2019, ISBN: 9780140374391

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Nabu Press, 2011-08-11. Paperback. Good., Nabu Press, 2011-08-11, 2.5, Pocket Books. Used - Good. Good condition. Very Good dust jacket. A copy that has been read but remains intact. M… Plus…

Nabu Press, 2011-08-11. Paperback. Good., Nabu Press, 2011-08-11, 2.5, Pocket Books. Used - Good. Good condition. Very Good dust jacket. A copy that has been read but remains intact. May contain markings such as bookplates, stamps, limited notes and highlighting, or a few light stains., Pocket Books, 2.5, Viking Juvenile. Good. Hardcover. 2006. 288 pages. Cover worn. <br>Fascinated by forensics, seventeen-yea r-old Cameryn Mahoney persuades her father, the county coroner in sleepy Silverton, CO, to take her on as his assistant. But she n ever expects her first case to involve the death of a friend! Rac hel Geller, a beautiful young waitress, is found strangled in a f ield with a Christopher medal around her neck--clearly marking he r as the fourth victim of a serial killer. Cameryn is determined to help find Rachel's killer, and attending the autopsy gives her the first clue. But as she follows her instincts and gets closer to the killer, Cameryn suddenly finds herself on the verge of be coming his fifth victim! Editorial Reviews From School Library Journal Grade 9 Up-When aspiring forensic pathologist Cameryn Mah oney convinces her father, the county coroner of Silverton, CO, t o hire her as his assistant, she has no idea that one of the firs t deaths she will investigate will be that of her friend, Rachel Geller. Rachel is the fourth victim of a serial killer who strang les his victims and leaves a St. Christopher medal on their bodie s. The teen must put aside her emotional response to the murder i n order to evaluate the information clinically. In her relentless pursuit of the truth, Cameryn puts herself in danger of becoming the fifth victim of the Christopher Killer. Teachers and librari ans who are trying to reach their television-junkie reluctant rea ders should look no further; this novel reads like an episode of CSI. Each scene lends itself to a mental picture straight from so me crime-fighting show. The narrative gallops through a story lin e that is as engaging as it is implausible. Suspension of disbeli ef is made easy by the well-researched scientific tidbits sprinkl ed throughout the text, lending an air of credibility. There is t he sense that this is a pilot episode with people that readers wi ll see again as the series progresses, so the characters feel int roduced rather than fully developed. Despite these flaws, this is an enjoyable read that teens will appreciate.-Heather M. Campbel l, Philip S. Miller Library, Castle Rock, CO Copyright ® Reed Bu siness Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights r eserved. From Booklist Gr. 7-10. Ferguson's latest mystery-thril ler introduces 17-year-old Cameryn Mahoney, who has the annoying habit of challenging her elders (most of whom seem to deserve it) . She also has the unshakable desire to be a forensic pathologist --and a very strong stomach. The latter comes in handy during the autopsy of a friend, the latest victim of a serial killer whose signature is a St. Christopher's medal left with each body. The v ivid autopsy scenes are surprising, given the fairly routine stor y line and agreeable, though certainly not complex, characters. I t's Cammie's energy and chutzpa that really propel the story, and readers will sympathize with her as she struggles to decide whet her to keep faith with science or be sucked in by a charismatic p sychic. This is worlds away from the Nancy Drew college series in terms of gore, but CSI fans won't blink twice. Stephanie Zvirin Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved Ab out the Author Alane Ferguson is the author of numerous novels an d mysteries, including the Edgar Award-winning Show Me the Eviden ce. She does intensive research for her books, attending autopsie s and interviewing forensic pathologists as she delves into the f ascinating world of medical examiners. Ms. Ferguson lives with h er family near the foothills of the Colorado Rockies. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter Five YOU GUYS DON'T HAVE TO wait here with me, Cameryn said, drumming the steering wheel nervously. The bell's going to ring any second, a nd . . . I don't know, I just . . . She didn't finish the sentenc e. It felt like she couldn't string her words together, or worse, her thoughts. It was hard to make anything inside her head line up. Instead, her syllables spun like autumn leaves caught in a wh irligig of air. It was all the crazy talk of Jewel that was makin g her think sideways. She had to pull herself together. Don't wo rry about me; I don't care if I'm late, Adam announced from the b ackseat. I mean, I'm still trying to take it all in. Somebody's d ead. He shook his head and exclaimed, Man. It's just like Jewel s aid last night. We don't know that--right now we don't know anyt hing except someone died. And, you guys know not to say anything