608,"_949":3609,"_2485":3610,"_962":3614,"_1004":63,"_972":3616,"_2497":3619,"_1070":-5,"_1031":3628,"_1064":3629,"_1094":-5,"_1102":3630},"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":3611,"_58":3612,"_60":3613,"_54":2490,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47558700892401","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593202036_p0.jpg?v=1787801016",1297,{"_964":3615},{"_966":2556,"_968":969},{"_964":3617,"_970":3618},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_979":3620},[3621],{"_45":3622,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":-5,"_717":3623,"_1010":3624,"_942":3625,"_1013":3626,"_1017":3607,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46271865094385",{"_45":3611,"_58":3612,"_984":-5,"_60":3613,"_54":2490},{"_966":2556,"_968":969},{"_76":3606,"_837":3607},[3627],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":3607},{"_1016":961},[3631,-5,-5,3634,3636,-5,3638,3640,3643,3646,3649,-5,-5,3651,-5,3653,3655,3658],{"_45":3632,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":3633},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857569263857","[{\"contributorId\":205806,\"fullName\":\"Rachel Harrison\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3635,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857569689841",{"_45":3637,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857569001713",{"_45":3639,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":1117},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857569788145",{"_45":3641,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":3642},"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":3644,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":3645},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857570640113","Cackle/Rachel-Harrison",{"_45":3647,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":3648},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857568805105","1138574357",{"_45":3650,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857569558769",{"_45":3652,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":3607},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857568051441",{"_45":3654,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/40857569886449",{"_45":3656,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":3657},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64355487613169","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"3.5\"}",{"_45":3659,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":3660},"gid://shopify/Metafield/64355487580401","42",{"_1008":2478,"_45":3662,"_76":3663,"_960":961,"_837":3664,"_951":3665,"_949":3666,"_2485":3667,"_962":3672,"_1004":63,"_972":3675,"_2497":3678,"_1070":3687,"_1031":3689,"_1064":3690,"_1094":-5,"_1102":3691},"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":3668,"_58":3669,"_60":3670,"_54":3671,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47460200448241","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780316556323_p0.jpg?v=1785354896",899,1352,{"_964":3673},{"_966":3674,"_968":969},"19.99",{"_964":3676,"_970":3677},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_979":3679},[3680],{"_45":3681,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":-5,"_717":3682,"_1010":3683,"_942":3684,"_1013":3685,"_1017":3664,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46246635438321",{"_45":3668,"_58":3669,"_984":-5,"_60":3670,"_54":3671},{"_966":3674,"_968":969},{"_76":3663,"_837":3664},[3686],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":3688},"[\"Reimaginings & Retellings (p9713)\",\"B|Bestseller|#007C6C (p7858)\",\"BADGE - Best Seller (p7883)\"]",{"_1016":3664},{"_1016":961},[3692,-5,-5,3695,3697,-5,3699,3701,3704,3707,3710,-5,3712,3714,-5,3716,3718,3721],{"_45":3693,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":3694},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747935371505","[{\"contributorId\":13286203,\"fullName\":\"Madeline Miller\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3696,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747935666417",{"_45":3698,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":961},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747934716145",{"_45":3700,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":1117},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747935731953",{"_45":3702,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":3703},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747936551153","[{\"id\":\"118443118T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"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

\\\"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\":\"56359149T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":\"Claire Messud\",\"sourceName\":\"The New York Times Book Review\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"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\":\"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":3705,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":3706},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747936190705","Circe/Madeline-Miller",{"_45":3708,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":3709},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747934290161","1028697822",{"_45":3711,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747935600881",{"_45":3713,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1070,"_1016":3688},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747936780529",{"_45":3715,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":3664},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747931898097",{"_45":3717,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39747935797489",{"_45":3719,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":3720},"gid://shopify/Metafield/61325497172209","{\"scale_min\":\"1.0\",\"scale_max\":\"5.0\",\"value\":\"4.6\"}",{"_45":3722,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":3723},"gid://shopify/Metafield/61325497139441","39",{"_30":79,"_80":14,"_58":3725},"https://www.barnesandnoble.com/blog/13-witchy-books-to-read-this-fall-2","13 Witchy Books to Read this Fall",{"_37":3728,"_30":1574,"_1564":3729,"_76":4033},"8f221da33db5",{"_1567":3730,"_1576":226,"_1951":1952,"_1953":1954,"_108":-5,"_58":4031},[3731,3790,3852,3911,3971],{"_1008":2478,"_45":3732,"_76":3733,"_960":3734,"_837":3735,"_951":3736,"_949":3737,"_2485":3738,"_962":3743,"_1004":63,"_972":3745,"_2497":3748,"_1070":3757,"_1031":3759,"_1064":3760,"_1094":3761,"_1102":3763},"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.

