The Library of Lost Girls

by Kristen Pipps

Overview

When her sister returns from finishing school a total stranger, a teen seeks out the cause and discovers that the cost of becoming a perfect lady is much higher—and more sinister—than ever expected. A lush, gothic tale that will haunt readers long after they turn the last page.

Gwen Donavan adores her beautiful and rebellious older sister, Izzy. But the Izzy who returns from the Delphi School for Girls is not the sister who left. Now she is Isolde: dull and complacent and—most shocking—eager to marry.

Gwen is determined to discover what happened to Izzy at Delphi, and the only solution she can conceive of is to cheat her way into the mysterious school. If she can see for herself what they did, maybe she can get her Izzy back.

But Delphi is far from the finishing school Gwen expects. Sinister shadows lurk in the hallways of the remote estate, and she is told to never leave her room after dark. More curious, though, are the thousands of books, each with the name of a girl on its spine. They line the walls from floor to ceiling, and the students are forbidden to read them.

Delphi says they’re reforming the girls, but when Gwen discovers a note left for her by her sister, she realizes that what is happening at the school is more terrifying than she could ever have imagined. There’s something dark at the center of Delphi, and somehow it’s tied to those books—and to the girls who are sent there. And if Gwen doesn’t confront what hides in the shadows, it won’t be just Izzy who’s lost forever.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780593900499
Publisher:	Random House Children's Books
Publication date:	10/28/2025
Sold by:	Random House
Format:	eBook
Pages:	336
Age Range:	12 Years

About the Author

Kristen Pipps is a PitchWars alum who lives in the New York City area with her spouse and a Maltipoo named Buffy. She has masters degrees in both Screenwriting and Management and is an avid board game player.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

New York City, 1893

I should mingle with my sister’s wedding guests. It’s what Mother sent me down here to do, and the foyer is bustling with New York’s finest. Long trains of silk and satin covered in delicate flowers trail along the rugs that Father had imported from overseas. White-­gloved hands grasp fans that hide the snicker of laughter and the rolling of eyes. Wisps of smoke from cigars passed in the smoking room sneak tendrils out into the common space. I should find my fan, fashioned purposely to match my new blue gown. But I can only stand amidst it all, grim-­faced and wishing for a ghost who lives only in my memories.

A ghost who somehow grew into a bride. The subject of the framed photo that sits atop a mahogany table covered with fine lace and delicate rose petals. There’s another photo beside hers in a matching gold filigree frame, but I don’t care as much to look at Astor Wallingford, my soon-­to-­be brother-­in-­law. Instead, I’m fixated the photo of Izzy—­or Isolde, as she is known now.

It’s impossible to tell Izzy’s exact shade of blond hair in the black-­and-­white photo, or the fact that the dress she’s wearing is a flattering shade of pink that would make me look like an overripe tomato. But the slight upturn of her lips as she coyly looks over her shoulder shines through. Her eyes hint at a demureness befitting a young lady newly out to society.

They’re nothing like the wildfire eyes that used to dance around, alight as she regaled me with tales of her own making or goaded me into imaginative adventures around the house.

“Your sister is quite beautiful.”

I turn around to find myself face to face with the one person I was hoping to avoid. Lydia Heathersworth.

And, as to be expected, her gaggle of empty-­headed cronies stand behind her, whispering thinly veiled snide remarks into their fans.

“It’s lovely to see you, Lydia,” I say, playing the role of hostess.

She quirks her perfectly shaped mouth into a half smile. We both know I’m lying. Despite our parents’ greatest attempts, Lydia and I have never been friends. I was always too odd for her, spoke at the wrong times, didn’t know the right things to say. When we were five, before I realized what it really meant, I called her pretty, said I would like to marry her someday. Our parents wrote it off as a silly thing a child might say, but Lydia never let me forget it. Never let me forget the fact that she knew that secret truth of mine. So I became the butt of the joke my mother had always hoped I’d be on the other side of.

And her cousin is marrying my sister today.

“That finishing school of Isolde’s truly worked wonders,” Lydia says. “Who knew such a terrible child could grow into a pillar of society? Gorgeous too.” She gestures to the photograph we stand in front of. “She was away for a long time, never even came back to visit, did she?”

“Izzy loved it there,” I explain, a lie I was coached to tell as soon as she left. “She adored England and wanted to stay close to my cousins.” But our only cousins live in New York. Mother never explained the reason behind the lie, and after a while I learned not to ask questions. Izzy was at the Delphi School for Girls and would return at graduation.

I don’t even know if the school was in England.

“Is that so?” Lydia—­perfect society girl Lydia—­asks with the arch of an eyebrow. Her eyes track deliberately down my face, her insinuation impossible to miss.

It’s common knowledge to anyone who knew me as a child that I didn’t have a scar, then suddenly I did. And it appeared right when my sister left for school.

No one has ever outright asked, but I know they’ve wondered. The older, prettier—­albeit more rambunctious—­Donovan girl was sent away just as the younger, more awkward one debuted a scar that ran bright pink from eyebrow to chin. The look of it doesn’t matter to me as much as the looks it brings me. That and the constant reminder of why my sister was sent away.

I can’t let her leave again, especially not while she’s still a shell of her former self. Lydia may see Isolde as a woman to aspire to, but all I’ve ever wanted was to be like the Izzy who was taken away from us when she was fourteen.

“Excuse me,” I say, and quickly push away from Lydia and the other girls.

The girls snicker and I hear one of them say, “What an odd duck.”

Another says, “A complete oddity.”

