It's Your Ship: Management Techniques from the Best Damn Ship in the Navy

About the Author Captain D. Michael Abrashoff is a graduate of the U.S. Naval Academy in Annapolis, MD, and was a military assistant to the former secretary of defense, the Honorable Dr. William J. Perry. Abrashoff left the Navy in 2001 and became the founder and CEO of Grassroots Leadership, Inc., in Boston. You can visit his website at www.grassrootsleadership.com. From AudioFile Part leadership lesson and part memoir, this compact audio is a testament to the author's understanding of leadership in any large organization. His message is about helping people engage with their mission, which in his case was operating the 8,600-ton guided missile destroyer he commanded in the late 1990s. He advocates respecting people at every level, providing personalized training, and having an orderly system for rewarding high performers with more responsibility. Abrashoff is definitely in command and proud of his story but not lacking in humility and human perspective. Leaders of fast food restaurants and warships alike will be uplifted by his relentless efforts to care for the 310 men and women under his command. T.W. © AudioFile 2006, Portland, Maine-- Copyright © AudioFile, Portland, Maine

The One-Minute Guide to the Nautical Rules of the Road (United States Power Squadrons Guides)

From the Publisher Charlie Wing has written top-selling books on home maintenance and remodeling as well as boating. Wing lived aboard a cruising sailboat for six years. About the Author Charlie Wing has written top-selling books on home maintenance and remodeling as well as boating. Wing lived aboard a cruising sailboat for six years.

Among Giants: A Life with Whales

Review “This is not only a book of extraordinary pictures, which it is, and the story of an extraordinary life, which it is; this is the story of the man who opened the window on a world we barely knew existed before his work. A compelling, engaging adventure story, well told. I can’t recommend it highly enough.” -- Christopher Moore, author of Fluke “Flip Nicklin’s work reaches us on a profound level: his images inspire . They make us feel hopeful, passionate, engaged, transported, alive. He takes us under the surface with him, into a universe where we have front row seats to the most magical and wonderful giants on our planet, allowing us to witness an otherwise unimaginable marine world. With his talent and vision, Flip singlehandedly took underwater photography—and marine mammal photojournalism in general—to an entirely new level. Flip is, simply, the best of the very best.” -- Paul Nicklen, photographer and author of Polar Obsession “Flip Nicklin is my favorite marine mammal, and one to whom I am grateful beyond measure. As a colleague on National Geographic assignments, he guided me down into the underwater realm and shared the secrets he has spent so many years uncovering there. As an author, he does the same for readers in this revelatory tale of a life like no other among the biggest and most mysterious beings on the planet.”--Douglas Chadwick, author of The Wolverine Way -- Douglas Chadwick “Flip Nicklin is one of the great names in nature photography--someone who has turned photography of marine mammals into art and inspired a generation. What’s surprising is that this is the first major collection of his work. It contains his classics, often the first-ever picture of a species or a behaviour--many of which are still the best pictures of their kind--but also new images, often thought-provoking compositions of gatherings of great whales. With his text, the book also tells a story of discovery and the growth of our understanding of whale behaviour. The salutary reminder of how little we know about whales is that some of the pictures that Flip has taken are of individuals that were alive long before (modern) whale biology was born.”--Rosamund Kidman Cox -- Rosamund Kidman Cox"In Among Giants , Flip Nicklin's fabulous photographs and his captivating text combine to give us a true feeling for the animals of the interface between land and water (and sometimes ice). The world of whales is brought into focus by the world's best cetacean photographer, and his deeply personal story expresses his love and admiration for these marvelous and mysterious creatures. You will hold your breath as you descend into the depths with dolphins, belugas, sperm whales, and humpbacks, and exhale with sheer delight at the experience of diving with Flip and his enchanting companions." -- Richard Ellis, author of The Great Sperm Whale " 'Flip' Nicklin is National Geographic's 'whale guy.' Any time the magazine runs a story on whales, Nicklin is the photographer sent to illustrate the story. It all began in 1963, when the author's father was running a dive shop in San Diego. When the father and  a couple of buddies discovered a Bryde's whale tangled in a gill net, they photographed the whale and then freed it. Inspired by both photography and diving, Nicklin bummed around until he got a chance to work as an assistant with humpback-whale research in Maui. There he got an iconic photograph of a male whale head down in the water, singing, and he was on his way. Nicklin has created an exciting tale combining the adventure (and drudgery) of field research and the discovery of what whales do and why. Humpbacks in Hawaii, narwhals and belugas in the Arctic, killer whales in Canada, sperm whales in Sri Lanka, and dolphins in Galveston Bay all tell their stories in Nicklin’s marvelous images." ― Booklist About the Author Widely regarded as the world’s leading cetacean photographer, Charles "Flip" Nicklin grew up around his father’s small dive shop on the California coas t. He went on to become National Geographic’s premiere whale photographer and marine mammal specialist. Over the last quarter century Flip has photographed more than thirty species of whales and dolphins, some so endangered their very survival is in question. In 2001 he co-founded Whale Trust, a non-profit organization dedicated to research and public education.

MCITP Self-Paced Training Kit (Exam 70-622): Supporting and Troubleshooting Applications on a Windows Vista Client for Enterprise Support Technicians (Pro - Certification)

From the Publisher Key Book Benefits: In-depth coverage of exam objectives and sub-objectives--plus instructive case studies and troubleshooting scenarios to enhance your performance on the job 425+ practice and review questions Test engine that enables customized testing, pre-assessment and post-assessment, and automated scoring and feedback Complete objective-by-objective review section, plus a handy exam-mapping grid Evaluation version of Windows Vista 15 percent exam-discount voucher from Microsoft (limited-time offer) Entire study guide in searchable eBook format About the Author Tony Northrup, MCTS, MCSE, CISP, MVP, is a networking consultant and coauthor of Windows Server 2008 Networking and Network Access Protection (NAP) . J.C. Mackin, MCITP, MCSE, MCT, has 10+ years' experience with Microsoft networks and is an IT consultant, trainer, and author.

Harrap's Shorter French and English Dictionary

Bonobo Handshake: A Memoir of Love and Adventure in the Congo

From Publishers Weekly Devoted to learning more about bonobos, a smaller, more peaceable species of primate than chimpanzees, and lesser known, Australian journalist Woods and her fiancé, scientist Brian Hare, conducted research in the bonobos' only known habitat—civil war–torn Congo. Woods's plainspoken, unadorned account traces the couple's work at Lola Ya Bonobo Sanctuary, located outside Kinshasa in the 75-acre forested grounds of what was once Congo dictator Mobutu Sese Seko's weekend retreat. The sanctuary, founded in 1994 and run by French activist Claudine André, served as an orphanage for baby bonobos, left for dead after their parents had been hunted for bush meat; the sanctuary healed and nurtured them (assigning each a human caretaker called a mama), with the aim of reintroducing the animals to the wild. Hare had only previously conducted research on the more warlike, male-dominated chimpanzee, and needed Woods because she spoke French and won the animals' trust; through their daily work, the couple witnessed with astonishment how the matriarchal bonobo society cooperated nicely using frequent sex, and could even inspire human behavior. When Woods describes her daily interaction with the bonobos, her account takes on a warm charm. Woods's personable, accessible work about bonobos elucidates the marvelous intelligence and tolerance of this gentle cousin to humans. (Apr.) Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. From Booklist Woods was an Australian primate lover, flitting from job to job while she tried to decide what to do with her life. Brian Hare was a newly minted American PhD. They met at a chimpanzee sanctuary in Uganda, fell in love, and a year later were on a plane to the Democratic Republic of Congo, which had suffered a decade-long war, fought over its vast resources of diamonds, gold, cobalt, and other minerals, and in which more than five million died. The human suffering had fostered a rise in the bush-meat trade, and one of the prime targets was bonobos, the “other” chimpanzee. The story of Woods’ and Hare’s research at the only bonobo sanctuary in the world mixes the intimacy of memoir with the science of behavioral research. As Woods comes to know her new husband, she also begins to know the resident bonobos. Bonobos share, use sex to settle arguments, and possess almost 99 percent of our DNA. This mostly joyous book is not afraid to talk about the terrible recent history of the Congo, but ultimately it comes down on the side of hope—for the Congo and the bonobos. --Nancy Bent Review "Funny, adventurous, and heartbreaking, Woods takes us with her to darkest Africa to meet our nearest relative, the nearly extinct bonobo. This must-read book illuminates extraordinary courage in both people and animals."  -Sara Gruen, bestselling author of Water for Elephants "Gain insights into both the darkness and altruistic sides of our own emotions by getting to know chimpanzees and bonobos in an African sanctuary. This book is both shocking and hilarious." ,BR> -Temple Grandin, author of Animals in Translation and Animals Make Us Human "Don't think that this is just a book about apes. It's a love story, an adventure story, and a political education about a country that has seen more tragedy and inhumanity than you can imagine. Above all, it's an introduction to creatures who have every claim to being more human, in the best sense of the word, than we are."  -Adam Hochschild, author of King Leopold's Ghost ,BR> "This is a startling book. Page after page astonished me. A beautifully written journey into the tangled jungle of the human mind, it also brings us movingly into intimate, loving contact with our extraordinary cousins. This is a compelling story, told with striking honesty, humor, and intelligence."  -Alan Alda, author of New York Times bestsellers Things I Overheard While Talking to Myself and Never Have Your Dog Stuffed About the Author Vanessa Woods is a research scientist, journalist, and author of children's books. A member of the Hominoid Psychology Research Group, she works with Duke University as well as Lola Ya Bonobo in Congo. She is also a feature writer for the Discovery Channel, and her writing has appeared in publications such as BBC Wildlife and Travel Africa . Her first book, It's Every Monkey for Themselves , was published in Australia in 2007. Woods lives in North Carolina with her husband, scientist Brian Hare. Read more