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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":3777,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":3778},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76941593051377","Peck-Peck/Bonnie-Garmus",{"_45":3780,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":3781},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76941591773425","1149552676",{"_45":3783,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76941592527089",{"_45":3785,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1070,"_1016":3758},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76942000193777",{"_45":3787,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":3735},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76941590823153",{"_45":3789,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76941592723697",{"_1008":2478,"_45":3791,"_76":3792,"_960":2481,"_837":3793,"_951":3794,"_949":3795,"_2485":3796,"_962":3800,"_1004":63,"_972":3802,"_2497":3806,"_1070":3816,"_1031":3818,"_1064":3819,"_1094":-5,"_1102":3820},"gid://shopify/Product/9477021499633","Partita: A Novel","9780063577541","A READ WITH JENNA BOOK CLUB PICK\"Kingsolver’s magnificent Partita sings in the key of passion, yearning, and loss.\" — The Boston GlobeFrom 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.","

A READ WITH JENNA BOOK CLUB PICK

\"Kingsolver’s magnificent Partita sings in the key of passion, yearning, and loss.\" — The Boston Globe

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)

\\\"Barbara Kingsolver has done it again. In this masterfully orchestrated novel, an unexpected call forces a once-ascendent pianist to revisit the affair that reshaped her youth and the career that vanished alongside it. . . . Partita refuses easy distinctions between destiny and choice, showing how class background, family damage, and thwarted ambition can keep shaping us long after we believe their power has faded.\\\" - Oprah Daily

“[A] deeply wrenching novel. . . . Kingsolver understands that life can be an ingenious villain. Along with her decades-long environmentalism and her call for empathy and moral justice, her abiding theme is that we can survive the unsurvivable, which is fortunate because someone or something may be lurking nearby to make us prove it. Livia Cable, the Appalachia-bred narrator of Kingsolver’s new novel, Partita, is wry, resilient and as forthcoming a companion as you could ask for. . . . Kingsolver writes so transportingly about music and musicians. . .she takes on not just sexual obsession and classism, but also itchy what-ifs, human decency, the engulfing power of music and the butterfly effect of dreams deferred.” - The New York Times

\\\"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

\\\"Kingsolver is a Pulitzer Prize winner (Demon Copperhead) for a reason, and her ability to switch up topics and styles from bestseller to bestseller is nothing short of spectacular. In Partita, she touches on questions for the ages about what is and isn’t worth settling for while addressing many prongs of American life like class differences, abortion access, political disengagement and education inequality. She is forceful without ever being moralistic. Partita will surpass the high expectations of Kingsolver’s fans and draw many new readers along for the ride.\\\" - BookPage (starred review)

\\\"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)

“Partita is a Tess of the d’Urbervilles for the 21st century and it is packed with just as much feeling and heart. Without question it’s my novel of the year.” - The Sunday Times

\\\"From the author of the much-loved Demon Copperhead (who doesn’t have this in their top 10 list?) comes a new book that feels like both a continuation and a departure. . . . The story was born out of Kingsolver’s love of both language and classical music; Partita weaves the two together with her usual grace and expert touch with words.\\\" - Elle

\\\"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

\\\"A virtuosic performance.\\\" - The Financial Times

\\\"Moving. . . . Expertly interweaving themes of class and healthcare, Kingsolver grapples with the question of artistic ambition versus family obligation.\\\" - Town and Country

\\\"A tour-de-force exploration of music’s power to heal.\\\" - Washington Independent Review of Books

\\\"Kingsolver’s magnificent Partita sings in the key of passion, yearning, and loss.\\\" - The Boston Globe

\\\"Distinctly elegiac and holistic.\\\" - The Los Angeles Times

\\\"A beautiful dual-timeline story.\\\" - Woman's World

\\\"A triumph.\\\" - Chapter 16

\"},{\"id\":\"133719735T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

\\\"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)

\\\"[A] deeply wrenching novel. . . . Kingsolver understands that life can be an ingenious villain. Along with her decades-long environmentalism and her call for empathy and moral justice, her abiding theme is that we can survive the unsurvivable, which is fortunate because someone or something may be lurking nearby to make us prove it. Livia Cable, the Appalachia-bred narrator of Kingsolver's new novel, Partita, is wry, resilient and as forthcoming a companion as you could ask for. . . . Kingsolver writes so transportingly about music and musicians. . .she takes on not just sexual obsession and classism, but also itchy what-ifs, human decency, the engulfing power of music and the butterfly effect of dreams deferred.\\\" - The New York Times

\\\"Kingsolver is a Pulitzer Prize winner (Demon Copperhead) for a reason, and her ability to switch up topics and styles from bestseller to bestseller is nothing short of spectacular. In Partita, she touches on questions for the ages about what is and isn't worth settling for while addressing many prongs of American life like class differences, abortion access, political disengagement and education inequality. She is forceful without ever being moralistic. Partita will surpass the high expectations of Kingsolver's fans and draw many new readers along for the ride.\\\" - BookPage (starred review)

\\\"Partita is a Tess of the d'Urbervilles for the 21st century and it is packed with just as much feeling and heart. Without question it's my novel of the year.\\\" - The Sunday Times

\\\"From the author of the much-loved Demon Copperhead (who doesn't have this in their top 10 list?) comes a new book that feels like both a continuation and a departure. . . . The story was born out of Kingsolver's love of both language and classical music; Partita weaves the two together with her usual grace and expert touch with words.\\\" - Elle

