{"product_id":"come-see-the-fair-isbn-9780593378694","title":"Come See the Fair","description":"\u003cb\u003eNow in paperback! A story of what to do when you get burned by the magic you’ve been looking for all your life from the author of the National Book Award finalist\u003ci\u003e The Way Back.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwelve-year-old orphan Eva Root travels the country pretending to channel spirits at séances. Her audiences swear their loved ones have spoken to them from beyond the grave. This, of course, is impossible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut one day, Eva experiences another impossibility: she hears a voice in her head telling her to come to the World’s Fair in Chicago. There, she meets a mysterious magician who needs her help to bring magic to life. But as their work progresses, Eva begins to suspect that the project's goals may not be as noble as they seem. And when tragedy strikes, Eva will have to reach beyond death itself to unravel the mystery of the magician's plan—before it’s too late.“There is something of Wonderland in Magister’s Pavilion of Magic, and also something of the White Witch’s Narnia. . . . This \u003cb\u003etone is the book’s great accomplishment\u003c\/b\u003e. \u003ci\u003eCome See the Fair\u003c\/i\u003e is \u003cb\u003eintense and imaginative\u003c\/b\u003e, and the prose draws us in, line by line. . . \u003cb\u003ethe details are sumptuous\u003c\/b\u003e.” \u003ci\u003e—New York Times\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“[T]he perfect concoction of \u003cb\u003eadventure and suspense\u003c\/b\u003e.\" \u003ci\u003e—Bookstr\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Savit layers the fantasy elements onto real-world historical details….in a \u003cb\u003ethrilling\u003c\/b\u003e chase sequence the author uses almost endless sentences to convey speed, action, and surprise.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Horn Book\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“[Savit] skillfully entwines \u003cb\u003emagic\u003c\/b\u003e with filaments of science.”\u003ci\u003e —\u003ci\u003eThe Bulletin\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Those who enjoy magic mixed in with their history will be rewarded with a \u003cb\u003eremarkable\u003c\/b\u003e visit to this World’s Fair.” \u003ci\u003e—Booklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"The characters and setting is \u003cb\u003ealluring\u003c\/b\u003e and feels perfectly surreal, which will keep readers engaged.\" \u003ci\u003e—School Library Journal\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Interweaving Chicago’s fiery history with a sinister world’s fair setting and \u003cb\u003ea memorable heroine\u003c\/b\u003e, Savit sketches a complex, high-stakes take on magic’s underpinnings and seductive powers.” \u003ci\u003e—Publishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003eGavriel Savit is the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Way Back\u003c\/i\u003e, a National Book Award finalist, and \u003ci\u003eAnna and the Swallow Man\u003c\/i\u003e, which the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e called \"a splendid debut.\" His books have been translated into nineteen languages. As a performer, he has appeared on and off-Broadway and on stages around the world.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Strange Fire\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Mrs. Jenny Blodgett\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e presents:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the amazing\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Little Eva Root\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Clairvoyant!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Spirit Medium!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Channeler of the Voices of the Dead!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her Uncanny Abilities shock the senses!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She brings forth the Messages of the Departed!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Come and see!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Come and See!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e COME AND SEE!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e During the first week of June 1893, these handbills were unavoidable in the village of Nadab, Ohio. Mailed ahead, they were as common as coal dust by the time Mrs. Blodgett and Little Eva arrived--piled by the door at the Hofmann Emporium, boot-trodden and filthy on the floor of Wilson’s Saloon--and wherever Mrs. Blodgett encountered them, she bent to add the following lines:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Wednesday at 8:00\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Back room at Wilson’s\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 35¢\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Just. Like. Magic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It began--as everything does--with a spark.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mrs. Blodgett had started drinking early that day, and her hands shook as she struck at the matchbox: two times, three. A puckered woman on the front bench was fanning herself against the summer heat, and Mrs. Blodgett had to turn her back to the audience for shelter from the breeze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e With a final strike, the match head burst into flame. Glaring over her shoulder, Mrs. Blodgett lit the candle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The presence of this candle, like so much of the evening, was theatrical: it allowed Little Eva to begin the performance by lifting the light out of the room like a grand curtain.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And séances are always better in the dark.