A Voice for the Future

The Highway: A Cody Hoyt/Cassie Dewell Novel (Highway (feat. Cody Hoyt / Cassie Dewell) Book 2)

Review “That The Highway is read by the incomparable Holter Graham makes it all the more scary…If you like your audiobooks creepy and riveting this is for you. But I wouldn't advise listening to it on a long stretch of unpatrolled road.” ― The Star-Ledger “Narrator Holter Graham creates a frantic, exhilarating pace as Box continues the story of police detective Cody Hoyt.” ― AudioFile Magazine --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From Booklist Reviewing Back of Beyond (2011), we wrote that Box’s short-fused Montana cop, Cody Hoyt, had series potential. Well, he’s back, along with other characters from that book, for a creepy thriller about a serial killer whose job as a long-haul trucker provides the perfect cover for his crimes. Cody has just been fired for planting evidence, and it was his own partner, Cassandra Dewell, who caught him. But then teenagers Danielle and Gracie Sullivan—the same girls he helped rescue the last time out—are abducted en route to a Thanksgiving reunion with Cody’s son, Justin. Can Cody and Cassie work together to find the girls in time? Box’s Joe Pickett series has, over 13 installments, been nearly perfect. But his stand-alones have been a mixed bag, from the stellar Blue Heaven (2008) to the forgettable Three Weeks to Say Goodbye (2009). This one’s somewhere in the middle: Box handles his large cast of characters capably, but, despite the chilling and timely scenario, the usually sure-handed author never quite gets our hearts racing. --Keir Graff --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. About the Author C. J. Box is the author of over twenty Joe Pickett novels, as well as several stand-alone novels and a story collection. He has won the Edgar, Anthony, Macavity, Gumshoe, and Barry Awards, as well as the French Prix Calibre .38, and has been a Los Angeles Times Book Prize finalist. A Wyoming native, Box has also worked on a ranch and as a small-town newspaper reporter and editor. He lives with his wife on their ranch in Wyoming. His books have been translated into twenty-seven languages. He’s an executive producer of ABC TV’s Big Sky , which is based on his Cody Hoyt/Cassie Dewell novels, and executive producer of the Joe Pickett television series for Spectrum Originals. --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. From the Artist C.J. Box; Read by Holter Graham --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Review “Filled with believable characters and hard, realistic dialogue, Edgar winner Box’s perfectly paced novel offers a suspenseful story laced with more than a few shockingly unexpected plot twists.” ― Publishers Weekly (signature review)“A nonstop, action-filled race against time. Rolling down the superhighway of suspense, this thriller will leave readers breathless.” ― Library Journal (starred review)“Be warned: This is one scary novel.” ― Toronto Globe and Mail “The Highway is the summer's most terrifying novel...Prepare to be scared.” ― Orlando Sentinel “Get off the genre interstate and take The Highway .” ― Billings Gazette --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. 1. 4:03 P.M., Tuesday, November 20HE CALLED HIMSELF THE LIZARD King. The prostitutes known as lot lizards feared him. More precisely, they feared his legend, the idea of him . None of them who’d ever seen his face up close lived to describe it.He was parked in the back row of trucks with his diesel engine idling, his running lights muted, his hair slicked back, and a bundle of tools on the floorboard on the right side of his seat within easy reach. He was hunting but there was no need to go after his prey. The lot lizards would come to him.The truck stop was four miles west of Billings, Montana, off I-90. A cold mist hung in the air and moisture beaded on the windows and the paint jobs of more than seventy big trucks. The black asphalt lot shined as if freshly varnished between the rows of semis, reflecting the lighted highway signs and hundreds of streams of horizontal running lights from the parked trucks themselves. The air outside hummed with rumbling engines. Tendrils of steam rose from beneath the engines and combined with the undulating waves of heated exhaust that rose from beneath the big rigs.From his high perch in the dry and warm cab, his sight lines were clear. The truck plaza itself was filled with activity and he noted it carefully. Vehicles entered and exited the long banks of fuel pumps in front of the garish low-slung building a hundred yards away. Professional truckers filled 150-gallon aluminum tanks with diesel fuel on one side of the lot, passenger cars and vans filled up with gasoline on the other.Inside the truck stop restaurant, waitresses served the $10.95 T-bone special advertised on the marquee near the exit. Drivers lounged in the “trucker’s only” section checking e-mail, comparing road conditions, or drinking coffee. Truck stop employees cooked up fried chicken and potato wedges for the lighted bins at the front counter and manned the cash registers selling salted snacks, energy boosters, beef jerky, and drinks.This was the way it was on the open road; islands of lighted activity in a sea of prairie darkness. Cars and families on one side, truckers on the other, but sharing the same facility. Two vastly different worlds that met only at places like this. Inside, truck drivers and citizens barely acknowledged each other and the modern truck stop was designed so there would be little interaction. Sure, the drivers would get on their radios and laugh at the rubes they’d run into inside and mock their looks or stupid conversations, but inside they were segregated between the amateurs and the professionals, the clueless consumers—the civilians, the amateurs—and the cloistered universe of the providers.He was on the road so much his outlook on it had changed completely over the years. It no longer seemed like he was moving, for one thing. Now he felt as if he were stationary while the road rolled under him and the scenery flowed by. The world came to him .Like the captain of a large ocean vessel, a large swath of the landscape was off-limits to him, as he was confined by the shipping lanes that were interstate highways. When he parked his truck at a rest area or truck stop for the night he couldn’t venture into town because he had no way to get there unless he walked. It was like a captain who had to anchor his boat and take a dinghy to shore.Oh, how he resented the smug people in those towns. They thought their food, clothing, furniture, appliances, and electronics simply appeared at stores or on their front doorsteps. They didn’t stop to think that every item they ate or wore or used was likely transported across the nation in the trailer of his truck or those like him, or that the hardworking blue-collar rednecks they avoided in real life and despised on the road were the conduits of their comfort and the pipeline of their wealth.*   *   *It was the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, so there was more traffic on the highways than usual. It would be much worse the next day as families moved across the country with a lull on Thanksgiving and another spike on Sunday as people returned home. He was used to it. The rhythms of the road were like rivers that flooded and receded in perpetuity.The Beartooth Mountains to the south were light blue with new snow and the lack of stars indicated heavy cloud cover. It was still warm enough on the valley floor that the moisture hadn’t turned to snowflakes, but there was a snap in the air outside and he watched as travelers left their cars and zipped up coats on their way into the truck stop. He snorted at an overweight family of fools wearing T-shirts and shorts who practically ran from their passenger van to the door that led to the restrooms. Fucking idiots . What if they broke down wearing clothes like that? Who would they look for to rescue them? Me, he thought. The invisible, faceless trucker.In the darkened cab of his eighteen-speed Model 379 Peterbilt, the Lizard King was alone, quiet and still, the cab perched over 550 horses of steel muscle under the iconic squared-off snout. The truck was flat black, stripped of chrome, and as subtle as a fist. It was a trucker’s truck the way a Harley-Davidson was a biker’s bike. He’d even painted the twin stacks with black chimney paint to eliminate any hint of flash.Without looking down, he let his right hand slip down on the side of the seat until he could find the string that held his bundle together. He pulled the cord and the bundle unrolled. His fingertips traced each item. Everything had been wiped clean and sterilized since its last use: the tire thumper, which was a short lead-filled wooden baton used to check the pressure of his eighteen wheels, the pliers and wire cutters, two pairs of handcuffs, four knives—the heavy hunting Buck, the short folding Spyderco, the long thin filet knife, and the stainless-steel hatchet. His lightweight Taurus 738 TCP semiauto in .380 ACP. In an oblong, hard, and hinged box once used for sunglasses was a syringe filled with Rohypnol. And his vintage fourteen-inch long Knapp butcher saw with the aluminum T-grip and both bone and wood teeth on opposite sides of the blade. It was designed for the rapid field butchering of big game. He ran his thumb gently along the bone teeth.Satisfied that everything was in order, he removed the tire thumper and placed it on the dashboard next to his roll of one hundred-mile-an-hour brown Gorilla tape. Both were standard items used by every trucker and they wouldn’t draw a second glance. He bundled the rest of the tools and reached under his seat for the satchel, which contained heavy plastic bags, the wire ties, his folding shovel, the 300,000 volt Stun Master stun gun, and the three-inch-wide roll of duct tape. He put the bundle of tools back into the satchel and zipped it closed.If things went well, he wouldn’t even need to reach for the satchel. If things went well … *   *   *The Lizard King glanced around the cab to make sure he’d completed all the items on his mental checklist. The carpeted floormats had been pulled and stashed, leaving a bare metal floor. Both seats were fitted with clear plastic covers. All logbooks, maps, and other paperwork—anything that could absorb fluid—had been stashed away. He turned in his seat. The cloth drapes separating the cab from the sleeping cabin had long ago been replaced by clear shower curtains that allowed him to see clearly into the back. On his bunk was a specially adapted cover made from blue tarpaulin, and plastic sheeting lined the walls. The single small window of the sleeper was blacked out.He’d forgotten nothing. There was no cloth or porous surface for blood, hair, or fiber to cling to inside, and the cab and cabin could be hosed clean in a few minutes by a power washer.He was ready.*   *   *He waited for the segregation between the professionals and the amateurs to breach. It did when a rusted-out van cruised the trucking lanes and parked in shadow on the side of the truck stop. North Dakota plates.Two lot lizards got out and the van drove away. That meant they had thumbed a ride or made arrangements for a pickup later. Meaning there would be no telltale vehicle left at the truck stop to raise any alarm. That was good.What wasn’t so good was that there were two of them. It wasn’t unusual; they tended to partner up to some extent. Which meant if one of them vanished the other would know.One lot lizard, who was short and heavy and dark—maybe an Indian from the res to the south—started off for the far corner of the lot. She’d work that side first, he guessed. He breathed a sigh of relief.The other one put her hands on her hips and looked in his direction.She looked thin and gaunt and had long stringy blondish hair haloed by the blue overhead lamps and the mist. He couldn’t see her face yet because of the darkness. A long sweater or shawl-like cape hid her figure, which was one of the tricks of the trade. She teetered on high heels and held her hands out to her sides as if for balance and she baby-stepped toward the parked lines of trucks.Perfect.He stubbed his cigarette out and squinted through the curl of smoke and the rain-smeared windshield. He could feel his insides start to knot.*   *   *Since that morning outside of Chicago the Lizard King had been planning the hunt. He’d awakened in his bunk thinking about it, and at breakfast he’d gone through his mental checklist. It had been several weeks, and he was due.He pulled a fifty-three-foot trailer known as a “reefer,” meaning the inside of the box was controlled by a separate diesel refrigeration-slash-heating unit mounted on the front. Depending on the contents of his load, he could keep the box cool to freezing, and his loads were primarily pallets of fresh or frozen food. He ran coast-to-coast, picking up apples in Yakima, Washington, and delivering them to Boston, and completing the circuit with yogurt from Connecticut or potatoes from New Jersey to be delivered in the west. The loads and destinations varied from circuit to circuit, and sometimes he forgot what he was hauling. It took him four and a half days to run from one coast to the other, and he generally completed two full laps of the nation before returning home. His life was a rhythm of three weeks on the road, a week at home to recuperate and get repairs, then three more weeks of running. He was on his way home after nineteen straight days on the road; meaning no more than eleven hours of driving in any fourteen-hour period, and ten hours of rest in order to legally drive another eleven.The Lizard King knew mileposts on every highway in America and knew which truck stops to fuel up and which ones to avoid. He timed his routes to avoid as many weigh scales—called “chicken coops”—as possible and he’d rather use his piss-jug than be forced to stop at highway rest areas frequented by homosexuals known as “pickle parks.” Like all truckers, he did his best to avoid states with overbearing troopers and stupid regulations like Minnesota, Ohio, California, Oregon, and Washington, and he gave a wide berth to other trucks from companies known for poorly trained drivers.