\\\"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

\\\"A virtuosic performance.\\\" - The Financial Times

\\\"Moving. . . . Expertly interweaving themes of class and healthcare, Kingsolver grapples with the question of artistic ambition versus family obligation.\\\" - Town and Country

\\\"A tour-de-force exploration of music's power to heal.\\\" - Washington Independent Review of Books

\\\"Kingsolver's magnificent Partita sings in the key of passion, yearning, and loss.\\\" - The Boston Globe

\\\"Distinctly elegiac and holistic.\\\" - The Los Angeles Times

\\\"A beautiful dual-timeline story.\\\" - Woman's World

\\\"A triumph.\\\" - Chapter 16

\"},{\"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":3834,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":3835},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76614994886897","Partita/Barbara-Kingsolver",{"_45":3837,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":3838},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76614992527601","1149465352",{"_45":3840,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76614993805553",{"_45":3842,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1070,"_1016":3817},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76713670803697",{"_45":3844,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":3793},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76614990889201",{"_45":3846,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/76614994264305",{"_45":3848,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":2785},"gid://shopify/Metafield/194428842017009",{"_45":3850,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":3851},"gid://shopify/Metafield/93704370422001","6",{"_1008":2478,"_45":3853,"_76":3854,"_960":2481,"_837":3855,"_951":3856,"_949":3857,"_2485":3858,"_962":3861,"_1004":63,"_972":3863,"_2497":3866,"_1070":3876,"_1031":3878,"_1064":3879,"_1094":-5,"_1102":3880},"gid://shopify/Product/9412282745073","Exit Party: A Novel","9780593321461","NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER * 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.\"The only world-builder more efficient than Mandel may be God. . . . Exit Party is the kind of novel you'll be desperate to talk about.\" -Ron CharlesLos 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.","NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER * 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.

\"The only world-builder more efficient than Mandel may be God. . . . Exit Party is the kind of novel you'll be desperate to talk about.\"
-Ron Charles

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":3859,"_58":3860,"_60":3168,"_54":2490,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/48340213956849","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593321461_p0.jpg?v=1767762170",{"_964":3862},{"_966":2493,"_968":969},{"_964":3864,"_970":3865},{"_966":3804,"_968":969},{"_966":3804,"_968":969},{"_979":3867},[3868],{"_45":3869,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":3870,"_717":3871,"_1010":3872,"_942":3873,"_1013":3874,"_1017":3855,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47588913447153",{"_966":3804,"_968":969},{"_45":3859,"_58":3860,"_984":-5,"_60":3168,"_54":2490},{"_966":2493,"_968":969},{"_76":3854,"_837":3855},[3875],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":3877},"[\"BADGE - $3 OFF (p7877)\",\"B|$3 Off|#DD2A27|#701F15 (p7847)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"Recently Reviewed (p10276)\",\"Retail Price fixing (p261)\"]",{"_1016":3855},{"_1016":2481},[3881,-5,-5,3884,3886,-5,3888,3890,3893,3896,3899,-5,3901,3903,-5,3905,3907,3909],{"_45":3882,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":3883},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633969598705","[{\"contributorId\":10413319,\"fullName\":\"Emily St. John Mandel\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3885,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633969991921",{"_45":3887,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633969271025",{"_45":3889,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":2519},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633970057457",{"_45":3891,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":3892},"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\":\"“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

\\\"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

“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

\\\"She’s done it again. In her latest novel, Mandel imagines a different dystopian world, this time marked by what remains, and changes, after the collapse of the United States. . . . Fans of Mandel will appreciate the sprinkle of characters from The Singer’s Gun and The Glass Hotel (the Mandelverse, if you will), but Exit Party is also the perfect accumulation of all the novels that came before; she has a haunting way of weaving objects and people across the most painstaking timelines, all while making the mundane everlastingly meaningful.\\\"
—\\\"Book Gossip,\\\" New York Magazine

\\\"[Exit Party] absolutely delivers. . . . As Mandel weaves in threads from her previous novels, connecting them once again into a kind of Mandel Cinematic Universe, unraveling the mysteries behind Exit Party’s realities is one of the book’s greatest joys.\\\"
—Esquire

“Exit Party is everything I love about Emily St. John Mandel: a brilliant amalgamation of dystopian spec fiction with a dash of hard-boiled noir, written in prose so elegant you'll want to read with a highlighter in hand. . . . It's a universe-bending masterpiece.”
—theSkimm

\\\"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\":\"\\\"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

\\\"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

\\\"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

\\\"She's done it again. In her latest novel, Mandel imagines a different dystopian world, this time marked by what remains, and changes, after the collapse of the United States. . . . Fans of Mandel will appreciate the sprinkle of characters from The Singer's Gun and The Glass Hotel (the Mandelverse, if you will), but Exit Party is also the perfect accumulation of all the novels that came before; she has a haunting way of weaving objects and people across the most painstaking timelines, all while making the mundane everlastingly meaningful.\\\"
--\\\"Book Gossip,\\\" New York Magazine

\\\"[Exit Party] absolutely delivers. . . . As Mandel weaves in threads from her previous novels, connecting them once again into a kind of Mandel Cinematic Universe, unraveling the mysteries behind Exit Party's realities is one of the book's greatest joys.\\\"
--Esquire

\\\"Exit Party is everything I love about Emily St. John Mandel: a brilliant amalgamation of dystopian spec fiction with a dash of hard-boiled noir, written in prose so elegant you'll want to read with a highlighter in hand. . . . It's a universe-bending masterpiece.\\\"
--theSkimm

\\\"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\":\"

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.