to anyone at school, right? Cameryn said for the third time. Reme mber, my dad said he didn't want reporters showing up. It's still a crime scene. We've got to get it all sorted out. We already p romised we wouldn't say a word, Lyric replied. Don't worry, we'll keep our mouths shut. But, you do realize this is going to be a Christopher killing. When the media catches wind of what happened , it's going to get crazy. You need to prepare yourself. It's no t the Christopher Killer, Cameryn said, her voice sharp. Okay, it 's a possible murder--and I say possible because we haven't even been to the scene yet to know for sure--but that doesn't mean it' s the murder. I mean, you just made a huge leap in logic. I want to stick to facts. The fact is this--a murdered girl in the moun tains is just what Dr. Jewel saw in his vision, Lyric told her ca lmly. The orange soil. The body by water. I don't care if you bel ieve me now or not, because you will believe as soon as you get t here. But Cameryn would hear none of it. Statistically, there ha ve been lots of murders since Jewel made his prediction. And by t he way, where was Dr. Jewel when he 'saw' all this, anyway? New Mexico, Adam answered. From his coat pocket he pulled out a cigar ette and rolled it between his hands. Cameryn turned in her seat so she could watch him. You're not going to light that, are you? she asked. Adam shook his head. See, right now Jewel's holding a live psychic convention down there in Santa Fe. But you can't le t the distance throw you, because with mediums, space and time an d all of those existential limitations no longer exist. It's stil l hard to get my head around this. I knew Jewel had power, but I got to admit this is freaking weird. He stopped rolling his cigar ette and looked up through his curtain of hair. Do you think the dead girl is someone from Silverton? Her heart skipped a beat. N o way, she said. Cameryn didn't know why she was so sure, but she was. It's got to be a tourist. We've still had a lot of people c oming up on the train since the weather's been so good. It'll be an out-of-towner. And I'm getting out of the car--I think I need some air. As if on cue, the three of them spilled out of the car . It was harder for Adam. He exited legs-first, unfolding himself , piece by piece, as though he were a piece of collapsible gear t hat needed to be reassembled outside its box. Lyric reached aroun d him to grab her backpack, and when she did, she accidentally bu mped against him. Sorry, she said softly. Crossing her arms, Cam eryn leaned against the side of the Jeep and waited. It was only eight thirty and already the air was warming up. October weather in Silverton could be schizophrenic. The last few days had brough t cool temperatures in the mornings and evenings only, when the s ky was still purple-blue and the stars mere pricks of pale light. The middle of the day, however, had been uncharacteristically wa rm. The higher than normal temperatures, she knew, would make her father's job--her job--that much harder. She knew a body would decompose fast in the heat. Insects, especially blowflies, honed in on their mark within hours and laid their eggs into any availa ble flesh. That was the science of it. A short while later maggot s would emerge, a wriggling white mass capable of stripping a cor pse to the bone within weeks, depending on temperature and humidi ty levels, which meant precious evidence could be lost quickly. And that wasn't even factoring in the animal activity that would inevitably occur when a body was left in the wild. Mentally she t ried to prepare herself for what she might see, but how could she steel her insides for what lay at Smith Fork? Was it only last w eek that she'd seen the man in the bathtub? It seemed like a life time ago that she'd retched from the smell. Today, Cameryn realiz ed, could be much, much worse. Adam lit his cigarette with a pla stic lighter, politely blowing the smoke away from Cameryn. His s moking irritated her. She wished the two of them would leave, but at the same time she liked them there with her--just one more co ntradictory set of emotions to sort through. The warning bell ran g, followed by the bell signaling the start of school, and still her father had not come. What's taking your dad so long? Lyric a sked, tapping her foot into the dirt. I thought he was rushing ri ght over to pick you up. Cameryn shrugged. He might have stopped to get a white body bag. They're supposed to use white ones when it's a murder. That's what the books say, anyway. Why white? Ada m asked. Already he was working on a second cigarette. A bit of p aper had stuck to his bottom lip, which he carefully pinched off. Because evidence left inside the bag is easier to spot. Adam n odded. He took a drag and exhaled. Man, how do you know this stuf f? I read, she answered. I study. I focus on things you can see, taste, smell, and test. Then I throw in a rosary for Mammaw and I'm good to go. And they say I'm twisted. At that moment Patric k's station wagon whipped around the corner and into the parking lot. From the way he