*   *   *It had taken just one glimpse of a young woman the night before, red-haired and college-age, her car filled with boxes and clothes she was taking home for Thanksgiving break, who passed him on an incline and swung back into his lane so recklessly that he had to tap his brakes and lean on his horn. When he was able to catch back up with her in the passing lane she looked up and their eyes met for a brief second. Then she flipped him off with dismissive contempt. That’s all it took. Rage blasted through him and orange spangles erupted in front of his eyes.Before he could swing his rig over into her lane and force her off the highway she stomped on her accelerator and shot ahead. Their bumpers almost kissed but she gained distance. He cursed the half-load in his trailer that held him back. It was like dragging an anchor behind him. He cursed that red-haired girl until her taillights faded away in the dark.He’d kept an eye out for her all the way to Janesville, Wisconsin. But by the time he got to Chippewa Falls he’d lost her somewhere. She’d either continued to speed home straight ahead or she’d taken an exit off the interstate.She had no idea, he thought, how lucky she was. Outside West Fargo, he’d barely slept and he thought of what she’d look like bound in cuffs and tape with a whole new attitude toward him.So after breakfast, in light rain outside of Mandan, he parked at a rest area and pulled on his raincoat. The first thing to do was to make his loaded eighty-thousand-pound truck invisible. He did it by covering the transmittal dome of his Qualcomm unit with a shower cap lined with aluminum foil and sealing the bottom with tape. This way, neither his employers nor curious troopers could track his movements or his speed.His anticipation built throughout the day as he rolled west. He paid special attention to the radio and slowed in advance of the speed traps or scales outside Wibaux and Bad Route, Montana, and he didn’t stop for lunch or mandatory rest periods although he lied in his logs to say he did. He shot across I-94 in Montana maintaining the perfect speed of sixty-three miles per hour for maximum fuel efficiency for his Caterpillar C15 motor to get as far ahead of schedule as possible. They shouldn’t expect him before 10:00 P.M. If the dispatcher, that bitch, said she had trouble tracking him via his Qualcomm, he’d curse and say it must have malfunctioned again like the last time.He gained four hours, he figured, by the time he hit Miles City, Montana. Four hours of free time, where no one would be watching. He’d carry that four free hours with him as he pounded west, and not withdraw a minute of it until he got to the truck stop outside Billings.Four hours was more than enough time to do what he needed to do. He’d done it in two, so he was sure of it.*   *   *He’d arrived early to the truck stop, an hour before dark. At that time there was plenty of room in the back row of the trucker’s lot when he arrived, and he took a middle space without neighbors on either side.Choosing the back row meant something to other truckers. Either the driver wanted to get some real sleep in his cabin behind the seat, or he wanted privacy to rest or do paperwork, or, in this case, he was sending a signal that he was available to the truck stop prostitutes who worked the facility. The lot lizards.He carried a duffel bag across the lot in the dusk and went straight to the trucker’s entrance of the building. Inside, he paid eleven dollars for a shower. He shaved and changed into a disposable one-piece Tyvek jumpsuit with elastic bands on the sleeves and cuffs. The jumpsuit got no strange looks in the trucker’s lounge because truckers wore all kinds of strange clothing. A driver with a full beard, a multicolored serape, and flip-flops sat at a table reviewing his logbook. The man didn’t even look up. One driver he knew drove in his underwear with the heat on high.Still, though, when he became the Lizard King he knew his presence made a statement. People shied away from him when they saw him coming. Conversations stopped as he passed by, like there was some kind of malevolent black cloud hanging over his head. And when he stared at others they tended to quickly look away. It used to bother him, but now he took a kind of perverse pride in it. He didn’t want to make new friends, anyway. What was the point?The Lizard King had never felt brotherhood toward other drivers. In fact, he found many of them as disgusting as the amateurs on the road. He noted how many piss-jars and urine bombs had been tossed on the side of the road, how many Walmart bags of feces. He’d seen the cutaways in the floorboards of some trucks, and he cringed when he witnessed fat truckers parking as close as possible to the truck stop restaurant so they wouldn’t have to waddle far to eat. And then there were the Bible-thumpers … He avoided the public retail section of the truck stop, and took a long route back to his Peterbilt through dozens of idling trucks so no one would track where he went. As he passed between two semis in the first row he was dismayed to find a small knot of five drivers shooting the breeze back and forth. Three men leaned against the fuel tank of a blue Mack on the left and two others mirrored their posture against a red Kenworth on the right. He had no choice but to walk right through them and to betray no surprise or caution. To his chagrin, they were arguing about a Bible passage.“That ain’t what it means,” one of them said. The man was tall and well built and clean-shaven. He wore a yellow chamois shirt and a ball cap that read TRUCKING FOR JESUS. His Mack truck had the same logo painted on its door behind him. He said, “Listen: ‘The discretion of a man defers his anger, and it is his glory to overlook a transgression.’ That’s in Proverbs. It means look the other way.”The driver he was arguing with leaning against the Kenworth had bushy muttonchop sideburns and wore a cowboy hat. He shook his head and said, “No, you listen. Romans 12:20 says, ‘If your enemy hungers, feed him; if he thirsts, give him drink; for in doing so you shall heap coals of fire on his head.’ That says to me God will get your revenge for you so you don’t need to do any thumpin’. That says God don’t look the other way but you should.”“God doesn’t do revenge,” the man in the chamois shirt said, rolling his eyes. “He does love and forgiveness. Maybe you ought to do the same.”“And I will if I know God will do the thumpin’. But if he’s just going to let the bad man get away with it—naw, that don’t seem right.”“You’re readin’ it wrong, friend,” Chamois said. “Remember that later in Proverbs…”“Excuse me,” the Lizard King said, “just passing through.” He wanted to get by them as quickly as possible. He hoped they were so deep into their discussion they wouldn’t even recall him later if asked. The front row truckers weren’t all Christians, but many of them were. They’d park next to each other in their sanctimony and self-righteousness and spout verses and lessons to each other while looking down on people like him. He avoided them whenever possible.The Bible-thumpers sometimes hung bras out their drivers’ side windows at night as a way of warding off the prostitutes since it suggested a husband and wife driving team inside. It was a message known well among truckers, but not all the whores knew what it meant, which caused great consternation among the faithful.“Hey, you look familiar,” the muttonchop driver said to the Lizard King.Since he couldn’t just charge through now without making more of an impression than he wanted to, he glanced up at Muttonchops and said, “Sorry, I don’t recall.”But he did. The truck stop out of Amarillo. Muttonchips had been down there, parked in his Kenworth the row in front of the Lizard King, when that fat lot lizard in the Ugg boots and micromini waddled her way to his Peterbilt. The Lizard King was ready— oh, he was ready —but as he reached down to let her in he looked up to see Muttonchops watching him through his side sleeper window.It ruined the moment, and destroyed his plans. If Muttonchops was later questioned and could say he saw the fat lizard get into the Peterbilt … So instead of inviting her in and starting the process, he’d opened the door and as she reached up for his hand to climb inside greeted her face with a kick from his size twelve hunting boot. She fell in a heap on the pavement, blood streaming out of her nose. She was angry but not nearly as angry as he was as he slammed the door shut. He hoped like hell Muttonchops didn’t get a clear look at his face that night when he opened his door.“McAllen, Texas, then?” Muttonchops said, not sure. “The Flying J down there?”The Lizard King shrugged. “Nope,” he lied. “I ain’t been down there in years.”The McAllen truck stop was one of the better locations for lot lizards in the country. It ranked right up there with the Vince Lombardi Service Area on the New Jersey Turnpike or any truck stop in Gary, Indiana. Other infamous lot lizard high spots included El Paso, Detroit, and the Port of Albany in New York. Although truckers rarely used CB radios anymore, they still had them. Lot lizards knew it, and he’d hear his radio crackle with, “Anybody need company tonight? If you do, take it to 21. This is Barbie Doll…”Once the lot lizard and the trucker switched to the other channel—along with everyone else parked at the stop who wanted to listen in—there would be a discussion of services, prices, and the location of the man who wanted company. The Lizard King didn’t ever respond. He waited for them to come to his door.“Feel free to join us, brother,” Chamois said. “You’re more’n welcome. You don’t have to know nothing about the Bible. My friend here doesn’t, either.”Muttonchops said, “Hey,” as if offended and a couple of the others laughed.“Thanks,” the Lizard King said, waving over his shoulder but not looking back.“You a Christian, son?” Chamois asked.“Sure,” he said without conviction.“God bless you, buddy,” Chamois said. “Whatever you are. Whatever the deal is with you.”And one of the others said, “He needs it.”The Lizard King didn’t stop or turn around to see who said it. Was it Muttonchops? Did Muttonchops just remember where they’d met and what nearly happened?As he reached the back bumper of the trucks and turned left, he shot a quick look over his shoulder at the Bible-thumpers. They were still looking in his direction, and Muttonchops was in the middle of them, talking low.*   *   * “He needs it” stuck in his craw as he watched the skinny blond lot lizard climb up into a cab ten trucks away. Who were they to judge him, those bastards? he thought. Weren’t they supposed to show some tolerance? Wasn’t their whole act about forgiveness?She was making her way toward him, truck by truck. Most calls were refusals, but four trucks away he saw a hairy arm reach down from a cab and a big hand grasp hers and pull her up. The lights in the cab went out and he saw cheap curtains pulled sharply across the sleeper cab window. He’d gotten a glimpse of her thin and haggard face from the interior dome light of the cab before it went out, and it wasn’t a face to write home about. But it would do, he thought. He slid the elastic cuff up over his wristwatch and checked the time. In about five minutes she’d be done. It rarely took longer than that. Truckers wanted blow jobs and not much conversation. Rarely did they want anything else that would take more time. Five minutes tops, and the lot lizards backed out, usually grasping stained and crumpled tissue.He hoped she had all her teeth but if she didn’t, he hoped she had none. He remembered that one in Utah after he’d knocked all her teeth out … There were more and more semis entering the truck stop by the minute, and more cars. They were pouring in. He couldn’t account for the sudden traffic, but the more chaos and confusion on the lot, the better for hunting.He sat back, trying to stay calm until she reached him.He visualized the dispatcher, that dried-up old crow, trying to track him by his Qualcomm and flipping out because she couldn’t locate him or his truck.His ears hummed with tension and he was so preoccupied he almost didn’t hear the rapping on his driver’s door. The sound jerked him out of his internal debate, and suddenly all was quiet and he was focused.He wondered how the hell she’d gotten there so fast. Had everyone else rejected her? Or was there a new one, a new lot lizard he hadn’t seen?He reached over and grasped the door handle and opened it a few inches. It was that damned Chamois and Muttonchop.He didn’t open his door more than two inches, so they couldn’t see inside.“Hey, buddy,” Chamois said, “We just heard I-90 West will likely be closed all night.”“Why?”“Big propane truck jackknifed a few miles past Laurel. The Montana State Patrol shut down both lanes.”That explained the sudden arrival of traffic, he thought.“No shit?” he said, angry they were there but assuming they’d interpret his curse being about the highway.“Yeah,” Chamois said, “We’re likely to be here all night. The Montana state boys are taking every precaution that jackknifed truck don’t blow up.”He looked down through the gap between the door and the frame. Muttonchop stood shoulder to shoulder with Chamois but he couldn’t see his face. The Lizard King wanted them to leave. Their presence might spook the lot lizard working her way to him. Or they might turn on her, the Bible-thumping bastards.“Well,” the Lizard King said, “thanks for letting me know. I may give it a try later, though. I’m not that far from home base and there are a few other routes I can take.”“Where’s home?” Chamois asked. “Livingston, Montana?”He was taken aback that they knew, but then realized they’d read it on his door.“Yeah.”“That ain’t that far.”“That’s what I’m sayin’.”“Well,” Chamois said, as if killing time for a reason the Lizard King couldn’t discern, “you’ll have to decide for yourself which road you take.”He said it in a way that caused the Lizard King to think it had nothing to do with the highway.“That I’ll do,” he answered, trying to keep his rage from overtaking him. These bastards were mocking him . “In fact, I’ll do whatever the hell I want and I don’t need any help or advice from you,” he said, slamming the door shut.As he watched them walk away toward their trucks in the front row, he saw Muttonchop playfully punch Chamois in the shoulder as if they were sharing a joke. He thought of shoving his gearshift into second and mowing them down.Then he saw her, the blond one. She was descending from the cab four trucks away. The lights inside came back on. And she was teetering toward him on her high heels.Everything was set up perfectly, but too many factors nagged at him. The closed road, for one. And all the attention the Bible-thumpers had paid him. One of the beauties of the road was its anonymity. The Bible-thumpers would likely be five states away by morning. Still, though, they’d seen his face. They knew his rig. If they were somehow found and questioned later … A voice in the back of his head squawked: Abort-abort-abort .But the closer she got, the more his entire body coursed with electricity and it seemed like his nerve endings were firing, shooting sparks. It had been so long, and he was ready to explode. He thought of that red-haired girl calling him a loser. Those Bible-thumpers mocking him. His perfect, perfect plan and preparation.He almost felt sorry for the lot lizard because she had no idea what kind of hell she was getting herself into. Copyright © 2013 by C. J. Box --This text refers to an alternate kindle_edition edition. Read more

