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By Heather Mackey

Lucy Darrington has no selection yet to run clear of boarding college. Her father, a professional at the supernatural, has been away for too lengthy whereas doing learn in Saarthe, a distant territory within the Pacific Northwest populated through towering redwoods, bushes barons, and the Lupine humans. yet upon arriving, she learns her father is lacking: Rumor has it he’s long past looking for dreamwood, an extraordinary tree with magical houses that simply may carry the medication for the blight that’s ravaging the forests of Saarthe.

Determined to discover her father (and most likely retailer Saarthe), Lucy and her vexingly obdurate pal Pete stick to William Darrington’s path to the lethal woods on Devil’s Thumb. As they stumble upon Lupine princesses, gigantic sea serpents, and all demeanour of terrifying creatures, Lucy hasn’t reckoned that the dreamwood itself may be the best chance of all.

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Gordon puffed out his chest, as though wanting a bulwark opposed to her questions. “How lengthy has he been away? ” Lucy requested. She checked out capable Dodd, who used to be status immobile within the darkness, his mouth a grim arch of disapproval. Dot’s huge eyes blinked swiftly. “Perhaps 3 weeks. possibly extra. ” see you later? Lucy regarded from Gordon to Dot with a unexpected feeling that she couldn't get adequate air. “And while did you predict him again? ” “Well, that’s what makes this so, erm, awkward,” Gordon stated, and Lucy learned that the poor expression on his face was once pity. “He didn’t say he used to be coming again. ” • • • Lucy sat at the lumpy bed within the tiny third-story bed room, full of three-legged chairs, a set of moth-eaten taxidermy, chipped crockery—and now, her. A half-full teacup sat precariously close to the sting of the mattress, sloshing while she introduced her boots as much as sit down cross-legged. Already a great deal of vulnerable tea had splashed out of the saucer and onto the grotesque, itchy blanket. prior, Dot had cited the tea and some items of cake, and Lucy have been too depressing to mumble various phrases of thank you. yet now, wiping crumbs of spice cake from her mouth, Lucy discovered she had to make preparations. She couldn’t remain right here, during this stuffy room, with its sloping ground, peeling wallpaper, and spare furnishings draped in dirt cloths. She had already obvious the room her father had rented: a little better, both miserable. yet only a few of his own goods remained. He’d left in the back of the notebooks Dot had complained approximately (full of numbers and random notes in her father’s cramped script—Lucy had flipped via them quickly), a couple of slippers, and the outdated plaid blouse she was once donning now. it sounds as if he’d offered or given away every little thing else. She had to move into city, she needed to make an research, get humans concerned. may still she visit the police? No . . . now not but. yet a guy couldn’t easily disappear. Lucy drank the remainder of her tea and together with her skirt blotted dry a number of the drops she’d scattered over the bedspread. at the pillow, staring at at her blankly, was once a chipped and ragged doll, too silly to grasp it were deserted. She picked the horrid factor up and shoved it into the depths of a dismal armoire that hulked opposed to the wall. Then she went downstairs looking for Gordon or Dot. Or (she was hoping it wouldn’t come to this) capable Dodd. The stairway was once steep and darkish. A grandfather clock the scale of a coffin used to be on the backside. Lucy stepped quietly down the corridor. there has been mild coming from the room on her left, and he or she opened the door onto a high-ceilinged parlor. A boy sat in a single of the dainty chairs, whittling, his toes up on a desk. A pile of wooden shavings had fallen at the floor round him. He was once tall, possibly a yr older than she was once, reliable having a look. His hair flew approximately in auburn jags and his gray-green eyes have been narrowed, the entire fury of his being targeted in his carving knife. fastened at the wall in the back of him used to be a dismal crowd of antlered animal heads; they appeared as though some time past they’d resigned themselves to looking at the boy whittle as their purely leisure.

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