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The truth was that Eva Root had not been particularly little in quite some time. Years before, when Mrs. Blodgett had first trotted her out, the description really had been apt--a tiny seven-year-old, wide-eyed, rosy-cheeked. But she was nearly twice as old now, and the passing days had stretched and sharpened her like the fires of a forge: every day a new town, every night a new bed, and in between, train car after train car after train car. By the time they found themselves in Nadab, they’d given well over a thousand séances in the little towns that had budded up from the steel boughs of the railroad--Carthage, Kansas; Finisterre, Iowa; Goshen, Nebraska--and though she no longer had the smoke screen of innocence to hide behind, Eva had learned all she needed to know about passing on the communications of the dead. Which, of course, was impossible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But all the same--she had a way of making it seem as if it were not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From the back of the room, Eva considered Nadab’s paltry little crowd. Not counting herself or Mrs. Blodgett, there were five of them there--more than had been at the smallest séance she’d given, but not by much. They were mostly old, too, which muddled things: the more one lives, the more one loses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She took a deep breath. It wasn’t her favorite trick, but there was always the war to rely on: practically everyone over forty had lost someone who’d served in blue or gray.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Cannon fire, gun smoke, The Union forever, hurrah! boys, hurrah! . . . It was going to be that kind of night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She flexed her fingers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Someone in the slack, sweating audience let out a little fart, and this seemed to deplete Mrs. Blodgett’s already scarce reserves of patience.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Fine,” she said. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my privilege to present to you Miss Eva Root, a young innocent touched with the power to channel the voices of the dead. Kindly give her your attention, and in return, she will show you things that you never thought possible.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This speech had once been considerably longer--and considerably better--but then Mrs. Blodgett had once cared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Eva?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Five heads swiveled back to stare at her. She stumbled forward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “There?” she said, blinking at the chair that had clearly been set out for her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This performance of uncertainty generally made a better impression when Mrs. Blodgett responded in some way, but she had already begun to wobble gently around the room snuffing the gas lamps.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Swallowing, Eva slid into her seat. Soon only the flickering candlelight was left.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It works better in the dark,” she whispered. “Can I . . . ?” and she gestured to the candle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her eyes passed slowly over the faces before her. This was the most important part of the evening, this moment of anticipation. She could make all the right guesses, say just the right things, and still, if these people didn’t want her to do impossible things for them, then she simply couldn’t.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The lady on the front bench gave a curt little nod--engaged, but not terribly enthusiastic. Three rows behind her, though, was a man with an unkempt beard who smiled kindly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That was good: a foothold.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eva pressed her eyes shut, leaned forward, and blew. The candle guttered and died.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Darkness.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Now she began to thicken her breathing with effort.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I hear thunder,” she said. “Men yelling. There’s smoke. Fire.” She went quiet for a moment. “Is it . . . a storm?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Somewhere in the room, a chair creaked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “But there’s no rain,” she said. “No, not a storm.” Another little pause. “Is it thunder? Or . . . ?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Cannon,” said an eager woman in the third row. “It’s cannon.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eva turned her head immediately. “Yes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Was he afraid?” said the eager woman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To be sure, it would’ve been kinder to say that whomever this woman was thinking of had died without suffering. But that would’ve made for a rather duller séance. And besides--the more you agreed with them, Eva found, the more people began to believe you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She nodded sadly. “There’s quite a lot of fear. But gratitude, too. He wants you to know that he thought of you before the end.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Me?” said the eager woman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eva chuckled. “He knew you’d be surprised.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Oh,” said the woman fondly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eva didn’t know whom they were talking about, of course, but it didn’t matter--the woman in front of her did, and her certainty filled in Eva’s sketchy outline with a memory so clear it almost seemed to breathe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That was how it worked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eva spent a fair amount of time on the eager woman; she was well disposed to believe, and Eva had a tendency to make her guesses work even when they were a bit wide in their aim. By the time Eva moved on, the woman was sniffling softly: a job well done.