Review A NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER “Almina was a woman of great charm and courage.” — New York Times Book Review “The more interesting and entertaining book is Lady Almina and the Real Downton Abbey: The Lost Legacy of Highclere Castle . Written by the castle's current countess, Lady Fiona Carnarvon, the Eighth Countess of Carnarvon and great-granddaughter-in-law of Lady Almina, the book is a fascinating look at the woman of the house who turned her castle into a hospital for wounded British soldiers returning from World War I. (It corresponds perfectly with this season's war story line on Downton Abbey .)” — USA Today “Gives the juicy backstory behind last year's Emmy-winning 'Masterpiece Theater' drama.” — New York Times “If you can’t wait for the new season of ‘Downton Abbey’...this one’s for you....a revealing portrait of the changing times.” — New York Post “[A] fascinating insight into how the seriously rich once lived.” — Newsweek Daily Beast “The present Lady Carnarvon, who tapped the family archives for her comprehensive research, dramatically captures the estate during the pre-war and war years, and paints a compelling...portrait of Lady Almina.” — Newark Star-Ledger About the Author FIONA , New York Times bestselling author and the 8th Countness of CARNARVON, married Geordie, the 8th Earl of Carnarvon, in 1999, and aceded to Highclere ten years ago upon the death of Geordie's father. Highclere has become one of the most famous houses in England as the location for the PBS series Downton Abbey. She is also the author of the companion piece, Lady Catherine, the Earl, and the Real Downton Abbey. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. PrologueThis is a book about an extraordinary woman called Almina Carnarvon, the family into which she married, the Castle that became her home, the people who worked there, and the transformation of the Castle when it became a hospital for wounded soldiers during the First World War.It is not a history, although it is set against the exuberance of the Edwardian period, the sombre gravity of the Great War and the early years of recovery after the conflict.It is neither a biography nor a work of fi ction, but places characters in historical settings, as identifi ed from letters, diaries, visitor books and household accounts written at the time.Almina Carnarvon was an enormously wealthy heiress, the illegitimate daughter of Alfred de Rothschild. She was contracted in marriage to the 5th Earl of Carnarvon, a key player in Edwardian society in Britain. His interests were many and eclectic. He loved books and travel and pursued every opportunity to explore the technologies that were transforming his age. Most famously he discovered the tomb of Tutankhamun with Howard Carter.Almina was an unbelievably generous woman in spirit and with her money. She was a guest at some of the greatest royal pageants, until—as it did for so many people—the First World War transformed her life, involving her in running hospitals instead of great house parties and showing her to be an adept nurse and skilled healer.Highclere Castle is still home to the Earls of Carnarvon. Via its television alter ego, Downton Abbey, it is known to millions of people as the setting for a drama that has thrilled viewers in more than a hundred countries around the world. Living here for the past twelve years, I have come to know the bones and stones of the Castle. My research has revealed some of the stories of the fascinating people who lived here, but there is so much more. My journey has just started.The Countess of Carnarvon Read more