\"}]",{"_45":3894,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":3895},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633970581745","Exit-Party/Emily-St-John-Mandel",{"_45":3897,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":3898},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633969139953","1148963734",{"_45":3900,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633969893617",{"_45":3902,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1070,"_1016":3877},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75222799909105",{"_45":3904,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":3855},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633968255217",{"_45":3906,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633970122993",{"_45":3908,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":3026},"gid://shopify/Metafield/79667273138417",{"_45":3910,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":912},"gid://shopify/Metafield/79667273105649",{"_1008":2478,"_45":3912,"_76":3913,"_960":3734,"_837":3914,"_951":3915,"_949":3916,"_2485":3917,"_962":3920,"_1004":63,"_972":3922,"_2497":3925,"_1070":3934,"_1031":3936,"_1064":3937,"_1094":3938,"_1102":3939},"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.

",{"_45":3918,"_58":3919,"_60":3168,"_54":2490,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/48828530032881","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780063579828_p0.jpg?v=1775743145",{"_964":3921},{"_966":3804,"_968":969},{"_964":3923,"_970":3924},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_966":975,"_968":969},{"_979":3926},[3927],{"_45":3928,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":-5,"_717":3929,"_1010":3930,"_942":3931,"_1013":3932,"_1017":3914,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47849752428785",{"_45":3918,"_58":3919,"_984":-5,"_60":3168,"_54":2490},{"_966":3804,"_968":969},{"_76":3913,"_837":3914},[3933],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":3935},"[\"Barnes & Noble Exclusives (p6314)\",\"B|Signed Edition|#956F2D|#4C3E1B (p7859)\",\"Special Editions (p10264)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"Recently Reviewed (p10276)\",\"Signed Books at BN.com (p311)\"]",{"_1016":3914},{"_1016":3734},{"_1016":3762},[3940,-5,-5,3943,3945,-5,3947,3949,3952,3955,3958,-5,3960,3962,-5,3964,3966,3968],{"_45":3941,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":3942},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77105585553649","[{\"contributorId\":19237417,\"fullName\":\"R. F. Kuang\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":3944,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77105585750257",{"_45":3946,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":3734},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77105585389809",{"_45":3948,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":2519},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77105585783025",{"_45":3950,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":3951},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77112908185841","[{\"id\":\"124282640T\",\"type\":\"Review\",\"linkText\":\"From The Critics\",\"typeId\":\"1002\",\"abbr\":\"REV\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"255\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"From the Publisher\",\"displayOrder\":\"1\",\"text\":\"

“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.

\"},{\"id\":\"124282645T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":null,\"displayOrder\":\"2\",\"text\":\"

\"}]",{"_45":3953,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":3954},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77105586045169","Taipei-Story/R-F-Kuang",{"_45":3956,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":3957},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77105585258737","1149008782",{"_45":3959,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77105585717489",{"_45":3961,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1070,"_1016":3935},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77105586307313",{"_45":3963,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":3914},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77105584767217",{"_45":3965,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77105585815793",{"_45":3967,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":3026},"gid://shopify/Metafield/82306942959857",{"_45":3969,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":3970},"gid://shopify/Metafield/82306942927089","8",{"_1008":2478,"_45":3972,"_76":3973,"_960":2481,"_837":3974,"_951":3975,"_949":3976,"_2485":3977,"_962":3980,"_1004":63,"_972":3982,"_2497":3986,"_1070":3996,"_1031":3998,"_1064":3999,"_1094":-5,"_1102":4000},"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":3978,"_58":3979,"_60":3168,"_54":2490,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/48337659396337","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9781538752036_p0.jpg?v=1771594547",{"_964":3981},{"_966":3174,"_968":969},{"_964":3983,"_970":3985},{"_966":3984,"_968":969},"36.0",{"_966":3984,"_968":969},{"_979":3987},[3988],{"_45":3989,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":3990,"_717":3991,"_1010":3992,"_942":3993,"_1013":3994,"_1017":3974,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47621455249649",{"_966":3984,"_968":969},{"_45":3978,"_58":3979,"_984":-5,"_60":3168,"_54":2490},{"_966":3174,"_968":969},{"_76":3973,"_837":3974},[3995],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":3997},"[\"BADGE - $5 OFF (p7876)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"B|Bestseller|#007C6C (p7858)\",\"Recently Reviewed (p10276)\",\"Retail Price fixing (p261)\",\"Barnes & Noble Holiday Gift Guide (p5430)\",\"BADGE - Best Seller (p7883)\",\"Mental Health Awareness (p9392)\"]",{"_1016":3974},{"_1016":2481},[4001,-5,-5,4004,4006,-5,4008,4010,4013,4016,4019,-5,4021,4023,-5,4025,4027,4029],{"_45":4002,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":4003},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871812784369","[{\"contributorId\":5241143,\"fullName\":\"Min Jin Lee\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":4005,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871812915441",{"_45":4007,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871812620529",{"_45":4009,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":2519},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871812948209",{"_45":4011,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":4012},"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\":\"\\\"Min Jin Lee digs into work--the work of learning, the toil of earning, and the persistent effort of immigrants navigating unfamiliar landscapes and altered expectations. But American Hagwon is no chore. This richly told, wise book is also a blast to read...Page after page illuminates innovation, loyalty, and steadfastness, yet Min Jin Lee saves her strongest grilling for education itself: Is it a means to material wealth? A pressure cooker for children? A tool for self-knowledge? It's an enormous, embracing book well worth the time.\\\"--Christian Science Monitor