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The lady in the front row came next. She was the sort who wanted to be won over--a little reserved, a little skeptical--but Eva, as always, was patient, and mere minutes later, she was forgiving the lady for her unkindness to a niece who (Eva was almost certain) had fallen to her death in a well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And then, in a flash, everything changed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eva had just turned to engage the man with the unkempt beard when, with a spark and a sputter, the dead candle at her elbow flared back to life.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a yell, and was on her feet before she knew it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What is it?” said the woman in the front row.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The candle was burning bright, its flame tall and unwavering. Eva wasn’t sure what to do. Nothing like this had ever happened before.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Someone,” she said, improvising madly. “Someone is here with us.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And this was truer than she knew.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Who?” said the woman in the front row. “Who is it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eva turned her eyes back to the audience. The candle flame gave a wobble, sending inky shadows vaulting across the expectant faces.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She still had a performance to give.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “That,” said Eva, gesturing with her chin, “is a question for you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The bearded man frowned. “Me?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Yes. Who is it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The bearded man took a deep breath and began to speak. Eva barely heard him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Come see the Fair!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The voice in her head had spoken so loudly that the words of the bearded man had been entirely blotted out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “What?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Why, I said my daddy always--”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Come see the Fair!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eva gasped. Nearly half her life, Eva had pretended to hear messages that weren’t there. Now, all of a sudden, her mind was filled to bursting with an impossible voice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At the back of the room, Mrs. Blodgett shifted uneasily from foot to foot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I--I--I . . . ,” Eva stammered. “Who?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And as if in answer, she was overcome by a rush of sound nearer to her than anything had ever been before: the tinkle and bray of the band organ, the laughter and chat of the crowd.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e An impossible voice, loud and commanding and clear:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Come see the Fair!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I don’t understand,” said Eva.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The room was suddenly silent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was only a moment before Mrs. Blodgett swept forward, her face twisted with anger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I am afraid,” she said, “that Little Miss Eva is tired and must withdraw.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was a hubbub of protestation, but Mrs. Blodgett’s voice cut through it sharply.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you. Good night.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And taking Eva roughly by the arm, she seized the candle, blew it out, and marched swiftly from the room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When she first met Mrs. Blodgett, Eva Root was living in an establishment in Fletcher’s Gulch, Indiana, called Miss Augusta Grandage’s Home for Unwanted and Destitute Girls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She had no memory of anything before that place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The handlers at Grandage’s seemed to see themselves rather more as salespeople than caretakers: anything that bred attachment was strenuously discouraged, and the penalties for talking out of turn were severe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But there were many worse institutions to be in. No one was violent or neglectful. Adoptions were frequent. Miss Augusta was rigorous, but generally benevolent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When Mrs. Blodgett arrived that day, she asked that the girls be shown to her in a private room, one by one. Most of them were dismissed without a word, but those deemed promising enough to address were offered a single question:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Do you remember me?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mrs. Blodgett had, of course, never before visited Fletcher’s Gulch; it would’ve been impossible, then, for any of the girls to say yes truthfully. Nevertheless, everyone who said no was immediately dismissed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eva happened to be one of the last shown into the room that day, and whispered word of what went on there had made its way back to her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When Mrs. Blodgett asked her question, Eva was prepared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Oh, yes,” she said. “Of course I remember you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mrs. Blodgett’s eyes narrowed, and taking sudden inspiration from a painting on the wall, Eva spouted an idyllic story about a picnic in the town square.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was a complete fabrication--they both knew it. And this was precisely what Mrs. Blodgett had been waiting for: someone to convince her of the impossible.