The Mirror Looks Back

Review This collection is well worth a look from anyone who appreciates the art of poetry practiced at a high level. -- Writer's Digest 2001 Self Published Book Awards From the Publisher From a poetry judge at Writer's Digest...'This is an excellent collection of poetry written by ten women with superb poetic voices. The title reflects the introspective theme of the book and is set up well by the cover design, cover page and literary quotes, and supported by the fine quality of personal glimpses into these poets' lives. The reader is privileged to share the view in these reflections... it has been produced by poets who are obviously accomplished writers comfortable with their voices and willing to share their visions...a wonderful book.' Lynne Nelsen's touching poem 'The Quilted Schnauzer' is one that dog owners (and anyone who has ever loved a dog) will identify with. Her 'My September 11th Hero' is a remarkable poem about a special young man. And more... Peggy Goetz' vivid word pictures of "Svetla" and "Tio" will give you insight into worlds you've never known. Her poem "In the Attic Heart" will give you a chill. And more.... Mary Marsicano's never-to-be-forgotten poems 'Every Inch New Yorkers' and 'Conversation with the Towers' take the reader with her to Ground Zero, where she found herself on the morning of September 11th. 'A Grandmother's Mirror' speaks about the special joy that transcends generations. And more... Dolly Hawkin's poem 'Reunion,' describing unidentified relatives in an old family album is a reminder to all of us of the importance of identifying family treasures. 'Rim Thoughts' is a majestic nature poem. And more... Diane Belleville's creative word picture allows readers to imagine what it would be like if Edgar Allen Poe and Stephen King would be able to discuss the macabre together in 'Artists Time Travel Cafe.' 'Hope I Die Before I Get Old' will strike a note with anyone over thirty. And more... Bonnie Gary's vision of an Alaskan glacier, captured in her poem 'Arctic Blues' will put you on the ship beside her. 'Storm' shows another chilling facet of September 11. And more... Ann Malokas' collection of poetry includes a reflection on that first cup of coffee in the morning and a poem which reflects 'It's never long enough, the life of one we love.' And more... Judy Roney's touching family portraits include 'My Boy' and 'Jeni.' 'Tennessee Memories' is a remarkable piece which offers a fascinating closeup of growing up in Tennessee. And more... Diane Truswell's poem 'If We Hide Our Faces' asks a thought-provoking question which deserves an answer. You'll never think of beauty in exactly the same way once you've read 'Beautiful People.' And more.... Mary Kling's 'Puzzle' is a commentary on life and how pieces can be rearranged. 'Who Will Listen' reflects on the stories we all have inside. And more..... About the Author THE SKYWRITERS MIRROR REVEALS ... DIANE BELLEVILLE, a woman whose mirror experiences reflect the fun house mirrors. Some days she's fat, wrinkled, stressed, worried looking. Some days she's curvy, has laugh lines and crows feet and looks happy and content. BONNIE GARY, who sees the mirrors in her life form a vast prism reflecting a tapestry of diverse women; each one aiding in the journey. Her wish is that when the last prism is in place, and she sees the other side, she'll be able to say, 'Job Well Done.' PEGGY GOETZ, who sees the mirror as a lens looking at the world. She thinks that who we are is reflected in everything we see. DOLLY HAWKINS, who sees the structure of her poetry, and of the homes she designs, as quite similar, both being elemental and familiar. Her mirror reflects a life spent in introspection, while eating dark chocolates. MARY KLING, who smiles youthfully into the truth-mirror, is amazed to see a face etched with five decades of memories and dreams. The mirror penetrates and reveals all layers, reflects the obvious and the obscure. She winks and whirl-steps into the day. ANN MALOKAS, who has covered all of her mirrors in kicky plaids and paisleys. In a reckless search for inner beauty, she has succumbed to an attitude tuck and an outlook lift, ever on the prowl for good words and good works to keep spirit in fighting trim. MARY MARSICANO, who writes so that the reader might see that which is revealed when the mirror looks back. Primarily she writes because there are so many stories begging to be told. LYNNE NELSEN, who favors the mirrors of nature - reflections from a drop of dew, a small lake, eyes of a loved one, tears of a stranger - connecting her to the past and present like nothing else. JUDY RONEY, who sees: The past - a little girl, a mother, and a wife. The present - a courageous woman looking back at her now. The future - discovering possibilities as she looks forward to the next half century. DIANE TRUSWELL, who tends to see only the good in her mirror, though sometimes she is forced to confront camera images that do not flatter or lie. She longs for more mirrors than cameras in life. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. PHOENIX Poised for flight she takes to the air glides on currents updrafts bobs and weaves tries her wings discovers strings shes a kite not a bird far below he controls her. -- Diane Belleville AGELESS Old man sits by big oak tree lonely heartsick rejected dejected Little boy runs by stops short looks at old man curiously Little boy asks whats wrong Old man replies 'Nothing just old older than this tree' Little boy takes old mans hand trembling unsteady unsure cold Old man stands they walk the path to each others dreams -- Bonnie Gary PAINTED LADIES They flew in one day, the painted ladies, an animated bouquet thousands of hundreds of them twirling like autumn leaves in a silent storm plitting now softly against my window as I pulled over to the roadside. Stopped by a butterfly cloud. -- Peggy Goetz BOOMER Bald guy, gray suit, glasses waits patiently for the light in black 2001 Beetle, polished one tall silk sunflower in the vase painted plastic hula girl in green cellophane skirt on the dash sways to In a Gadda Da Vida  booming from surround sound stereo. In his mind, he's made it back there. Not even close. -- Dolly Hawkins CONVERSATION I ask a question you answer  happy to share your experience your thoughts your wisdom then your silence youve finished I reflect on your words question more you add detail elaborate I invite you to explain you answer smile silence again then you ask is there anything else  youd like to know? -- Mary Kling SIX Big bad men have stolen Mom, a child's nightmare come to life. Death took mom. Big bad men snatched thought of her. On September 11, 2001 big bad men buried fresh personal loss under broken lives, crushed futures. Big bad men took away my time to cry to remember. I can't see Moms face, can't hear her story, can't feel her presence. Big bad men have stolen Mom. The dark is shivery. -- Ann Malokas Excerpt from EVERY INCH NEW YORKERS I will remember them as I last saw them at sunset from the bow of the Staten Island Ferry I will remember them as the magnificent symbols of freedom dreams of a free world blazing columns of copper and bronze reminding me of what is possible why I came to New York why I stay in New York All my dreams rising as they rise  standing tall standing proud.  Every Inch New Yorkers -- Mary Marsicano, September 11, 2001 Excerpt from EVENING SYMPHONY Luna marks time, while she grants autonomy to her symphony. With a hoot and a blink, the owl swoops  for his supper. Luna nods to the evensong finale as mist whispers across her face.  My soaring spirit basks in her afterglow -- Lynne Nelsen Excerpt from AUTUMN'S QUILT The morning sun exposes A patchwork of splattered paint Brown, yellow, red, and orange Blanketing the mountain range Gray rocks, mountain laurel, and Boulders secure the boundaries Of this colorful patchwork quilt This model of fall grandeur The ball begins  A kaleidoscope of changing colors Shadows and light slow dance across  Ridges as the sun creeps west -- Judy Roney GREAT EGRET graceful catatonic capturer in mirrored marsh statue still serene stalker silent startles swift assault stab  indifferent precision stab stab stab gores beyond lifeless stabs again triumphantly gulps prey a single swallow -- Diane Truswell Read more


The Shadows Between Us

From School Library Journal Gr 9 Up—Lady Alessandra Stathos aims to woo the Shadow King, marry him, and then kill him to take the kingdom for herself. Alessandra is no stranger to murder—in the opening of the book she admits to killing her first love after he rejects her—and shows no remorse for what she has done. She has all the details thought out regarding how she can gain the king's attention, make him fall in love with her, and carry out her plan. However, she does not anticipate enjoying the king's company, helping protect him from assassination attempts, or having to work around the shadows and rules that surround him. Alessandra is hardly likable—she is cunning and deceitful, and she loves to toy with others—yet readers will root for her. The ending ties up a bit too quickly and predictably, but this is a satisfying and engaging tale. VERDICT Hand this fantasy to readers who want a fun read with villains as the stars.—Megan Huenemann, Norris High School, Firth, NE Review " The Shadows Between Us is my favorite kind of fantasy: dark, mesmerizing, and completely addictive. With a gripping mystery and layered characters, it's a glittering tale of love and the pursuit of power. Put simply: it's the Slytherin romance we've all been waiting for." ―Kerri Maniscalco, #1 New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Stalking Jack the Ripper “Tricia Levenseller’s latest, The Shadows Between Us, is a decadent and wickedly addictive fantasy, full of schemes and court intrigue, and delightful descriptions of food, which I am always a fan of.” ―Kendare Blake, #1 New York Times–bestselling author of the Three Dark Crowns series“A wickedly fun romp with corsets and jeweled daggers, Levenseller drops us into a competitive royal court, led there by Alessandra, an unapologetically ruthless and self-confident courtier who aims to overthrow the Shadow King and become queen. The king’s mysterious abilities and dark secrets complicate her passion to rule, all building to a sizzling, unbidden romance. The Shadows Between Us will heat up the page―and your heart.” ―Emily R. King, author of The Hundredth Queen series"A viciously satisfying romance featuring two well-matched opponents." ― Booklist Praise for Tricia Levenseller: "One of my favourite YA books ever. The action! The world-building! The voice! This book kicks so much ass." -- Cale Dietrich, author of The Love Interest, on Warrior of the Wild "Rasmira's quest is thrilling, her emotional journey compelling; this adventure sings." -- Booklist on Warrior of the Wild "This high-octane novel is filled with mythical creatures and showcases a heroine who wants to be a warrior, a woman, and a leader." -- School Library Journal, on Warrior of the Wild "The real gratification lies in Rasmira’s transformation from broken, betrayed, girl to resourceful, confident victor. Her final clash with the god is heart pounding, and her triumph in front of her village and father is satisfyingly righteous." -- The Bulletin for the Center for Children's Books, on Warrior of the Wild "Levenseller has created a formidable female character who can take care of herself as she makes some hard decisions.” ― School Library Journal on Daughter of a Pirate King “[Levenseller’s] words will pull you in, and there's no escaping them." ―Charlie N. Holmberg, author of The Paper Magician Series, on Daughter of the Siren Queen “With a cunning plot, robust writing, and complicated characters, any reader will enjoy being manipulated in Levenseller's capable hands.” ―Anna Banks, author of the New York Times Bestseller Of Triton, on Daughter of the Pirate King About the Author Tricia Levenseller , New York Times -bestselling author of several YA fantasy novels, including Daughter of the Pirate King and The Shadows Between Us, grew up in Oregon, where she spent her childhood climbing trees and playing make believe. She now lives in Utah with her bossy dog, Rosy, where she writes full time. When she’s not writing or reading, Tricia enjoys putting together jigsaw puzzles, playing Overwatch and Sea of Thieves on her Xbox, and finding tasty restaurants to frequent. Read more

A Walk with Cooper (Cooper Book)

Review Reviewed by Emily-Jane Hills Orford for Readers' Favorite ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐Through the eyes of a dog, life is full of simple pleasures: ...Debbie Gonzalez's picture book story, A Walk With Cooper, is a charming story that will appeal to young readers as they snuggle up next to their favorite person, be it Mommy, Daddy, Grandma or Grandpa. With its bright and cheery illustrations and simple language, this book makes a great learning-to-read, early reader...Full review on readersfavorite.com About the Author Debbie Gonzalez is the proud mama of Cooper. After years of service to families in crisis, Debbie finds happiness being in the moment. Time spent with Cooper and her husband inspire her to share comfort with others. They reside in the Greater NYC area.Kate Fallahee has always had a strong passion for drawing. She currently works as a freelance graphic designer and illustrator. Kate loves bringing her illustrations to life through use of color, expression, and movement.