\\\"Soon a reader is gripped--swallowed, really--by an elaborate generational saga. Amazingly, given the complexity of the relationships, no character chart is needed. So vivid and precise are Lee's descriptions that all players register as fully fleshed. Lee has named, among her great literary influences, Eliot's Middlemarch and Balzac's Cousin Bette; they're evident here..\\\"--Alta Journal

\\\"A simultaneously sweeping-but-intimate novel about the complexities of immigration, the fragile promise of America and the purpose of education, American Hagwon is also a classic page-turner populated by characters who are hard to leave behind at the end of 600-plus pages. It's an overwhelming reading experience, one that appeals to the head as well as the heart...Lee is so deft that she conjures epiphanies out of the simplest material. I wish I could read to you the very last sentence of American Hagwon to demonstrate her mastery, but, instead, I'll just say that the simple possessive pronoun \\\"his\\\" unexpectedly appears in that sentence and its effect is spiritually redemptive and emotionally shattering. What a novel.\\\"--Maureen Corrigan, Fresh Air, NPR

\\\"Some books are very worthy but held at arm's length. This one demands to be pressed into friends' hands.\\\"--New York Times Book Review

\\\"The publication of American Hagwon...doesn't disappoint. It is imbued with the elegance, empathy and erudition that have become Lee's hallmarks...I will be thinking about this deeply affecting novel for a long time to come.\\\"--Observer (UK)

\\\"Well worth the wait...With an exacting pen, Lee creates an automaton of intricate detail, where each character plays a vital role in staking out a path in a world marred by globalization, socioeconomic upheaval, and competition.\\\"--Boston Globe

\\\"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\":\"“Some books are very worthy but held at arm’s length. This one demands to be pressed into friends’ hands.”—New York Times Book Review

“A simultaneously sweeping-but-intimate novel about the complexities of immigration, the fragile promise of America and the purpose of education, American Hagwon is also a classic page-turner populated by characters who are hard to leave behind at the end of 600-plus pages. It's an overwhelming reading experience, one that appeals to the head as well as the heart…Lee is so deft that she conjures epiphanies out of the simplest material. I wish I could read to you the very last sentence of American Hagwon to demonstrate her mastery, but, instead, I'll just say that the simple possessive pronoun \\\"his\\\" unexpectedly appears in that sentence and its effect is spiritually redemptive and emotionally shattering. What a novel.”—Maureen Corrigan, Fresh Air, NPR

“Well worth the wait…With an exacting pen, Lee creates an automaton of intricate detail, where each character plays a vital role in staking out a path in a world marred by globalization, socioeconomic upheaval, and competition.”—Boston Globe

“The publication of American Hagwon…doesn’t disappoint. It is imbued with the elegance, empathy and erudition that have become Lee’s hallmarks…I will be thinking about this deeply affecting novel for a long time to come.”—Observer (UK)

“Soon a reader is gripped—swallowed, really—by an elaborate generational saga. Amazingly, given the complexity of the relationships, no character chart is needed. So vivid and precise are Lee’s descriptions that all players register as fully fleshed. Lee has named, among her great literary influences, Eliot’s Middlemarch and Balzac’s Cousin Bette; they’re evident here..”—Alta Journal

“Min Jin Lee digs into work—the work of learning, the toil of earning, and the persistent effort of immigrants navigating unfamiliar landscapes and altered expectations. But American Hagwon is no chore. This richly told, wise book is also a blast to read…Page after page illuminates innovation, loyalty, and steadfastness, yet Min Jin Lee saves her strongest grilling for education itself: Is it a means to material wealth? A pressure cooker for children? A tool for self-knowledge? It’s an enormous, embracing book well worth the time.”—Christian Science Monitor

“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\":\"121955112T\",\"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\":\"123344231T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"3\",\"text\":\"

