{"product_id":"a-hunger-of-thorns-isbn-9780593562666","title":"A Hunger of Thorns","description":"\u003cb\u003eBe swept away by a lush, witchy tale about forbidden magic and missing girls who don't need handsome princes to rescue them. Perfect for fans of \u003ci\u003eThe Hazel Wood\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMaude is the daughter of witches. She spent her childhood running wild with her best friend, Odette, weaving stories of girls who slayed dragons and saved princes. Then Maude grew up and lost her magic—and her best friend. \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThese days, magic is toothless, reduced to  glamour patches and psychic energy drinks found in supermarkets and shopping malls. Odette has always hungered for forbidden, dangerous magic, and two weeks ago she went searching for it. Now she’s missing, and everyone says she’s dead. Everyone except Maude.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eStorytelling has always been Maude’s gift, so she knows all about girls who get lost in the woods. She’s sure she can find Odette inside the ruins of Sicklehurst, an abandoned power plant built over an ancient magical forest—a place nobody else seems to remember is there. The danger is, no one knows what remains inside Sicklehurst, either. And every good story is sure to have a monster.\"Full of \u003cb\u003evivid and poetic\u003c\/b\u003e prose, this girl-power fantasy will win fans among lovers of magic in the natural world.\" —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Wilkinson offers plenty of \u003cb\u003etantalizing surprises\u003c\/b\u003e in this tangled volume featuring complicated familial connections, dangerous secrets, and even more perilous obsessions.\"  —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A \u003cb\u003espellbinding\u003c\/b\u003e, leisurely paced tale with a captivating, imperfect heroine”\u003ci\u003e —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Readers who prefer stories with rich characters will effortlessly lose themselves in this \u003cb\u003eambitious, lyrical fairy tale\u003c\/b\u003e.\" \u003ci\u003e—Booklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Gritty, visceral and unflinching, A Hunger of Thorns is \u003cb\u003ea lush coming-of-age story\u003c\/b\u003e that upends narrative expectations about witches and fairy tales.\" \u003ci\u003e—BookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The luscious depth of the worldbuilding and the effortless skill with which it is conveyed make me utterly jealous. Read this, and \u003cb\u003ewonder where Lili Wilkinson has been all your life\u003c\/b\u003e.” —Amie Kaufman, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling coauthor of the Aurora Cycle\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eA Hunger of Thorns\u003c\/i\u003e is \u003cb\u003evisceral fantasy\u003c\/b\u003e; it tells its story not just in the bodies of young people but through all creation around them. This novel teems with life-forms real and imagined—winged, scaled, furred, barked and leaved, macro and micro, solid and almost intangible. It zooms in with scientific precision, then pivots to passionate invention. Maude’s quest will take you to deep, dark, festering places and bring you soaring back out into the light. This novel resonates strongly with our uncertain times. It will give courage and hope to readers seeking their true selves and a way forward into a richer, realer life.” —Margo Lanagan, author of Printz Honor Book \u003ci\u003eTender Morsels\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“In this wonderful book, Wilkinson \u003cb\u003ecreates a whole new kind of magic\u003c\/b\u003e—enchantments woven from family, from living things, and from the marrow of Story itself. Unlike anything else.” —Scott Westerfeld, author of the Uglies and Impostors series\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A \u003cb\u003egorgeous dark fantasy\u003c\/b\u003e about the unshakeable bond between two girls, and the undeniable power of female rage.” —Kass Morgan, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of\u003ci\u003e The 100\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A \u003cb\u003elush, spellbinding tale\u003c\/b\u003e with dangerously enchanting characters, \u003ci\u003eA Hunger of Thorns\u003c\/i\u003e is filled with gorgeous emotion and sapphic yearning that will leave you breathless. Wilkinson’s masterful new story soars. This is one for all the wild girls who get lost in fairy tales.” —C. S. Pacat, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eDark Rise\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“This is my kind of fairy tale: visceral and dark, lush and lovely, and filled with feral girls who know how to save themselves. A Hunger of Thorns is a beautiful, ferocious vine that will work its way inside you and linger. \u003cb\u003eI’ll be thinking about it for a long time to come\u003c\/b\u003e.”  —Kate J. Armstrong, author of \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eNightbirds\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eLili Wilkinson is the author of sixteen novels in Australia, including \u003ci\u003eGreen Valentine\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Boundless Sublime,\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eAfter the Lights Go Out\u003c\/i\u003e. She established insideadog.com.au and the Inky Awards at the Centre for Youth Literature, State Library of Victoria. Lili has a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Melbourne and now spends most of her time reading and writing books for teenagers. \u003ci\u003eA Hunger of Thorns \u003c\/i\u003eis her first fantasy novel.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nan is very particular about tea.