Winterwood

Review Kirkus Reviews "Falls Biggest YA Books of 2019" B&N Teen Blog "Most Anticipated Fantasy YA of 2019" B&N Teen Blog "10 of the Biggest Fall Fantasies" B&N Teen Blog "Our Most Anticipated Sophomore Novels of 2019" B&N Teen Blog "Our Most Anticipated Sophomore Novels of 2019" "A delectably immersive, eerie experience." -- Kirkus "A spellbinding tale of witchery, deadly secrets, and woods that hold grudges. Winterwood is immersive, atmospheric, and bewitching. -- Stephanie Garber , #1 New York Times & international bestselling author ofthe Caraval series . " Winterwood casts a deliciously dark spell with a rich lineage of witches, secretive boys, and a sinister forest that will pull in any reader and never let them go." -- Megan Shepherd, New York Times bestselling author of Grim Lovelies " Winterwood casts a deliciously dark spell with a rich lineage of witches, secretive boys, and a sinister forest that will pull in any reader and never let them go." -- Megan Shepherd, New York Times bestselling author of Grim Lovelies “Shea Ernshaw spins yet another haunting tale in Winterwood . Mythic prose and atmospheric storytelling will leave readers spellbound and hungry for more of Ernshaw‘s witchy worlds." --Adrienne Young, New York Time s bestselling author of Sky in the Deep . “The beauty and mystery of the natural world infuse every moment in this lush, spellbinding story that weaves romance with witchcraf t —a seductive , lyrical tale of lost boys, old legends and haunted woods.” –Lexa Hillyer, author of Spindle Fire "Lyrical , magical and mysterious, Winterwood left me intoxicated, dancing beneath an endless moon." -- Dawn Kurtagich, author of Teeth in the Mist "Ernshaw weaves an irresistible spell, entwining nature, romance, and magic through a lyrical text." -- Booklist "A vivid fantasy world and a dark, thrilling atmosphere that drives the biting cold of Winterwood deep into readers’ bones." --Publishers Weekly "A dynamic thriller for fans of paranormal fiction." -- SLJ About the Author Shea Ernshaw is the author of A History of Wild Places , the New York Times bestseller The Wicked Deep , Winterwood , and A Wilderness of Stars . She is the winner of the 2019 Oregon Book Award. She lives in a small mountain town in Oregon and is happiest when lost in a good book, lost in the woods, or writing her next novel. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter 1: Nora NORA  N ever waste a full moon, Nora, even in winter , my grandmother used to say. We’d wander up the Black River under a midnight sky, following the constellations above us like a map I could trace with my fingertips—imprints of stardust on my skin. She would hum a melody from deep within her belly, gliding sure-footed across the frozen river to the other side. Can you hear it? she’d ask. The moon is whispering your secrets. It knows your darkest thoughts. My grandmother was like that—strange and beautiful, with stories resting just behind her eyelids. Stories about moonlight and riddles and catastrophes. Dreadful tales. But bright, cheery ones too. Walking beside her, I mirrored each step she took into the wilderness, in awe of how swiftly she avoided stinging nettles and poison buckthorns. How her hands traced the bark of every tree we passed, knowing its age just by touch. She was a wonder—her chin always tilted to the sky, craving the anemic glow of moonlight against her olive skin, a storm always brewing along her edges. But tonight, I walk without her, chasing that same moon up the same dark, frozen river—hunting for lost things inside the cold, mournful forest. Tree limbs sag and drip overhead. An owl hoots from a nearby spruce. And Fin and I slog deeper into the mountains, his wolf tail slashing above him, nose to the air, tracking some unknown scent to the far side of the riverbank. Two weeks have passed since the storm blew over Jackjaw Lake. Two weeks since the snow fell and blocked the only road out of the mountains. Two weeks since the electricity popped and died. And two weeks since a boy from the camp across the lake went missing. A boy whose name I don’t even know. A boy who ran away or got lost or simply vanished like the low morning fog that rises up from the lake during autumn rainstorms. Who crept from his bunk inside one of the camp cabins and never returned. A victim of the winter cold. Of madness or desperation. Of these mountains that have a way of getting inside your head—playing tricks on those who dare to walk among the pines long after the sun has set. These woods are wild and rugged and unkind. They cannot be trusted. Yet, this is where I walk: deep into the mountains. Where no others dare to go. Because I am more darkness than girl. More winter shadows than August sunlight. We are the daughters of the wood , my grandmother would whisper. So I push farther up the shore of the Black River, following the map made by the stars, just like she taught me. Just like all Walkers before me. Until I reach the place . The place where the line of trees breaks open to my right, where two steep ridges come together to form a narrow passage into a strange, dark forest to the east—a forest that is much older than the pines along the Black River. Trees that are bound in and closed off and separate from the rest. The Wicker Woods. A mound of rocks stands guard ahead of me: flat stones pulled up from the riverbed and stacked four feet high beside the entrance to the wood. It’s a warning. A sign to turn back. Only the foolish enter here. Miners who panned for gold along the riverbank built the cairn to steer away those who would come later, those who might wander into this swath of land, unaware of the cruel dark that awaited them. The rocks that mark the entrance have never toppled, never collapsed under the weight of snow or rain or autumn winds. This is the border. Only enter under a full moon , Grandma cautioned, eyes like watery pools dewing at the edges. Inside this hallowed wood, I will find lost items, but only beneath a full moon—when the forest sleeps, when the pale glow of moonlight lulls it into slumber—can I slip through unnoticed. Unharmed. A sleeping forest will allow safe passage. But if it wakes, be prepared to run. Each month, when the swollen moon rises in the sky, I enter the Wicker Woods in search of lost things hidden among the greening branches and tucked at the base of trees. Lost sunglasses, rubber flip-flops, cheap plastic earrings in the shape of watermelons and unicorns and crescent moons. Toe rings and promise rings given to girls by lovesick boys. The things that are lost at Jackjaw Lake in summers past are once again found in the woods. Appearing as if the forest is giving them back. But sometimes, under a particularly lucky full moon, I find items much older—long forgotten things, whose owners fled these mountains a century ago. Silver lockets and silver buttons and silver sewing notions. Toothbrushes made of bone, medicine bottles with labels long since worn away, cowboy boots and tin cans once filled with powdered milk and black coffee grounds. Watch fobs and doorknobs. And from time to time, I even find gold itself: crude coins hammered into a disc, gold nuggets tangled in moss, flakes that catch in my hair. Lost things found. By magic or maleficence, these things appear in the woods. Returned. Fin sniffs the air, hesitant. And I draw in a breath, spinning the thin gold ring around my index finger. A habit. A way to summon the courage of my grandmother, who gave me the ring the night she died. “I am Nora Walker,” I whisper. Let the forest know your name. It had seemed stupid once—to speak aloud to the trees. But after you step into the dark and feel the cold pass through you—the trees swallowing all memory of light—you’ll tell the Wicker Woods all manner of secrets. Stories you’ve kept hidden inside the cage of your chest. Anything to lull the forest—to keep it in slumber. I pinch my eyes closed and step over the threshold, through the line of tall soldier trees standing guard, into the dark of the forest. Into the Wicker Woods. Nothing good lives here. The air is cold and damp, and the dark makes it hard to see anything beyond your toes. But it always feels this way—each time colder and darker than the last. I breathe slowly and move forward, stepping carefully, deliberately, over fallen logs and dewdrop flowers frozen in place. In winter, these woods feel like a fairy tale suspended in time—the princess forgotten, the hero eaten whole by a noble fir goblin. The story ended, but no one remembered to burn the haunted forest to the ground. I duck beneath an archway of thorny twigs and dead cypress vines. Keeping my gaze at my feet, I’m careful to never linger long on a single shadow, a thing skittering just beyond my vision—my mind will only make it worse. Twist it into something with horns and fangs and copper eyes. The dead stir inside this ancient wood. They claw their fingernails along the bark of hemlock trees, they wail up through the limbs, searching for the moonlight—for any sliver of the sky. But there is no light in this place. The Wicker Woods are where old, vengeful things lurk—things much older than time itself. Things you don’t want to meet in the dark. Get in. Get the hell out. Fin follows close at my heels, no longer leading the way—so close his footsteps match mine. Human shadow. Dog shadow. I am a Walker , I remind myself when the thorn of fear begins to wedge itself along my spine, twisting between flesh and bone, prodding me to run. I belong in these trees. Even if I’m not as formidable as my grandmother or as fearless as my mom, the same blood swells through my veins. Black as tar. The blood that gives all Walkers our nightshade, our “shadow side.” The part of us that is different—odd, uncommon. Grandma could slip into other people’s dreams, and Mom can lull wild honeybees into sleep. But on nights like this, venturing into the cruelest part of the forest, I often feel terrifyingly ordinary and I wonder if the trees can sense it too: I am a girl barely able to call herself descended from witches. Barely able to call myself a Walker. Yet, I press forward, squinting through the dark and scanning the exposed roots poking up through the snow, searching for hidden things wedged among the lichen and rocks. Something shiny or sharp-cornered or rusted with time. Something man-made—something that’s value is measured by weight. We pass over a dried creek bed, and the wind changes direction from east to north. The temperature dips. An owl cries in the distance, and Fin stops beside me—nose twitching in the air. I touch his head gently, feeling the quick pace of his breathing. He senses something. I pause and listen for the snapping of branches underfoot, for the sounds of a wolf stalking through the trees, watching us. Hunting. But a moth skims past my shoulder—white wings beating against the cold, flitting toward a sad, spiny-looking hemlock tree, leaving imprints of dust wherever it lands. It looks as if it’s just come through a storm, wings torn at the edges. Shredded. A moth who’s faced death. Who’s seen it up close. My heartbeat sinks into my toes and my eyelashes twitch, certain I’m not seeing it right. Just another trick of the woods. But I know what it is—I’ve seen sketches of them before. I’ve even seen one pressed against the window while my grandmother coughed from her room down the hall, hands clasping the bedsheets. Blood in her throat. A bone moth. The worst kind. The bringer of portents and warnings, of omens that should never be ignored. Of death. My fingers again touch the gold moonstone ring weighted heavy on my finger. Every part of me that had felt brave, had felt the courage of my grandmother pulsing through me, vanishes. I squeeze my eyes closed, then open them again, but the moth is still there. Zigzagging among the trees. “We shouldn’t be here,” I whisper to Fin. We need to run. I release my hand from Fin’s head, and my heart scrapes against my ribs. I glance over my shoulder, down the narrow path we followed in. Run, run, run! my heart screams. I take a careful step back, away from the moth, not wanting to make a sound. But the moth circles overhead, bobbing quickly out over the trees—called forth by something. Back into the dark. Relief settles through me—my heart sinking back into my chest—but then Fin breaks away from my side. He darts around a dead tree stump and into the brush, chasing after the moth. “No!” I shout— too loud , my voice echoing over the layer of snow and bouncing through the treetops. But Fin doesn’t stop. He tears around a cluster of spiny aspens and vanishes into the dark. Gone. Shit, shit, shit. If it were anything else, a different kind of moth, or another wolf he will chase deep into the snowy mountains only to return home in a day or two, I’d let him go. But a bone moth means something else—something cruel and wicked and bad—so I run after him. I sprint around the clot of trees and follow him into the deepest part of the forest, past elms that grow at odd angles, down steep, jagged terrain I don’t recognize—where my boots slip beneath me, where my hands press against tree trunks to propel me forward, and where each footstep sounds like thunder against the frozen ground. I’m making too much noise. Too loud. The woods will wake. But I don’t slow down; I don’t stop. I lose sight of him beyond two fallen trees, and little stabs of pain cut through me. “Fin, please!” I call in a near hush, trying to keep my voice low while the sting of tears presses against my eyes, blurring my vision. Panic leaps into my throat and I want to scream, shout Fin’s name louder, but I bite back the urge. No matter what, I can’t wake the woods, or neither Fin nor I will make it out of here. And then I see him: tail wagging, stopped a few yards away between a grove of hemlocks. My heart presses against my ribs. He’s led us farther into the Wicker Woods than I’ve ever been before. And the moth—frayed body, white wings with holes torn along the edges—flutters among the falling snowflakes, slow and mercurial, as if it were in no great hurry. It moves upward toward the sky, a speck of white among the black canopy of trees, and then vanishes into the dark forest to the north. I step carefully toward Fin and touch his ear to keep him from running after it again. But he bares his teeth, growling. “Shhh,” I say softly. His ears shift forward, his breathing quick as he sucks in bursts of air, and a low guttural growl rises up from deep within his chest. Something’s out there. A beast or shadow with hooked claws and grim pinhole eyes. A thing the forest keeps, a thing it hides—something I don’t want to see. My fingers twitch, and dread rises up at the base of my throat. It tastes like ash. I hate this feeling building inside me. This awful fear. I am a Walker. I am the thing whispered about, the thing that conjures goose bumps and nightmares. I swallow and stiffen my jaw into place, taking a step forward. The moth led us here. To something just beyond my vision. I scan the dark, looking for eyes—something blinking out from the trees. But there’s nothing. I shake my head and let out a breath, about to turn back to Fin, when my left foot thuds against something on the ground. Something hard. I squint down at my feet, trying to focus in the dark. A mound of snow. A coat sleeve, I think. The tip of a boot. A thing that doesn’t belong. And then I see. See. Hands. There, lying