\"},{\"id\":\"123852869T\",\"type\":\"Fatbrain Author Description\",\"linkText\":\"Author Description\",\"typeId\":\"1102\",\"abbr\":\"FBA\",\"maxToDisplay\":\"1\",\"authorName\":null,\"sourceName\":\"PAPERBACK COMMENTARY\",\"displayOrder\":\"4\",\"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":4014,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":4015},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871813210353","American-Hagwon/Min-Jin-Lee",{"_45":4017,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":4018},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871812554993","1149052260",{"_45":4020,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871812882673",{"_45":4022,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1070,"_1016":3997},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75058542575857",{"_45":4024,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":3974},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871812063473",{"_45":4026,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74871812980977",{"_45":4028,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2539,"_1016":2723},"gid://shopify/Metafield/191630619934961",{"_45":4030,"_1105":2538,"_1107":2543,"_1016":2726},"gid://shopify/Metafield/94089637626097",{"_30":79,"_80":14,"_58":4032},"https://www.barnesandnoble.com/blog/the-biggest-books-of-fall-2026-fiction-edition","The Biggest Books of Fall 2026: Fiction Edition",{"_37":4035,"_30":1574,"_1564":4036,"_76":4331},"91e733703d3a",{"_1567":4037,"_1576":226,"_1951":1952,"_1953":1954,"_108":-5,"_58":4329},[4038,4094,4151,4210,4266],{"_1008":2478,"_45":4039,"_76":4040,"_960":2481,"_837":4041,"_951":4042,"_949":4043,"_2485":4044,"_962":4047,"_1004":63,"_972":4049,"_2497":4053,"_1070":4063,"_1031":4065,"_1064":4066,"_1094":-5,"_1102":4067},"gid://shopify/Product/9412282974449","Redwood: The Untold Story of the Cold War's Most Extraordinary Spy","9780593728123","NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER * From the 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.","NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER * From the 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":4045,"_58":4046,"_60":2805,"_54":2490,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/49384249131249","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593728123_p0.jpg?v=1783566741",{"_964":4048},{"_966":3804,"_968":969},{"_964":4050,"_970":4052},{"_966":4051,"_968":969},"35.0",{"_966":4051,"_968":969},{"_979":4054},[4055],{"_45":4056,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":4057,"_717":4058,"_1010":4059,"_942":4060,"_1013":4061,"_1017":4041,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47588913676529",{"_966":4051,"_968":969},{"_45":4045,"_58":4046,"_984":-5,"_60":2805,"_54":2490},{"_966":3804,"_968":969},{"_76":4040,"_837":4041},[4062],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":4064},"[\"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)\"]",{"_1016":4041},{"_1016":2481},[4068,-5,-5,4071,4073,-5,4075,4077,4080,4083,4086,-5,4088,4090,-5,4092,-5,-5],{"_45":4069,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":4070},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633979855089","[{\"contributorId\":170136,\"fullName\":\"Ben Macintyre\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":4072,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633980182769",{"_45":4074,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633979625713",{"_45":4076,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":2519},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633980248305",{"_45":4078,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":4079},"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

\\\"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 (Editor's Choice)

\\\"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]n artfully constructed nonfiction equivalent to one of John le Carré's most accomplished novels.\\\"-The Wall Street Journal

\\\"The British writer Ben Macintyre has made an illustrious career of taking dusty government archives and transforming them into propulsive nonfiction thrillers. . . . With his latest, Redwood, he has done it again.\\\"-The New York Times Book Review

\\\"[A] timely and remarkable story of Cold War espionage.\\\"-BBC Radio 4

\\\"As in all the best spy stories, what lies at the heart of Redwood, Ben Macintyre's mesmerising tale of Cold War espionage in Iran, is the human factor. . . . Writing is understanding what makes people tick, and it is his insightful portrayal of the shifting relationship between the two spies-part mutual exploitation, part something akin to friendship-that powers Redwood and holds the attention through the complexities of its political context.\\\"-The Times (UK)

\\\"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.\\\"-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.\\\"-Military

\\\"A tangled tale of spy versus spy . . . As ever, Macintyre delivers an improbable but impeccable tale of true espionage.\\\"-Kirkus Reviews

\\\"[A] riveting real-life thriller . . . Macintyre's lively espionage saga, full of brush-pasts and dead drops, stands James Bond on his head . . . [A] morally murky tale of manipulation and unforeseen consequences.\\\"-Publishers Weekly

\\\"In his latest book, Redwood, Macintyre moves the action to Iran in the early 1980s, when revolutionary chaos reigned under Ayatollah Khomeini and Western intelligence agencies were eager for any tidbits of information. . . . . Macintyre deftly sketches the personalities of those involved and perfectly captures the paranoia of those times.\\\"-Air Mail
\"},{\"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

\\\"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 (Editor's Choice)

\\\"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]n artfully constructed nonfiction equivalent to one of John le Carré's most accomplished novels.\\\"--The Wall Street Journal

\\\"The British writer Ben Macintyre has made an illustrious career of taking dusty government archives and transforming them into propulsive nonfiction thrillers. . . . With his latest, Redwood, he has done it again.\\\"--The New York Times Book Review

\\\"[A] timely and remarkable story of Cold War espionage.\\\"--BBC Radio 4

\\\"As in all the best spy stories, what lies at the heart of Redwood, Ben Macintyre's mesmerising tale of Cold War espionage in Iran, is the human factor. . . . Writing is understanding what makes people tick, and it is his insightful portrayal of the shifting relationship between the two spies--part mutual exploitation, part something akin to friendship--that powers Redwood and holds the attention through the complexities of its political context.\\\"--The Times (UK)