clutched the steering wheel she could tell h e was upset. Dad! she cried, waving frantically. Over here! When he saw her he flipped a U-turn in front of the school, so close his wheel bounced up on the curb. He slowed down as he approached them. The passenger-side window was already down, and he scooped the air with his hand, ordering her in. Come on, they're waiting for us! A jolt of electricity shot through Cameryn as she hoppe d inside the car and buckled up. Adam and Lyric gave a wave as th e station wagon pulled away. She watched them as they grew smalle r in the distance, Adam, as tall and thin as a poplar tree next t o Lyric's full evergreen frame. Lyric's backpack slumped between them like a tired dog. The station wagon turned onto Greene, and soon the car was heading south along the Million Dollar Highway, so named because it cost the state well over a million dollars t o carve it into the high mountains. Patrick said nothing; his pos ture behind the wheel was ramrod straight, and his head grazed th e ceiling of the car, bending his hair back like the bristles of an old scrub brush. I'm sorry to make you miss school, he said. I almost didn't call you, but since it's a murder, well, I need a ll the help I can get. It's okay, Dad. You know I've got all As. So do they know who it is? she asked. Patrick shook his head. N ot yet. With all the tourists running around it's most likely one of them and . . . well, it's bad no matter who it is, right? Jac obs said the victim appears young. Shaking his head, he looked as though he were trying the clear his thoughts. But we've got to g et to business. I've brought two cameras--one'll take color and t he other black and white. So here's what I want you to do: I want you to photograph the body from every conceivable angle using bo th the cameras--color first. That'll be important. He rubbed a ha nd over his chin. It's been years since I've done homicide and I' m trying to remember every single step. The cameras and other sup plies are in that knapsack in the back. Can I put you in charge? Cameryn nodded. She'd taken many photographs in her life, just n ever of something so grim. Good. I've got to admit it, I'm glad you're with me. He wore a long-sleeved plaid shirt beneath a navy bomber jacket. Patrick tugged at the collar of his shirt and the n, with one hand, unfastened the top button. The way you handled yourself with Robertson, Cam, well, you were a real professional. I have total faith in you. And it sure doesn't hurt that you've been reading up on forensics. I could use some of that expertise. If she hadn't been so preoccupied with the murder she might hav e cringed at the compliment. When faced with Robertson's body the second time around she'd been able to hold her emotions in check . The difference was in knowing what was in front of her, of bein g mentally steeled. Stone-faced, she'd photographed the body, and both her father and Jacobs thought her a natural investigator, w hich she'd let them believe. And Justin, true to his promise, nev er said a word. But that was a different death, a different reaso n. This was a murder. Now they fell into silence. She looked out of the station wagon, to the pines that marched straight up the granite mountain in an endless evergreen army. The trees were thi ck at Smith Fork, and Cameryn suddenly wondered if there was bloo d there. And if that blood soaked into the earth to disappear lik e water into sand, what then? Were they supposed to dig it out? H er books hadn't told her anything about that--they probably hadn' t told her about a lot of things. She pictured blood and suddenly she had a strange thought: What happened to the blood they could n't reach? Would the tree roots drink up the blood molecules? If the roots leeched the blood, then the victim might become part of the trees themselves and live again, like the circle of life tha t Lyric always talked about. Or was it like her mammaw told her-- when you died, your spirit soared to heaven and you lived on stre ets paved with gold? Or were you just dead, like the deer she saw strapped to big pickup trucks that rumbled through Silverton eve ry fall. Robertson had looked plain dead. The old lady had looke d peaceful, sleeping, and thinking of that face Cameryn could bel ieve in some kind of angelic rest. But what happened with a murde r, when a soul was ripped out of a body and the person wasn't rea dy? Cameryn squeezed her eyes shut; it seemed as though her mind was jumping sideways again. She had to get a grip, to think clini cally instead of emotionally. She'd be no good at all if she didn 't get her thoughts clear. On her right she saw a sheet of water weeping from slick rock, and past that a wall of stone where the mountain had bee, Viking Juvenile, 2006, 2.5, USA: Touchstone / Simon & Schuster. Fair. Paperback. 2009. 256 pages. some wear, tanned pages<br><br><p><strong>WHAT HAPPE NED TO ANNA K.</strong><br /><br />by Irina Reyn<br /><br />Touch stone, Simon &amp; Schuster, USA, 2009<br />ISBN 9781416558941<br />sml trade pb, 256pp<br /><br />FAIR: some wear, tanned pages<b r /><br />A modern-day retelling of one of literature's greatest novels.