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She orders a personalized blend from an under-­the-­counter botanica on the wrong side of town, and it gets shipped to her in bulk, a large wooden crate filled with vacuum-­sealed packages. Nan decants them one by one into a floral tin with creaking hinges.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Halmoni bought her an electric kettle years ago, but Nan refuses to use it. She fills an ancient cast-­iron kettle with rainwater from the tank outside the back door and lights the gas burner with a match.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nan doesn’t ask if I want tea. The kettle is already on, with curls of steam and faint whistles escaping from the spout. I have made the journey downstairs from my bedroom, now there will be tea. Tea is nonnegotiable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I push aside five cross-­stitched cushions, Nan’s knitting basket, and two cats to make a space on the couch, and sit down. Princess Bari stalks away, offended, her tail twitching, but Gwion Bach clambers into my lap and starts kneading my thighs. His claws sink through the thin layers of my dress and the brand-­new stockings that Halmoni bought me just for today. I imagine the pinprick holes widening and splitting into ladders, and I feel a brief surge of wicked satisfaction. But these stockings are fancy enchanted ones and will not ladder, so I will remain neat and respectable. \u003ci\u003ePut together\u003c\/i\u003e is how Dr. Slater would put it. Today, I have to be put together, even though I’m falling apart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nan takes a pinch of tea from the floral tin and leans out the back door to sprinkle it on the doorstep, over the deep engraved marks of overlapping circles and daisy wheels that keep our house free of mischief. She opens another tin and fishes out a handful of thrupenny biscuits, which she plunks onto a china plate without ceremony.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Orright, Miss Maude?” she says to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gwion Bach finally deems my lap sufficiently molded to his requirements and settles himself into a furry brown puddle. I rub behind his ears, and he purrs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She reaches up to an open shelf cluttered with canisters, vases, and ugly little figurines of big-­headed shepherdesses and frogs playing musical instruments, and takes down cups and saucers, painted with pink and yellow roses. A reading, then. When it’s just tea, Nan uses Halmoni’s Buncheong stoneware cups, but white porcelain provides better contrast for reading tea leaves.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The kettle on the stove begins to whistle in earnest, a plume of steam billowing to the ceiling. Nan briefly holds each cup over the steam—­to cleanse them of any deceit—­then lifts the kettle and splashes boiling water into the teapot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nan’s teapot is the stuff of family legend. It’s large enough to hold up to ten cups, and it is truly the most hideous thing I’ve ever seen. It’s pastel-­pink china, in the shape of a soppy-­looking cat’s face. Huge baby-­blue cat eyes stare unblinking, fringed with curled painted lashes. An open grinning mouth leers beneath ­feverishly rosy cheeks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She replaces the kettle, which resumes its shrill whistling, then swirls the water in the teapot to warm it before emptying it over the sink. After that, she takes her tarnished silver caddy spoon, its handle engraved with entwined pennywort and milk thistle, and measures out four spoons of tea leaves—­one for her, one for me, one for Halmoni, and one for luck. She fills the pot halfway with boiling water—­it’s too big to fill all the way, unless we have company. Then she pops on the lid and leaves it to steep.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Now, then,” she says, smoothing the front of her tweed skirt, which flows neat and somber over outrageously pink Lycra leggings. “How you feeling, love?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her crinkled, watery eyes see too much, so I look away, over toward her workbench, where bunches of drying rosemary and sea holly hang over row upon row of little jars—­crushed eggshell, salt, rusty pins, feathers, bits of bone, rowan ash. There’s a half-­finished poppet there, button-­eyed and bound with red and silver thread. A love charm, probably, for some moonsick client. Or maybe good luck for a student—­exams are coming up soon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nan’s still watching me. “Fine,” I tell her. “I’m fine.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She is clearly not satisfied by this answer, but she doesn’t say anything. She pulls a bottle of milk from the fridge, and Hangul and Huw appear as if from nowhere, winding themselves silkily around her ankles. Gwion Bach twitches an ear but doesn’t move from my lap. Princess Bari slips in from the garden and positions herself next to the milk saucer and makes loud, yowling demands. Nan bends creakily and splashes milk into the saucer, and Gwion Bach leaps heavily to the floor and pads over to join his siblings, his fat belly swaying below him like a furry pendulum.