\\\"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.\\\"--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.\\\"--Military

\\\"A tangled tale of spy versus spy . . . As ever, Macintyre delivers an improbable but impeccable tale of true espionage.\\\"--Kirkus Reviews

\\\"[A] riveting real-life thriller . . . Macintyre's lively espionage saga, full of brush-pasts and dead drops, stands James Bond on his head . . . [A] morally murky tale of manipulation and unforeseen consequences.\\\"--Publishers Weekly

\\\"In his latest book, Redwood, Macintyre moves the action to Iran in the early 1980s, when revolutionary chaos reigned under Ayatollah Khomeini and Western intelligence agencies were eager for any tidbits of information. . . . . Macintyre deftly sketches the personalities of those involved and perfectly captures the paranoia of those times.\\\"--Air Mail
\"},{\"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":4081,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":4082},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633980707057","Redwood/Ben-Macintyre",{"_45":4084,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":4085},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633979494641","1148963735",{"_45":4087,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633980084465",{"_45":4089,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1070,"_1016":4064},"gid://shopify/Metafield/78682087293169",{"_45":4091,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":4041},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633978642673",{"_45":4093,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/74633980313841",{"_1008":2478,"_45":4095,"_76":4096,"_960":2481,"_837":4097,"_951":4098,"_949":4099,"_2485":4100,"_962":4104,"_1004":63,"_972":4106,"_2497":4110,"_1070":4120,"_1031":4122,"_1064":4123,"_1094":-5,"_1102":4124},"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":4101,"_58":4102,"_60":4103,"_54":2490,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/49009024598257","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780593234174_p0.jpg?v=1773974830",1522,{"_964":4105},{"_966":4051,"_968":969},{"_964":4107,"_970":4109},{"_966":4108,"_968":969},"40.0",{"_966":4108,"_968":969},{"_979":4111},[4112],{"_45":4113,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":4114,"_717":4115,"_1010":4116,"_942":4117,"_1013":4118,"_1017":4097,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47902022598897",{"_966":4108,"_968":969},{"_45":4101,"_58":4102,"_984":-5,"_60":4103,"_54":2490},{"_966":4051,"_968":969},{"_76":4096,"_837":4097},[4119],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":4121},"[\"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)\"]",{"_1016":4097},{"_1016":2481},[4125,-5,-5,4128,4130,-5,4132,4134,4137,4140,4143,-5,4145,4147,-5,4149,-5,-5],{"_45":4126,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":4127},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77699988062449","[{\"contributorId\":1864721,\"fullName\":\"Ina Garten\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":4129,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77699988422897",{"_45":4131,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77699987734769",{"_45":4133,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":2519},"gid://shopify/Metafield/77699988488433",{"_45":4135,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":4136},"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.

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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.

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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":4158,"_58":4159,"_60":3168,"_54":2490,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/48719730901233","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780525562238_p0.jpg?v=1784257831",{"_964":4161},{"_966":4051,"_968":969},{"_964":4163,"_970":4165},{"_966":4164,"_968":969},"38.0",{"_966":4164,"_968":969},{"_979":4167},[4168],{"_45":4169,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":4170,"_717":4171,"_1010":4172,"_942":4173,"_1013":4174,"_1017":4154,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/47651702669553",{"_966":4164,"_968":969},{"_45":4158,"_58":4159,"_984":-5,"_60":3168,"_54":2490},{"_966":4051,"_968":969},{"_76":4153,"_837":4154},[4175],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":4064},{"_1016":4154},{"_1016":2481},[4180,-5,-5,4183,4185,-5,4187,4189,4192,4195,4198,-5,4200,4202,-5,4204,4206,4208],{"_45":4181,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":4182},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75088810541297","[{\"contributorId\":282913,\"fullName\":\"Nathaniel Philbrick\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":4184,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75088810868977",{"_45":4186,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75088810377457",{"_45":4188,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":2519},"gid://shopify/Metafield/75088810934513",{"_45":4190,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":4191},"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

“Compulsively readable . . . The Rush complicates the familiar account of hopeful panners and canny outfitters, pairing the romance with the reality and drawing more characters into the story. Philbrick, a seasoned and popular chronicler of the American past, is equally concerned with those who got trampled by the rush as with those who rode it to astonishing heights of wealth and influence. . . . Philbrick brings the era’s gritty political dramas to life with compelling detail and an admirable faith in his readers’ willingness to follow the shifting factions and alliances. . . . Philbrick is a richly talented raconteur and a master of the cinematic vignette.”
—The New York Times Book Review

“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

“Sumptuous . . . Philbrick has written an engrossing account of tensions at the heart of our republic, a liberation from the dry rattle of textbooks as he limns the role oligarchy plays in our history.”
—The Boston Globe

“With polished prose and impeccable research, historian Philbrick unravels the Golden State’s ties to profit, enslavement and white supremacy. From John Sutter on to a ‘dress rehearsal’ for a Confederate victory and through to resource magnates like Leland Stanford, readers will understand that a conflict between North and South also included the West. They’ll also see that the greed unleashed during 19th century America resource-gathering isn’t gone.”
—The Los Angeles Times