<br />Vivacious thirty-seven-year-old Anna K. is comfortab ly married to Alex K., an older, prominent businessman in her tig ht-knit Russian immigrant community in Queens. But a longing for freedom is reignited in this bookish, overly romantic and imperio us woman when she meets her beloved cousin Katia's boyfriend, an outsider and aspiring young writer on whom she pins her hopes for escape. As they begin a reckless affair, Anna launches into a ta ilspin that alienates her from her husband, family, and entire wo rld. Touching on struggles of identity, fidelity, and community, What Happened to Anna K. is a remarkable re-imagining of the Anna Karenina story.</p> ., Touchstone / Simon & Schuster, 2009, 2, Bantam. Good. 5.06 x 1.06 x 7.81 inches. Paperback. 2006. 329 pages. Cover worn.<br>The hilarious and true story of two sen ior-citizens and their whippet dog who hatch, plan and carry out a lunatic scheme to sail from Stone in Staffordshire to Carcasson ne in the South of France. From the Hardcover edition. Editoria l Reviews Review Written with the author's glorious sense of hum or, this is one of those journeys you never want to end.-Good Boo k Guide, UK A rich and winning comic debut, destined to become a classic.-Daily Telegraph, UK One of the most hilarious travel m emoirs ever written!-Booklist About the Author Terry Darlington was brought up in Pembroke Dock, Wales, during the war, between a flying-boat base and an oil terminal. He survived and moved to S taffordshire, where he founded Research Associates, an internatio nal market research firm, and Stone Master Marathoners, a running club. Like many Welshmen, he is talkative and confiding, ill at ease with practical matters, and liable to linger in pubs. He lik es boating but knows nothing about it. Following the publication of Narrow Dog to Carcassonne, Terry, his wife Monica, and their whippet Jim planned to sail the Phyllis May down the Intracoastal Waterway from Virginia to Florida-an adventure which, should the y survive it, will be the subject of their next book, Narrow Dog to Indian River, coming from Delta in 2009. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter One Moon River Ston e to Westminster On the floor of the Star Inn Jim was fighting t o push his entire body inside a bag of pork scratchings. I could have had a dog that ate its dinner, a dog that barked and wagged its tail, a normal dog, a dog with fur. But the book said a whipp et was the easiest dog and I had trouble enough already. Whippet s are hounds-miners' dogs, racers, rabbiters. They are very thin. On top they are velvet and underneath they are bald. They are wa rm and smell of buttered toast. They love every living creature t o a rapture unless you are small and furry and trying to get the hell out of here. They like running the towpaths and thieving off fishermen; but fire up the engine, cast off the ropes, and it's the eyes, the betrayed eyes. So the narrowboat Phyllis May has a dog that hates boating. We'll call him Gonzales, I had said, bec ause he's fast, or Leroy because he's golden brown, or we'll have a dog called Bony Moronie. Good thinking, said Monica, and named him Jim. He's your dog, she said-you look after him. I read Your Dog Is Watching You, and Your Dog Will Get You in the End, and H ow to Stop Your Dog Behaving Like a Bloody Animal. Jim and I went to school on many dark evenings, but neither of us learned very much. The door from the canal opened and it was Clive. Like most inland boaters, Clive looks like a pregnant bear. Got you, he sh outed-greedy greedy, early drinkies, surprise surprise, make mine a pint. He sat down and slapped his pipe and his Breton sailor's hat on the table. Jim was ecstatic. Jim sees Clive and Beryl as part of our pack, who sometimes make their escape owing to my lac k of leadership and poor attention to detail. But through his tra cking skills we get them back, and How about some scratchings? A re you nervous? asked Clive, pulling Jim out of his trouser pocke t. Yes, I said. I'm worried about getting away from Stone. I migh t crash or fall in. People will be watching. Clive has a Dudley accent, and a deep voice, as if he is saying something important. Beryl and I should never have encouraged you, he said. You are o ld, you've only got one eye, you are a coward and you can't jump. You're no good at anything useful. Monica ran your business whil e you wandered around being nasty to your customers. By the end of the summer I'll be fine, I said. I can handle the fear-running a market research agency scared me stiff too. We had another pin t, to handle the fear. TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY YEARS AGO A bunch o f engineers met in a public house by a canal. They decided the si ze of the locks on the English canal system and then they had ano ther round and started talking about girls. In the morning the se cretary could not remember what had been decided, or indeed where he was, so to be on the safe side he chose the narrowest gauge m entioned in his notes, which