The Clockwork Crow

Evoking the classic fantasy adventures of Joan Aiken and Eva Ibbotson, this darkly delightful new novel from New York Times best-selling author Catherine Fisher glimmers with winter magic.

Orphan Seren Rhys is on her way to a new life at the remote country mansion of Plas-y Fran when she is given a package by a stranger late at night in an empty train station. The package contains a crotchety, mechanical talking crow, which Seren reluctantly brings to her new home. But when she gets there, the happy Christmas she had hoped for turns out to be an illusion—the young son of the house, Tomos, has been missing for almost a year, rumored to have been taken by the fairies. With the Crow’s reluctant help and a little winter magic, Seren sets off on a perilous journey to bring Tomos home. An enthralling story of family and belonging set in frost-bound Victorian Wales.A richly atmospheric page-turner—readers will eagerly anticipate the forthcoming sequel.
—Kirkus Reviews

The terrifically engaging tale combines the old-fashioned charms of a manor-house mystery with elements of classic fantasy, establishing a world rich in details while leaving enough unknown to pique curiosity.
—Booklist

This quick novel is chock-full of snowy magic perfect for the holidays; fans of detective stories, like Seren herself, will appreciate her aptitude for getting into trouble through her drive to investigate the unknown. After Seren’s hard life, she gets a well-deserved, if a little too neatly wrapped, happy ending, but readers will be thrilled to know that this UK import already has a sequel that may soon arrive in the U.S.
—Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books

Originally published in England and making its U.S., debut, this novel features excellent world-building and an engaging caper with supernatural elements.
—School Library JournalCatherine Fisher is the New York Times best-selling author of Sapphique and Incarceron. An acclaimed novelist and poet, she has written many fantasy books for young people, including the Oracle Prophecies series. In 2011 she was appointed the inaugural Young Person’s Laureate for Wales. Catherine Fisher lives in Wales.Seren Rhys Is Freezing

A clock ticks, frost is white.
Stars travel through the night.

The railway station was deserted. The only thing that moved in its silent shadows was the big hand on the clock as it crept toward the hour of eight.
   Seren stared up at it, hypnotized and weary. How could it go so slowly? Had she really only been waiting half an hour? It seemed like forever.
   She was bundled in a heavy coat, a woolen hat, scarves, and a shawl, but she had never been colder in all her life. Even with thick gloves thrust deep in her pockets, she couldn’t feel her fingers. Her toes were numb. In fact, if she didn’t move right now, she would probably freeze on the spot, so she jumped to her feet and began to stamp up and down the bare platform, the thump of her clumsy boots ringing in the bitter night.
   She stamped fourteen steps to the wall.
   Fourteen steps back.
   To the wall.
   And back.
   Over everything—the benches and the roof and the railway posters—a thin layer of frost shimmered like crushed diamonds in the light from the lamp. The night was so silent it scared her. She breathed out a cloud and then turned quickly as the stationmaster’s door opened. A big man in uniform came out and stared at her.
   “Are you on your own, miss?”
   It was a ridiculous question and it annoyed her. There were a lot of cross answers she could have snapped out, but she swallowed them and just said, “Yes.”
   “Waiting for the eight forty, are you?”
   “Is there any other train?”
   “Well, no. Not this time of night.”
   He was a red-faced man, and he wore a peaked cap that looked as if it had been sat on more than once. He stared down at her, as if she puzzled him. Finally he said, “It’s an unusually cold night. You could go in the waiting room, but it’s First Class. Are you First Class?”
   She knew she wasn’t. No one ever spent that sort of money on her, but she pulled out her ticket and looked at it. third it said, in large letters. She put it back in her pocket before he could see it, drew herself up, and said, “Yes. That’s right. First Class. Show me the waiting room, please.”
   For a moment, she thought he didn’t believe her. Maybe he didn’t, but he smiled, picked up her suitcase, and set off along the platform. The case looked tiny in his hand, even though she had found it so heavy. She hurried after him to a door with first class waiting room written on the frosted glass; he opened it and said, “Here we go. This’ll be a bit cozier. You’ll be like toast in here till the train comes.”
   She pushed past him into a warmth that was so wonderful, she wanted to shout with sheer relief.
   The room was small; there was a bench against each wall, a big table with an oil lamp on it, and best of all, a fire in the grate, a pile of coals glowing scarlet under a coat of ashes.
   She went straight across and huddled over it.
   “You’re nearly frozen.” The stationmaster stepped back and looked at her curiously. “I haven’t seen you around here before. Traveled a long way, have you?”
   “I used to live in India.”
   “Blimey! I expect it was hotter there?”
   Despite herself, she allowed a tiny smile. “A bit.”
   “Couldn’t stand that myself. All them flies and mosquitoes and tigers. Now, you sit down and make yourself comfortable. No one to disturb you. You’ll hear the train easy enough.”
   He went out, letting in a shiver of icy air. Seren pulled off her gloves and found her fingers were blue and numb. She dragged the heavy bench closer to the coals and sat on it, tucking her feet up and pulling her coat and shawl tighter around her.
   This was so much better! Warmth began to thaw out her nose and ears and fingers; it was painful, but worth it. She yawned, wishing she could go to sleep, but she had to be careful not to miss the train.
   The fire crackled and she watched it. Of course what she had told the stationmaster about India was true—she had lived there once, but only as a tiny baby. She couldn’t remember anything about it at all, really, except a sort of vagueness of heat and the fierce blue glare of the sky.
   And someone leaning over her, and kissing her.
   She shrugged it away. Her parents had both died out there, and she had been brought home on the ship and had lived for twelve years at the orphanage of St. Mary’s. Even now, she couldn’t believe she was out of that place. Her great-aunt Grace had found her and taken her away, but only for six months, because now Aunt Grace was dead, too. The old woman had been bedridden, living in lonely splendor at the top of a dull old house near London, and Seren had hardly seen her. She had stayed in the kitchen mostly, with Martha the maid and the white cat, Samuel. She was already missing them; maybe there would be a cat at Plas-y-Fran.
   In her pocket the letter crackled; she took it out and moved nearer to the lamp to read it again.
 
Dear Seren,
 
Here is your railway ticket. As I told you at your aunt’s funeral, your father’s oldest friend, Captain Arthur Jones, has offered to take you in. Captain Jones is your godfather. It seems strange you have never met him. He has a wife—Lady Mair—and one son, called Tomos, and his house is in Wales. It’s a grand old place, called Plas-y-Fran. The train will take you to Trefil, the nearest station, where I’m sure someone will come to meet you.
 I hope you will be happy living there.
 
Yours, most sincerely,
G. R. Freeman
Solicitor at Law
Staple Inn
London