“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

“The Rush is built on an enormous body of existing scholarship, and Philbrick synthesizes this research into a lively and accessible narrative. . . . Philbrick neatly evokes the politics, people and technologies that animated the period.”
—Smithsonian Magazine

“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

\\\"Compulsively readable . . . The Rush complicates the familiar account of hopeful panners and canny outfitters, pairing the romance with the reality and drawing more characters into the story. Philbrick, a seasoned and popular chronicler of the American past, is equally concerned with those who got trampled by the rush as with those who rode it to astonishing heights of wealth and influence. . . . Philbrick brings the era's gritty political dramas to life with compelling detail and an admirable faith in his readers' willingness to follow the shifting factions and alliances. . . . Philbrick is a richly talented raconteur and a master of the cinematic vignette.\\\"
--The New York Times Book Review

\\\"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

\\\"Sumptuous . . . Philbrick has written an engrossing account of tensions at the heart of our republic, a liberation from the dry rattle of textbooks as he limns the role oligarchy plays in our history.\\\"
--The Boston Globe

\\\"With polished prose and impeccable research, historian Philbrick unravels the Golden State's ties to profit, enslavement and white supremacy. From John Sutter on to a 'dress rehearsal' for a Confederate victory and through to resource magnates like Leland Stanford, readers will understand that a conflict between North and South also included the West. They'll also see that the greed unleashed during 19th century America resource-gathering isn't gone.\\\"
--The Los Angeles Times

\\\"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

\\\"The Rush is built on an enormous body of existing scholarship, and Philbrick synthesizes this research into a lively and accessible narrative. . . . Philbrick neatly evokes the politics, people and technologies that animated the period.\\\"
--Smithsonian Magazine

\\\"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 western 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.

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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!

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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":4253,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1077,"_1016":4254},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856021893361","Ill-Believe-in-Anything/Jacob-Tierney",{"_45":4256,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1036,"_1016":4257},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856020517105","1149919571",{"_45":4259,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1033,"_1016":1035},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856020943089",{"_45":4261,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1070,"_1016":4235},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856022188273",{"_45":4263,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1031,"_1016":4213},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856019828977",{"_45":4265,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1134,"_1016":1135},"gid://shopify/Metafield/80856021041393",{"_1008":2478,"_45":4267,"_76":4268,"_960":2481,"_837":4269,"_951":4270,"_949":4271,"_2485":4272,"_962":4275,"_1004":63,"_972":4278,"_2497":4282,"_1070":4292,"_1031":4294,"_1064":4295,"_1094":-5,"_1102":4296},"gid://shopify/Product/8833970045169","The Steps: A Memoir","9780063443914","INSTANT #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLERINSTANT USA TODAY BESTSELLERA 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.","

INSTANT #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
INSTANT USA TODAY BESTSELLER

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":4273,"_58":4274,"_60":3168,"_54":2490,"_984":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductImage/47637521465585","https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0674/5433/7265/files/9780063443914_p0.jpg?v=1768988713",{"_964":4276},{"_966":4277,"_968":969},"27.5",{"_964":4279,"_970":4281},{"_966":4280,"_968":969},"32.5",{"_966":4280,"_968":969},{"_979":4283},[4284],{"_45":4285,"_1004":63,"_1019":63,"_1005":4286,"_717":4287,"_1010":4288,"_942":4289,"_1013":4290,"_1017":4269,"_76":1001,"_1018":-5},"gid://shopify/ProductVariant/46229940338929",{"_966":4280,"_968":969},{"_45":4273,"_58":4274,"_984":-5,"_60":3168,"_54":2490},{"_966":4277,"_968":969},{"_76":4268,"_837":4269},[4291],{"_808":997,"_1016":1001},{"_1016":4293},"[\"The Most Anticipated Books of 2026 (p10335)\",\"BADGE - $5 OFF (p7876)\",\"Our Most Anticipated Books (p10162)\",\"B|Bestseller|#007C6C (p7858)\",\"BADGE - 15% OFF (p7872)\",\"Recently Reviewed (p10276)\",\"Retail Price fixing (p261)\",\"Barnes & Noble Holiday Gift Guide (p5430)\",\"BADGE - Best Seller (p7883)\"]",{"_1016":4269},{"_1016":2481},[4297,-5,-5,4300,4302,-5,4304,4306,4309,4312,4315,-5,4317,4319,-5,4321,4323,4326],{"_45":4298,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1110,"_1016":4299},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39044557275377","[{\"contributorId\":303924,\"fullName\":\"Sylvester Stallone\",\"jobName\":\"Author\",\"sequenceNumber\":1}]",{"_45":4301,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1113,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39044557865201",{"_45":4303,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1064,"_1016":2481},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39044556620017",{"_45":4305,"_1105":1106,"_1107":1116,"_1016":2519},"gid://shopify/Metafield/39044557963505",{"_45":4307,"_1105":1106,"_1107":2522,"_1016":4308},"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\":\"126949352T\",\"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\":\"

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