beneath a dusting of snowfall, in the middle of the Wicker Woods, is a body. Snowflakes have gathered on stiff eyelashes. Eyes shuttered closed like two crescent moons. Pale lips parted open, waiting for the crows. Even the air between the trees has gone still, a tomb, as if the body is an offering that shouldn’t be disturbed. I blink down at the corpse and a second passes, followed by another, my heart clawing silently upward into my windpipe. But no sound escapes my lips, no cry for help. I stare in stupefied inaction. My mind slows, my ears buzz—an odd crackle crack crack, as if a radio were pressed to my skull. I inch closer and the trees quiver overhead. For a second I wonder if the entire forest might snap at the roots and upend itself—trunks to the sky and treetops to the ground. I’ve seen dead birds in the woods before, even a dead deer with the antlers still attached to the hollowed-out skull. But never anything like this. Never a human body. Fin makes a low whine behind me. But I don’t look back. I don’t take my eyes off the corpse, like it might vanish if I look away. I swallow and crouch down, my knees pressing into the snow. Eyes watering from the cold. But I need to know. Is it him? The boy who went missing from the camp? His face is covered by a dusting of snow, dark hair frozen in place. There are no injuries that I can see. No trauma, no blood. And he hasn’t been here long, or he wouldn’t be here at all. The dead don’t last in the mountains, especially in winter. Birds pick apart what they can before the wolves close in, scattering the bones across miles of terrain, leaving barely an imprint of what once had been. The forest is efficient at death, a swift wiping away. No remains to bury or burn or mourn. A soft wind stirs through the trees, blowing away the snow from his forehead, his cheekbones, his pale lips. And the hairs along the base of my neck prick on end. I lift my hand from the snow, my fingers hovering over his open palm, trembling, curious. I shouldn’t touch him —but I lower my hand anyway. I want to feel the icy skin, the heaviness of death in his limbs. My skin meets his. But his hand isn’t rigid or still. It twitches against my fingertips. Not dead. Still alive. The boy’s eyes flinch open—forest green, gray green, alive-green. He coughs at the same moment his fingers close around mine, gripping tightly. I scream—a strangled sound, swallowed by the trees—but Fin immediately springs up next to me, tail raised, nose absorbing the boy’s newly alive scent. I yank my arm away and try to stand, to scramble back, but my legs stumble beneath me and I fall backward onto the snow. Run! my spiking heartbeat yells. But before I can push myself up, the boy is rolling onto his side, coughing again, touching his face with his hands. Trying to breathe. Alive. Not dead. Gasping for air, warm skin, grabbing my hand, kind-of-alive. My throat goes dry and my eyes refuse to blink. I’m certain he’s not real. But he draws in deep, measured breaths between each cough, as if his lungs were full of water. I sling my backpack off one shoulder and reach inside for the canteen of hot juniper tea. It will save your life if you ever get lost , my grandmother would say. You can live off juniper tea for weeks. I hold the canteen out to him, and he lowers his hand from his face, his eyes meeting mine. Dark sleepy eyes, deep heavy inhales making his chest rise and fall as if it’s never known air before this moment. He doesn’t take the canteen, and I lean forward, drawing in a breath. “What’s your name?” I ask, my voice broken. His gaze roves the ground, then moves up to the sky, like he’s searching for the answer—his name lost somewhere in the woods. Taken from him. Snatched while he slept. His eyes settle back on me. “Oliver Huntsman.” “Are you from the boys’ camp?” An icy wind sails over us, kicking up a layer of snow. His mouth opens, searching for the words, and then he nods. I found him. The Jackjaw Camp for Wayward Boys is not an elite facility, not a place where the wealthy send their sons. It’s a meager collection of cabins, a mess hall, and several neglected administration buildings—most of which were once the homes of early miners who panned the Black River for gold. Now it’s a place where desperate parents send their headstrong boys to have their minds and hearts reshaped, to turn them into docile, obedient sons. The worst come here, the ones who have used up their last chances, their last I’m sorry s, their last detentions or visits to the principal’s office. They come and they go. Each season a new batch—except for the few who spend their entire high school years at the camp. They learn how to survive in the woods, to make fire from flint, to sleep in the cold under the stars, to behave. Two weeks earlier, the morning after the snowstorm had rolled down from the mountains, I woke to find my house draped in snow. Ice coated the windows, the roof moaned from the weight, and the walls bowed inward as if nails were being pushed free from the wood. The radio had said we’d get twelve to eighteen inches of snow. We got nearly four feet—in a single night. I crawled from bed, the cold leeching up from the floorboards, and went outside into the snow. The landscape had changed overnight. I walked down to the lake’s edge and found the forest dripping in white marshmallow fluff. But it wasn’t quiet and still like most winter mornings. Voices echoed across the frozen lake, coming from the boys’ camp. They shouted up into the trees. They stomped around in their heavy snow boots and sent birds screeching unhappily into the bleak morning sky. “Morning!” Old Floyd Perkins called, waving a hand in the air as he trudged up the shore, head bowed away from the blowing wind, shoulders bent and stooped with time and age and gravity. When he reached me, he squinted as if he couldn’t see me clearly—cataracts clouding his already failing vision. “A bad winter,” he said, tilting his gaze upward, soft flakes falling over us. “But not as bad as some.” Mr. Perkins has lived at Jackjaw Lake most of his life. He knew my grandmother when she was still alive, and he lives at the far south end of the lake in a small cabin beside the boathouse store that he runs during the summer months—renting out canoes and paddleboats and selling ice cream sandwiches to the tourists under the hot, wavy sun. And every morning, he walks the shore of the lake, his gait slow and labored, long arms swinging at his sides, arthritis creaking in his joints. Even in the snow, he makes his morning rounds. “What’s happening over at the camp?” I asked. “A boy went missing last night.” He rubbed a knuckled hand across the back of his neck, gray hair poking out from his wool cap. “Vanished from his bunk during the storm.” I looked past him up the shore to the camp. A few boys were shoveling snow away from their cabin doorways, while most of the others moved up into the forest, calling out a name I couldn’t make out. “Talked to one of the counselors,” Mr. Perkins continued, nodding grimly, considering the gravity of the situation. “Boy might’ve just run away, made it down the mountain before the snow fell last night.” The wind roiled up from the surface of the frozen lake, and it made me shiver. “But they’re looking for him up in the woods.” I crossed my arms over my chest and nodded to the trees beyond the camp. “They have to be sure he didn’t get lost, I suppose.” He raised one thick gray eyebrow, his gaze solemn. “But if that boy went up into those woods last night, there’s a good chance he won’t make it back out. And they’ll never find him.” I understood what he meant. The snow was deep it continued to fall—any tracks would be long buried by now. And the boy himself might be buried as well. Even Fin would have a hard time tracking his scent in this. “I hope he did run away,” I said. “I hope he made it down the road.” Because I knew the outcome if he hadn’t. Even though the boys at camp learn wilderness skills and how to build snow shelters in tree wells, I doubted any of them could really survive a night out in the cold. During a blizzard. On their own. The lake creaked and snapped along the shore as the ice settled. And Mr. Perkins asked, “You lose power last night?” He glanced behind me up into the trees, where my home sat hidden in the pines. I nodded. “You?” “Yep,” he answered, then cleared his throat. “It’s going to be a while before that road clears. Before the power’s back on again.” He looked back at me, and the soft squint of his eyes and the wrinkles lining his brow made me think of my grandmother. “We’re on our own,” he said finally. The only road down the mountain was blocked. And the nearest town of Fir Haven—a forty-five-minute drive—was too far away to walk. We were stuck. Mr. Perkins tipped his head at me, a grave gesture, a certainty that this was going to be another tough winter, before continuing up the edge of the lake toward the marina. Toward the boathouse and his home. I stood listening to the shouts of boys fanning out into the trees, the sky growing dark again, another storm settling over the lake. I knew how ruthless the forest could be, how unforgiving. If a boy was lost out there, he likely wouldn’t survive the night. It’s still dark—the deepest kind of dark. Winter dark. The boy, Oliver Huntsman, follows me through the trees, stumbling over roots, coughing—gasping for air. He might not make it out of the Wicker Woods; he might drop dead in the snow behind me. He stops to lean against a tree, his body trembling, and I walk back to his side and wrap an arm around him. He is taller than I am and broad in the shoulders, but together we continue through the dark. He smells like the forest, like green. And when we reach the border of the Wicker Woods, we step over the threshold and back out into the open. I release my hold on him, and he bends forward, gripping his knees and gasping for air. His lungs make a strange rasp sound with each breath. He’s spent too many nights alone out here, in the forest, in the cold. Where the creeping, crawling sounds of unknowable things rest just out of sight, and fear becomes a voice in the back of his mind—nagging and threading along sleepless thoughts. A person can go mad in these trees. Hatter mad. Beside us, the sound of rushing water beneath the frozen surface of the Black River is both palliative and eerie. Oliver glances up at the night sky, his expression slack, in awe, as if he hasn’t seen the stars in weeks. “We need to keep moving,” I say. His body shakes, skin pale and muted. I need to get him inside, out of this snow and wind. Or the cold could still kill him. I fold my arm around him again, hand against his ribs where I can feel the rise and fall of each breath, and we march downriver until Jackjaw Lake yawns open ahead of us—frozen solid out to its center. “Where are we?” he asks, his voice thin, a crisp edge to each word. “We’re almost to my house,” I tell him. And then because I think maybe he means something more—his memory blotted over—I add, “We’re back at Jackjaw Lake.” He doesn’t nod and his eyes don’t shimmer with recognition. He has no memory of this place, no idea where he is. “My house is close,” I add. “I’ll take you back to camp in the morning. Right now, we just need to get you warm.” I’m not sure he’d make it another mile around the lake to the boys’ camp. And the nearest hospital is an hour down a road that’s snowed in. I have no other option but to take him home. His hands tremble, his eyes skipping warily through the trees—as if he sees something in the dark. A trick of shadow and moonlight. But the woods surrounding Jackjaw Lake are safe and docile, not nearly as ancient as the Wicker Woods where I found him. These trees are young, harvested over the years for lumber, and the pines that loom over my home were saplings not long ago—still soft and green at their core. They have limbs that sway with the wind instead of moan and crack; they aren’t old enough to hold grudges or memories. To grow hexes at their roots. Not like inside the Wicker Woods. We reach the row of log cabins that dot the shore, and Fin trots ahead through the snow. “My house is just there,” I say, nodding up through the trees. Most of the cabins along the shore are summer homes, owned by people who only visit Jackjaw Lake when the weather warms and the lake thaws. But Mom and I have always been year-rounders, just like our ancestors before us. We remain at the lake through all the seasons, even the brutal ones— especially the brutal ones. Mom dislikes the tourists who come in summer, with their thumping music and fishing poles and beach towels. It grates on her. But the quiet of winter pacifies her—calms her racing, fidgety mind. Our house is at the end of the row, closest to the mountains and the wilds of the forest beyond—tucked back in the woods. Hidden. And tonight, it sits dark, no lights humming inside, no sputtering of electricity through the walls—the power still out since the storm. I stomp the snow from my boots and push open the heavy log door, letting the cold air rush inside. Fin brushes past my legs into the living room, where he plops down on the rug beside the stove and begins chewing the snow from his paws. I drop my pack onto the faded olive-green sofa, its cushions sagging and slumped as if it were sinking into the wood floor. “I’ll start a fire,” I say to Oliver, who still stands shivering in the entryway. Looking like a boy who’s near death. Whose eyes have the hollow stare of someone who can already see the other side, only inches away. My grandmother would know the right herbs, the right words to whisper against his skin to warm the chill deep in his bones. To keep him rooted to this world before he slips into the next. But she’s not here, and I only know the tiniest of remedies, the barest of spells. Not enough to conjure real magic. I clench my jaw, feeling an old familiar ache: the burden of uselessness I carry inside my chest. I can’t help him, and I wish I could. I am a Walker whose grandmother died too soon and whose mother would rather forget what we really are. I am as helpless as a girl by any other name. I stoke the few embers that still glow among the ash, coaxing the fire back to life inside the old stove, while Oliver’s jade-green eyes sweep slowly over the house: the log walls, the rotted wood beams that sag overhead, the faded floral curtains that have the rich scent of sage that’s been burned thousands of times within the house to clear out the old stubborn spirits. But Oliver’s eyes aren’t caught on the curtains or the thick walls. Instead, they flicker over the odd collection of items crowding every shelf and cobwebbed corner of the aged house. Old pocket watches and wire-rimmed glasses, hundreds of silver buttons in glass jars, delicately carved silver spoons, and silver candlesticks with wax still hardened at the base. An ornate gold-rimmed jewelry box with only dust kept safely inside. All the things that we’ve found inside the Wicker Woods over the years, the things we didn’t sell down in Fir Haven to a man named Leon who owns a rare antique shop. These are the things that mean something—that I can’t part with. The ones that hide memories inside them, the stories they tell when you hold them in your palm. Just like most of the Walker women before me, I am a finder of lost things. And standing in the entryway is a boy named Oliver Huntsman. My latest found item. Read more