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nan carefully pours milk into the teacups. Milk goes in before tea, to protect the drinker from any malicious contaminants that may have found their way into the tea caddy. Always whole milk, never skim or almond or (good people forbid) soy. Sugar, lemon, and honey are strictly forbidden. Also banned from our house is Earl Grey, decaf, herbal teas for anything other than medicinal purposes, and those fancy charmed tea bags where the brew doesn’t oversteep and the little paper tab never falls into the cup when you pour the water in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nan does allow Halmoni a canister of hyeonmi-­nokcha, which I secretly prefer, but Halmoni drinks mostly coffee anyway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The cats’ saucer is emptied, and Gwion Bach leaps back up to my lap and settles down, then decides I’ve gotten all out of shape again and rises to his feet to knead me back into position. Hangul and Huw tumble out into the garden to chase mice, while Princess Bari cleans her whiskers and watches, aloof.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Are you ready for today?” Nan asks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I don’t know how to answer that question.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nan lifts the hideous teapot with two hands and carefully pours tea, first into my cup, and then her own. No tea strainer, of course. A little splashes onto the kitchen counter as she sets it down, and she twitches a smile.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She presents me with my cup and saucer, and offers me the plate of thrupenny biscuits. I take one and dunk it into the tea, pausing to inhale fragrant steam. The biscuit crumbles soggily in my mouth, warm milky tannins blending with sweet apple cider and caraway.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What even is a vigil anyway?” Nan says conversationally. “Is it like divination? Are they expecting someone to have a vision of her?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Dr. Slater is going to lead us in contemplation,” I tell her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nan makes a face. She’s not fan of Dr. Slater and his well-­being regimen. “What right does he have? He isn’t her family.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He’s the school principal. A community leader,” I offer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “As if anything that man does is going to bring the poor girl home. And doing it on the eve of an egg moon too. People just don’t have any sense.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My mouth is too full of biscuit to reply.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nan falls silent as she sips her tea, and I glance out the window toward Halmoni’s stained-­glass studio, wishing she’d come in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You don’t have to go, you know,” she says. “You and Odette haven’t been close for years.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Four years. Four years since I got my period, my magic dried up, and my best friend broke my heart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I’ve reached the bottom of the cup, the tea turned bitter and lukewarm. A few tea leaves wash into my mouth, and I press them between my teeth.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nan puts down her own cup. “Right, then,” she says, and reaches over to pick up my cup in her left hand. She swirls the dregs three times sunwise, then inverts the cup over my saucer. Muddy liquid seeps out around the rim. She taps three times on the base, then lifts the cup again and examines the remaining tea leaves clinging to the white china.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I shift uncomfortably, and Gwion Bach pauses his rumbling purr and flicks an irritated ear. I look around the little room bursting with overstuffed armchairs, cushions, and luridly colored crochet rugs. The walls are crowded with framed pictures—­flowers, more big-­headed shepherdesses, and family illustrations. I see Nan and Halmoni’s wedding portrait, the oil paint faded with age. There’s a watercolor of Halmoni visiting her parents in Pisi-­Geiteu. Mam, wearing cap and gown as she graduated from university. Me in pen-­and-­ink as a fat-­cheeked baby.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Something has been lost,” she murmurs, squinting into the cup. “You have a wild road ahead, Maude.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I didn’t need a reading to tell me that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “But there are good things too.” She turns the cup so I can see it, and points. “See there? That’s a rose. Love is waiting for you. And here? This is the sun, which represents power.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She goes small and silent, and I know she’s thinking about Mam. Power only leads to trouble. Power is illegal magic, wild and unpredictable. Power makes you end up in a detention camp, your mettle—­magical life force—­drained to make commercial potions and glamours until there’s nothing left and you return as a mindless husk, or a corpse laid out cold on the front door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nan lets out a faint, breathy sigh and turns back to the cup. She frowns, and despite myself I lean forward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What is it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It’s . . .” Nan’s eyes dart to mine, as sharp as thistles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I peer into the cup. “It looks like a bird’s wings.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nan purses her lips but doesn’t respond.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I have a sudden, vivid flash of memory, of the chirping song of leaf warblers and the trickle of Cygnet Creek.","brand":"Delacorte Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301645177061,"sku":"NP9780593562666","price":19.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593562666.jpg?v=1767720542","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/a-hunger-of-thorns-isbn-9780593562666","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}