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The expectations were never directly articulated. Instead, Mrs. Blodgett had taken Eva to observe séance after séance, night after night, in town after town, and sometimes at the facilitation of the very same medium. Slowly, the tricks of the trade became clear--how to sow confidence; how to make the general feel specific; how to leave room for people to fill in their own details--and an audience began to seem to Eva like a craggy rock face, here a handhold, there a ledge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And then, one night, leaving a little theater somewhere in Pennsylvania, Mrs. Blodgett had spoken.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “He wasn’t very good, was he? That medium.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The medium in question had been an old man with gigantic sideburns, and he’d been far too prone to making real, specific guesses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “No,” said Eva. “Not very good at all.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You’ll do better,” said Mrs. Blodgett.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The next night, Eva gave her first séance. She, it turned out, had something of a talent, and the people crowded around, wanting, needing, begging for her impossible answers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They were so grateful. Soon Eva began to feel quite fond of her audiences.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But a structure built on a lie can only stand for so long. Eva’s fondness began to rot into resentment, then disdain, and before she knew it, her disdain had become a dull, tarnished pity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was the need that made her so sad, the constant need for something that simply wasn’t there. And if her audiences went home with the impression that they’d gotten what they paid for, she knew it could not last; in the morning they would wake again as lonesome and grief-stricken as they ever had been.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She was sure of it. She did herself.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Because the need that the people brought to lay at her feet every night was the very same need that Eva carried from town to town, village to village, séance to séance: the need for things to be different--better, brighter--than they were.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And this was why, as Mrs. Blodgett tore her from the saloon in Nadab, Ohio, Eva caught a strange feeling blossoming in her chest--strange, and deeply concerning:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was hope.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eva sat in silence, her shoulders high and tight, as if she were waiting to be hit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No one in the audience at Wilson’s had been happy with the early ending of the séance, but Mrs. Blodgett had already arranged for a local drayman to cart them to their accommodations in the next town, and thankfully they were able to leave before anyone asked for their money back.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That was the greatest calamity that Mrs. Blodgett could imagine: paying refunds.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Crickets, hoofbeats, the creak of the cart; it was only once the lights of Nadab were far behind that Mrs. Blodgett took the candle from her bag.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eva braced herself. Mrs. Blodgett didn’t so much have a temper, generally, as the temper had Mrs. Blodgett.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “How did you do it?” she asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I didn’t.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mrs. Blodgett narrowed her eyes. “Don’t lie to me, girl.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I didn’t,” Eva insisted. “Did you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Don’t be foolish,” said Mrs. Blodgett.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eva leaned in to get a better look. “Is there anything--?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mrs. Blodgett shoved her away. “No,” she said. “It’s just an ordinary candle,” and she tossed it roughly into her bag.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The drayman’s lantern swung gently with the gait of his horse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Would you care,” said Mrs. Blodgett, “to explain that disgraceful display? Gasping and flopping about like a fish.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I was thrown.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mrs. Blodgett shook her head. “You’re never thrown. What happened?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Eva took a breath. What could she tell her? What could she say?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Usually, Eva and Mrs. Blodgett ate their supper together after the séance. Tonight, though, Mrs. Blodgett ushered her into their little hotel room without so much as a crust of bread and stood there in the doorway, hands on her hips, just waiting for an objection. Eva stayed quiet--she had no interest in worsening the situation--but her silence only seemed to make Mrs. Blodgett angrier.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I think,” she sniped, “that you ought to sleep on the floor tonight.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In general, where there was only one bed, Eva and Mrs. Blodgett shared. This was no particular pleasure, but it was certainly more tempting than the rough wooden floor.","brand":"Yearling","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301290823909,"sku":"NP9780593378694","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593378694.jpg?v=1767723953","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/come-see-the-fair-isbn-9780593378694","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}