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Review "Lyrical prose ... and an evocative atmosphere elevate Young’s tale of war, identity, and fate." - Publishers Weekly "Young’s lyrical writing and lush descriptions make this world of fjords and forest come alive." - Culturess"A fast-paced and fierce atmospheric story with a heavy dose of fate and a light touch of romance." - Young Adult Book Central"Gripping and exquisitely written. The Girl the Sea Gave Back tore at my heart strings until I was completely unraveled. Readers will fall in love with this story, whether they are fans of Sky in the Deep or new to Adrienne Young's breathtaking world." - Stephanie Garber, New York Times bestselling author of Caraval "Eerie and beautiful, The Girl the Sea Gave Back is set in a world so vivid, you can almost touch it. I devoured this story of a lonely, powerful young woman with the ability to change the fate of her world, and the brave young chieftain who must stop her at all costs." - Kristen Ciccarelli, bestselling author of The Last Namsara "Ignore this omen at your own peril--you will love this book! Perfect for fans of The Last Kingdom, it really immersed me in the Viking world that felt so mystical, complex, and fully formed. From the moment we first meet them, Tova and Halvard unravel the complicated threads of family, fate, and destiny." - A. C. Gaughen, author of Reign the Earth About the Author Adrienne Young is a foodie with a deep love of history and travel and a shameless addiction to coffee. When she’s not writing, you can find her on her yoga mat, sipping wine over long dinners or disappearing into her favorite art museums. She lives with her documentary filmmaker husband and their four little wildlings in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. She is the author of the New York Times bestselling Sky in the Deep duology and the World of the Narrows series.

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