was seven feet. That is how the Engl ish narrow lock was born, and the English narrowboat-the cigarett e, the pencil, the eel, the strangest craft ever to slither down a waterway. The five windows of the Phyllis May lit the towpath for the length of a cricket pitch. With her flat roof, fairground lettering, brasses and flowers, a traditional narrowboat has a l ouche charm, though sixty feet by seven is a preposterous shape. Clive and I stepped into the front deck and down to the narrow sa loon. Panelling, armchairs, lamps and pictures-second class on th e Orient Express. You live in comfort, and you live sideways. Mo nica was curled on the sofa. Beryl folded her hands in her lap, i n a cornflower stare. Clive stood in the middle of the saloon. We have news, he said-we are forsaking earthly things. We are selli ng our house and our possessions, giving what is left to the poor , and having a narrowboat built, on which we will live out our da ys. Ah the poor earthbound rabble, tramping their warren streets- for me the silver highway, the gypsy life: my companion the heron , lone sentinel of the waterways, my constituency the ducks, my g ardens the broad valleys, my drawing room the public bar of the i nn called Navigation. I've been trying to persuade the bugger for years, said Beryl. But first we are going up the Bristol Channe l with you on the Phyllis May, said Clive. But I am not going up the Bristol Channel on the Phyllis May, I protested. The Phyllis May is a canal boat. There are fifty-foot tides and the Severn Bo re. We will finish up dashed through the window of Woolworths in Bewdley. I don't think there is a Woolworths in Bewdley, said Cli ve, but if there is I can pick up a CD of Felix Mendelssohn and h is Hawaiian Serenaders. And next year when you go to France we wi ll all put out to sea together, and sail across the Channel side by side. I could feel my palpitations coming on. Clive, I said, narrowboats don't sail across the Channel. I was brought up by th e sea. I remember the empty seats in school when boys drowned the mselves. I might sail the Phyllis May to France if there were thi rty Tommies to take back and it would tip the balance in the stru ggle for Europe. Otherwise it's the lorry, and a crane into Calai s. Let's have a drop more of that Banks's, said Clive-you know I have blue water experience. You mean we went out once from Padst ow, said Beryl, in a cruiser, and nearly drowned. That was a tric k of the tide, said Clive. But they warned you, said Beryl, they begged you, they called it the Maelstrom and you went straight in to it. But we got back in, said Clive. Yes, said Beryl, we got ba ck in. Is this Old Speckled Hen a strong one? asked Clive-it tas tes so smooth. The thing is you rope them up together side by sid e, so if one breaks a belt on the engine the other tows it out of the way of the tankers and car ferries. Piece of piss really. Cl ive, I said, you come from Dudley, you have been to sea once and you nearly didn't come back, and now you want to put at hazard th e December years I could spend in the Star or watching Kylie Mino gue on the box. But narrowboats are like those toys, said Clive. The bottom is full of bricks so they roll back. What about that chap, I said, who built a narrowboat in Liverpool and set out acr oss the Irish Sea? How did he do? asked Clive. No one ever found out, I said. Must have run into a maelstrom, said Clive. Is that single malt as good as you say it is? He sat back and smiled. Jim looked at him with eyes full of love. He had found a leader at l ast. When I woke up the next morning, and I wished I had not wok en up the next morning, I realized that I had agreed to sail an i nland boat across the English Channel, roped up to a madman. A C ANAL LOCK IS A SIMPLE IDEA. YOU CLOSE the gate behind you and emp ty the water out at the other end and you sink down, and then you open the gates in front of you and sail away. Going up you fill the lock instead of emptying it. In real life locks are dark and slimy and foaming. They flood you and hang you by the stern. Ofte n they don't work. But today I wound up the paddles in the lock g ate with my new aluminium key without spraining my wrist, and whe n the lock was empty heaved on the beams and opened the gates wit hout shouting for help. The Phyllis May mumbled out of the Star l ock into the sunshine, Jim riding shotgun on the roof. Friends a nd family waved. Pints were brandished in the sunshine and grandd aughters wept. The swans that nest below the Star dipped their be aks and raised them in perfect time. Past the tower of St. Michae l's, to drinking, and dancing, and waving, and tears, and coarse encouraging shouts. A Cunarder leaving New York, country style. Under Aston lock the Trent valley falls away in spires and farms. It's like Ulysses, I said, whom I so closely resemble. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world . . . It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Your dog has jumped ship, said Monica, and is probably in Rugeley. And th ere is a corpse under the prop, so you'll have to go down the wee d-hatch again. WHEN MONICA AND I BOUGHT THE PHYLLIS May she was worn out, and we had her refurbished. We had not had a boat befor e and sometimes we would go down to the cut and lick her all over . We loved the gangling shape and the long windows, we loved the curve of the bow and the front deck where you could sit, and the teak and oak saloon running on and on into the galley. We loved t he iron stove, the shower that worked, the little bedroom cabin, the warm engine-room. We held the grab-rail along the roof and wa lked the gunwale, trying not to fall in. I would stand on the bac k counter, leaning on the tiller, musing upon our boatyard manage r's sins and on the follies of the yard before him. But one day we found a boatyard we could trust and soon we sailed away, in sh ining grey and white and crimson, with primroses on the roof and a brass tunnel light at the bow, and our names on the engine-room in fairground lettering a foot high, and ran into the first brid ge. The Phyllis May is not right yet-no narrowboat is right yet. Lumps of metal drop into her bilges, or she leaks from the rear. Then I strip naked, grease myself all over, and hang upside down among the ironmongery, grunting and cursing. It is dark, it is w et, I freeze and I burn and I get stuck and we call out the boaty ard anyway. I have gone all sweaty in my hair so let's talk about something else. Jim lets me use his kennel as my office. I put my laptop on it and sit on the coal-box with my feet on Jim. The coal-box has Phyllis May painted on the front side and Kiss Me Ag ain on the backside. Jim lies quietly under my feet, which is mor e than my secretary ever did, and sometimes he licks me behind th e knees, and in forty years in business there was no chance of th at. In pubs he is the cause of much wise country talk about lampi ng for rabbits, and is seen as the next best thing to a lurcher. The trouble is he camps everything up. In Stone I fastened him o utside the supermarket. When I returned he was in the arms of an old man in a cloth cap. Both were crying softly. I crept away. I came back and a crowd had gathered. In the middle lay Jim, preten ding to be dead. Was this your dog? asked a lady. On the boat I opened a bag of pork scratchings. Jim manifested himself at my kn ee. He sat down-Can I have a scratching? Then he lay down-Please can I have a scratching? Then he rolled on his back and waved his legs in the air-Please please can I have a scratching? Then he s at up and looked straight at me-What do you want me to do-sing 'M oon Fucking River'? A cathedral of oaks to Fradley, and we moore d at the end of the nave. CALL ME MOZZA, SAID OUR NEW FRIEND IN THE cowboy boots, settling into my chair. Some people call me Mad Mozza, he added proudly. He was a sturdy young chap, maybe forty , with sandy hair and blue staring eyes. Cheers Mozza, I said, I' m Terry and this is Monica and you've met Jim. We're really grate ful Mozza, said Monica-Terry loves that dog. He stole Captain's bone, said Mozza, and ran away-Captain didn't stand a chance. Jim looked out of his kennel, his eyes wide-He begged me Your Honour , Steal my bone; he went down on his hands and knees. He was on t he road, said Mozza, but he came to me. They come to me because I have The Power. Would you like a cup of tea? asked Monica. Er ye s, said Mozza. I poured him half a tumbler of rum. I know this b oat, said Mozza-Starbuck. Billy Ishmael had her built-lived on he r for ten years. Knows his boats, Billy. Very artistic. Carried h im home twice from the Plum Pudding in Armitage. Goodness, said M onica-but we are really pleased with her shape, Mozza: the low li ne, the big windows, and we've kept the grey. The lettering on th e engine-room is not bad, said Mozza-why Phyllis May? My mother, I said, rest her soul-she still comes back. They come back all ri ght, agreed Mozza. We had another rum, to stop them coming back. We just retired, I said, and we bought a little house and we bou ght the boat and we bought Jim. We keep crashing into things and running out of fuel and falling in and people shout at us and sti ck notes on the door. Maybe we started too late. It's a way of li fe, agreed Mozza. You've got to be born to it. To tell you the tr uth, at your age you would probably be better off in a home-you m ust be a menace to the navigations. You're right Mozza, I said, b ut you can't get the beer. Click click, said Mozza. Pardon? I sa id. Click click, said Mozza, let the water in click by click. Oh yes, I said, that poor chap last summer, two locks behind us. The lock filled too fast, knocked overboard by the tiller, engine in reverse, cut to pieces. Wife, two kids. Click click, said Mozza. What's the hurry? We want to go south to see if we can handle t he big rivers, explained Monica. This year we want to go down to London and past the Houses of Parliament and up the Thames and al ong the Kennet and Avon Canal to Bristol. Next summer we want to go to Paris, and the summer after to Carcassonne. Never heard of it, said Mozza. It's in France, I said, right down the other end. It's sort o, Bantam, 2006, 2.5, Picador. Good. 20 cm. Paperback. 