I weave around full-­bodied skirts, canes, and tables prepped for serving after the ceremony. I’m swept away by an older woman wearing an old-­fashioned hoop skirt that is both long and wide enough that I have to exit the parlor on the far side of the room near the entryway instead of through the servants’ exit, which would have made my escape faster. Hardwood turns soft beneath my feet; I catch a heel on the edge of the burgundy runner that Father brought back from his last trip to India and slam into a hard wall.

“Oof,” I grunt, looking up. The wall is actually a man, a full foot taller than me, dressed in perfectly tailored tails and a velvet top hat adorned uniquely with a single peacock feather.

“My apologies,” I mutter.

“Not at all, Miss Donovan,” the man says with a voice like syrup. His lips curl into a smile that feels like a secret. He knows who I am. And while he looks vaguely familiar, I cannot place him. Perhaps a friend of the groom? He appears to be young—­likely right about Astor’s age. His face is more round than angular, his blond sideburns a bit patchy, as if he might struggle to grow a full beard. A friend from school, perhaps? I shake it off and scurry away. I know I should engage with him, force myself into a conversation after my horrifically rude display, but I need to leave this room. To find Izzy.

I manage to make it back to the foyer without falling into another guest just as Mother floats down the central staircase in a gown dripping in pearls like a queen, a tiara balanced atop her carefully crafted chignon. Her smile is placid, practiced. So like Izzy’s these days. She lands gently on the silk carpet and presses a delicate gloved hand on Mr. Wallingford’s elbow before approaching me. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen my mother’s bare hands.

“Gwendolyn,” she says, speaking out of the corner of her mouth, all the while keeping her smile perfectly in place. To Mr. Wallingford, I’m sure her smile is the picture of the ideal hostess. I don’t miss the dart of her eyes, though, so pointedly directing me to turn myself around and be pleasant, entertain her guests. But I don’t have it in me to settle for complacency, so I push past her and ignore the forced laugh she expels.

I hurry to the stairs, lifting the front of my skirt just enough so I won’t fall face-­first. I’m tempted to take the steps two at a time, to get away from the commotion as quickly as possible, but I can still feel Mother’s eyes on me, so I walk at an acceptable pace.

My shoulders slump the moment I’m out of view, no longer on display. No longer expected to perform. The brass handle on Izzy’s bedroom door at the end of the hall gleams bright and new. We moved into the Dakota less than three months after Izzy left, and the room designated to be hers was rarely entered.

She’s only just come back, and now she’s going to leave me again. I know that Mother and Father are thrilled by the transformation that their previously near-­devilish child has made, but she isn’t herself. Marrying Astor, especially since she barely even knows him, is a choice Izzy never would have made before. I can’t imagine what will happen with her next. This is my last chance to get her to stay, to see reason. She’s the only person who has ever truly listened to me; that girl must be inside her still somewhere. I just need to find the right words, though I never do seem to find them when it matters most. I grip the handle as if the door is ready to swallow me whole, the brass cold beneath the pads of my fingers.

“Gwen, is that you?” Izzy’s voice is muffled by the thick brown oak between us. I haven’t yet turned the doorknob—­my shadow must be visible through the crack at my feet. “Gwenie?” My ribs contract at the sound of the name my sister used to call me. She hasn’t used it since her return.

I twist and press forward.

Light streams in from the window that overlooks Central Park, draping my sister in a heavenly glow as she sits poised on her silk chaise. Even as she sits, I can see that Izzy’s waist has been pulled tight, in the style of Princess Maud. She must be uncomfortable beneath the folds of her crinoline skirt as she extends her delicate fingers toward me, finespun and exquisite lace tracing up her arms. I help her stand and press down a wrinkle at the base of her bustle, adjust the lace at her chest. Minor adjustments nobody would notice against her overall beauty.

“Your dress looks lovely on you. You look quite stunning,” she says, reminding me of what should have been my line. But the gentle smile that crosses her lips implies she’s being genuine.

Editorial Reviews

"[The] first-person-present narration enrich this feminist gothic horror, underscoring stakes, heightening suspense, and injecting heart....the twisty plot and creepy trappings command readers’ attention." —Publishers Weekly

"This is a tale of girls’ power, exploited by those who seek to control it, and of the resistance that rises in response.... A chilling, feminist debut in which friendship, love, and truth become weapons against the darkness." —Kirkus Reviews

"A highly entertaining historical take on power, agency, and responsibility." —Booklist

From the Publisher

2025-08-16
“Keep to the light. Avoid the shadows.”

The Delphi School for Girls hides its darkest secrets behind towering bookshelves. When Gwen Donovan’s sister, Izzy, returns from the finishing school as a hollowed-out version of herself, Gwen arranges to leave New York City for Delphi, which is located on a remote island off the coast of Nova Scotia, to discover what happened. The headmistress informs her that they have a regimen that works to “pull the evil” out of “troubled girls.” The walls are lined with books, each bearing a girl’s name, there are few windows, and the dimly lit halls teem with shadows that seem to move on their own. Girls who break the rules are sent to the ominous Writing Room, returning weak and unable to remember what transpired. Guided by Izzy’s hidden letters, Gwen bands together with classmates to investigate. Armed with lanterns and candlesticks, they navigate the halls by night, dodging the shadows that whisper and reach for them. What they uncover is a chilling conspiracy, one far more sinister than they ever imagined. Astute readers may unravel the mystery early on, but the gothic atmosphere and slow-building romance between Gwen and another student sustain the tension. This is a tale of girls’ power, exploited by those who seek to control it, and of the resistance that rises in response. Main characters are cued white.

A chilling, feminist debut in which friendship, love, and truth become weapons against the darkness.(Fantasy. 14-18)

Kirkus Reviews