2001. 304 pages. Cover worn <br>In a saga sparkling with wisdom, wit an d style, Linn Ullmann explores the emotional terrain of marriage and motherhood with wicked humour and a tender eye for human frai lty. &#8216;Striking . . . a haunted, melancholy story of wande ring parents and wayward children, and the ways they permeate one another's past and future' Sylvia Brownrigg, Independent &#821 6;A wonderful novel . . . Ullmann has an extraordinary touch' Gab y Wood, Observer &#8216;A seriously well-written meditation on seduction, family, and the need to find a home. It ranges in styl e from carnivalesque debauchery to stone-cold, limpid realism, al l apparently glittering with an insouciant application of fantasy ' Herald ., Picador, 2001, 2.5, St Martins Pr, 2002. Soft Cover. Good. Book shows moderate wear/ spine tight, pages clean/ covers creased; moderate edge wear/ corners creased/ readers slant/ several pages and page tips creased, St Martins Pr, 2002, 2.5, NY: Simon and Schuster, 1975. First Edition. Hardcover_clothspine. Collectible - Acceptable/VeryGood. 6"x8.5"x1.25".283 pgs. X-library. Hunter green boards. Cream cloth spine w/hunter green letters. Hunter green paste downs. Cover painting by Allen Manham. Typography design by Robert Anthony. Author photo by Arthur Brilliant. Book design by Irving Perkins. Spine straight, some separation from hinge, unclipped. Firt fly paper torn out, AN EXQUISITE MYSTERY OF LOVE AND EVIL Elizabeth was a woman apart from all others of the Scottish Highlands - her beauty spoke of delicate heather and dark moors; her intelligence guided her family's weaving mill to success and wealth; and her clairvoyant vision touched the future with prophecy... and the present with danger. Calum was heir to the haunting Castle Faillie, a tract of shrouded moor that seemed to be forever under the spell of the past - of an ancient Latin manuscript, of a forgotten tartan weave, and of the memory of a woman not long dead." Goodreads 3.19., Simon and Schuster, 1975, 2.5, G.P. Putnam's Sons, July 2019. Mass Market Paperback. Used - Good., G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2.5, G.P. Putnams Sons. Reprint. Paperback. Used; Good. Simply Brit – welcome to our online used book store, where affordability meets great quality. Dive into a world of captivating reads without breaking the bank. We take pride in offering a wide selection of used books, from classics to hidden gems, ensuring there’s something for every literary palate. All orders are shipped within 24 hours and our lightning fast-delivery within 48 hours coupled with our prompt customer service ensures a smooth journey from ordering to delivery. Discover the joy of reading with us, your trusted source for affordable books that do not compromise on quality. 01/01/1900, G.P. Putnams Sons, 2.5, Arrow Books Ltd. Paperback. Used; Good. Simply Brit – welcome to our online used book store, where affordability meets great quality. Dive into a world of captivating reads without breaking the bank. We take pride in offering a wide selection of used books, from classics to hidden gems, ensuring there’s something for every literary palate. All orders are shipped within 24 hours and our lightning fast-delivery within 48 hours coupled with our prompt customer service ensures a smooth journey from ordering to delivery. Discover the joy of reading with us, your trusted source for affordable books that do not compromise on quality. 03/07/2002, Arrow Books Ltd, 2.5, Arrow Books Ltd, 03/07/2002. Paperback. Used; Good. **WE SHIP WITHIN 24 HRS FROM LONDON, UK, 98% OF OUR ORDERS ARE RECEIVED WITHIN 7-10 DAYS. We believe you will be completely satisfied with our quick and reliable service. All orders are dispatched as swiftly as possible! Buy with confidence! Greener Books., Arrow Books Ltd, 03/07/2002, 2.5, St Martins Press. New edition. Mass Market Paperback. Used; Good. Simply Brit – welcome to our online used book store, where affordability meets great quality. Dive into a world of captivating reads without breaking the bank. We take pride in offering a wide selection of used books, from classics to hidden gems, ensuring there’s something for every literary palate. All orders are shipped within 24 hours and our lightning fast-delivery within 48 hours coupled with our prompt customer service ensures a smooth journey from ordering to delivery. Discover the joy of reading with us, your trusted source for affordable books that do not compromise on quality. 07/25/2002, St Martins Press, 2.5, UsedGood. The item shows wear from consistent use, but it remains in good condition and works perfectly. All pages and cover are intact (including the dust cover, if applicable). Spine may show signs of wear. Pages may include limited notes and highlighting. May NOT include discs, access code or other supplemental materials., 0, UsedGood. The item shows wear from consistent use, but it remains in good condition and works perfectly. All pages and cover are intact (including the dust cover, if applicable). Spine may show signs of wear. Pages may include limited notes and highlighting. May NOT include discs, access code or other supplemental materials., 0, US: Puffin Books, 1995. Paperback. Good. From the author of Zel, Stones in Water, and The Prince of the Pond. Deep in the woods lives the old witch called Ugly One. All she wants is to forget--the she was once a loving mother and a healer, blessed and powerful within her magic circle, and not a witch, claimed by the devils. Then one day she hears the footsteps she dreads. Then real voices--children's voices . The Ugly One longs to take care of sturdy, sensible Gretel and her young brother Hansel. They are such good children, such delicious, beautiful chil dren. But demons' voices scream in her head: "Eat them!" How can she? . . . How can she not? "A brilliantly conceived and beautifully executed novel."--School Library J ournal, starred review "A work of great strength and powerful emotion, written with immediacy and intensity, filled with beauty and terror and pervading sense of compassion that must touch young and old."--Lloyd Alexander An ALA Best Book for Young Adults A Bulletin Blue Ribbon Book A Publishers Weekly Best Book of the Year., Puffin Books, 1995, 2.5<

2006, ISBN: 9780140374391

US: St. Martin's Paperbacks, 2006. Very Good. A copy that has been read, but is in excellent condition. Pages are intact and not marred by notes or highlighting. The spine remains undam… Plus…

US: St. Martin's Paperbacks, 2006. Very Good. A copy that has been read, but is in excellent condition. Pages are intact and not marred by notes or highlighting. The spine remains undamaged. Copper Ashcroft is an accomplished D'Anu witch, but the magic she wields is a potent force--strong enough to hurl her into a mysterious Otherworld whe n a spell backfires. Before Copper can escape, another being is pulled into her realm--Tiernan, a powerfully virile Tuatha D'Danann warrior. Blond, bl ue-eyed, and shamelessly seductive, Tiernan could be Copper's savior...and his touch sets her body on fire. Like others of his kind, Tiernan stands alongside the D'Anu witches to batt le the demons of the Underworld. Obligation to his cause and his people cau tions against any entanglement with Copper, yet each second spent with this beautiful, uninhibited woman stirs an insatiable hunger. Desire explodes i nto carnal bliss, but the visions that haunt Copper's dreams are growing st ronger, and they foretell a terrifying evil waiting to be unleashed... Saving the city will take more than brute strength...more than witchcraft. Only together can Copper and Tiernan find a way to overcome the dark forces--and seize a passion that has bewitched them both., St. Martin's Paperbacks, 2006, 3, US: Puffin Books, 1995. Paperback. Good. From the author of Zel, Stones in Water, and The Prince of the Pond. Deep in the woods lives the old witch called Ugly One. All she wants is to forget--the she was once a loving mother and a healer, blessed and powerful within her magic circle, and not a witch, claimed by the devils. Then one day she hears the footsteps she dreads. Then real voices--children's voices . The Ugly One longs to take care of sturdy, sensible Gretel and her young brother Hansel. They are such good children, such delicious, beautiful chil dren. But demons' voices scream in her head: "Eat them!" How can she? . . . How can she not? "A brilliantly conceived and beautifully executed novel."--School Library J ournal, starred review "A work of great strength and powerful emotion, written with immediacy and intensity, filled with beauty and terror and pervading sense of compassion that must touch young and old."--Lloyd Alexander An ALA Best Book for Young Adults A Bulletin Blue Ribbon Book A Publishers Weekly Best Book of the Year., Puffin Books, 1995, 2.5<

1995, ISBN: 9780140374391

Trade paperback, Fine., Trade paperback (US). Glued binding. 128 p. Intended for a juvenile audience. In Stock. 100% Money Back Guarantee. Brand New, Perfect Condition, allow 4-14 busines… Plus…

Trade paperback, Fine., Trade paperback (US). Glued binding. 128 p. Intended for a juvenile audience. In Stock. 100% Money Back Guarantee. Brand New, Perfect Condition, allow 4-14 business days for standard shipping. To Alaska, Hawaii, U.S. protectorate, P.O. box, and APO/FPO addresses allow 4-28 business days for Standard shipping. No expedited shipping. All orders placed with expedited shipping will be cancelled. Over 3, 000, 000 happy customers., New York, NY, [PU: Puffin Books]<

1995, ISBN: 9780140374391

.: Puffin Books, 1995. Please email us if you would like further information or if you would like us to send you a picture of the book. The book i am offering may not have the same cover… Plus…

.: Puffin Books, 1995. Please email us if you would like further information or if you would like us to send you a picture of the book. The book i am offering may not have the same cover as the one pictured. they are stock photos from the site. Thanks for looking! . First Thus 1st Printing. Mass Market Paperback. Very Good. 16mo - over 5¾" - 6¾" tall., Puffin Books, 1995, 3<