{"product_id":"the-robber-girl-isbn-9780763669560","title":"The Robber Girl","description":"\u003cb\u003ePart literary mystery, part magical tour de force—an incantatory novel of fierce beauty, lyricism, and originality from a National Book Award Finalist\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA brilliant puzzle of a book from the author of \u003ci\u003eChime\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Folk Keeper\u003c\/i\u003e plunges us into the vulnerable psyche of one of the most memorable unreliable narrators to grace the page in decades. The Robber Girl has a good dagger. Its voice in her head is as sharp as its two edges that taper down to a point. Today, the Robber Girl and her dagger will ride with Gentleman Jack into the Indigo Heart to claim the gold that’s rightfully his. But instead of gold, the Robber Girl finds a dollhouse cottage with doorknobs the size of apple seeds. She finds two dolls who give her three tasks, even though she knows that three is too many tasks. The right number of tasks is two, like Grandmother gave to Gentleman Jack: \u003ci\u003eFetch unto me the mountain’s gold, to build our city fair. Fetch unto me the wingless bird, and I shall make you my heir.\u003c\/i\u003e The Robber Girl finds what might be a home, but to fight is easier than to trust when you’re a mystery even to yourself and you’re torn between loyalty and love. \u003ci\u003eThe Robber Girl \u003c\/i\u003eis at once achingly real—wise to the nuances of trauma—and loaded with magic, action, and intrigue. Every sentence shines, sharp as a blade, in a beautifully crafted novel about memory, identity, and the power of language to heal and reconstruct our lives.In a setting just slightly sideways from the 19th-century American frontier, it’s never entirely clear what’s the imagination of an almost-feral robber girl and what’s the workings of a world where allegory and reality intertwine. . . . Gorgeously written, with ferocious emotion in the caesuras of a sparse, unreliable narrative.\u003cbr\u003e—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGlitters with the intelligent intricacy of its plot, language, and themes, all of which are intimately joined, refracted, and intensified through Billingsley’s imagery. . . Bringing together elements of magic, religion, and the Wild West frontier, Billingsley’s story allows Starling, hidden even from her own self, to speak her perceptions, the lucidity of her inner life, with startling, poetic force.\u003cbr\u003e—The Horn Book (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBillingsley creates a fantastical world with rich metaphors and intricate descriptions that evoke and blend all of the senses, wielding language as a metaphor as well as a means to advance the plot. The contrast between the two communities and two life choices are evident in the fully-developed, complex characters. . . . Elements of fantasy, adventure, mystery, and personal identity are expertly interwoven, threaded with symbolism and foreshadowing, and crafted into a compelling tale that begs to be reread for its rich detail.\u003cbr\u003e—School Library Connection (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBillingsley (The Folk Keeper, BCCB 10\/99, Chime, BCCB 2\/11) crafts Starling with an intense, lyrical interiority; our heroine’s perspective is both focused and transparent, allowing readers to make their own judgments about what she really owes Gentleman Jack and what it means to be wild, to be tame, and to have a family. It’s a hefty, subtle book, part fantasy Western, part psychological mystery, beautifully textured with fine-grained sensory and emotional detail and alive with dancing prose that would pair well with Andrews’ Spindlefish and Stars (BCCB 9\/20).\u003cbr\u003e—The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRobber Girl’s lively, lyrical first-person narration lightens Billingsley’s plot, which sensitively explores topics such as trauma, healing, and gratitude. Arguments with the hyper-literal dagger inject humor, the poignant mystery surrounding Robber Girl’s pre-Jack life imparts drive, and a subplot involving an enchanted dollhouse adds heart.\u003cbr\u003e—Publishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis dazzling, heart-rending puzzle of a tale, narrated by a young girl of the truth as she knows it, is set against a fantastic Wild West backdrop brilliantly imagined by Franny Billingsley… Billingsley is a brilliant writer.\u003cbr\u003e—The Buffalo News\u003cb\u003eFranny Billingsley\u003c\/b\u003e is the highly acclaimed author of three fantasy novels—National Book Award Finalist \u003ci\u003eChime\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eBoston Globe–Horn Book \u003c\/i\u003eAward winner \u003ci\u003eThe Folk Keeper\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eWell Wished\u003c\/i\u003e—as well as a picture book, \u003ci\u003eBig Bad Bunny\u003c\/i\u003e, illustrated by G. Brian Karas. She lives in Chicago.\u003cb\u003eDay Zero\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA dagger is meant for stabbing. It is meant for killing. A dagger has two sharp edges and goes down to a point. If you have a good dagger, the blade is made of iron mixed with carbon. If there’s no carbon, it will be too soft. If there’s too much carbon, it will be too brittle.\u003cbr\u003e   I had a good dagger. A robber girl needs a good dagger.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e  “I’m the best dagger,” \u003c\/i\u003esaid the dagger.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e  “You’re the best dagger,” \u003c\/i\u003eI said.\u003cbr\u003e   We matched each other, my dagger and I. We were not too soft, we were not too brittle. I hadn’t stabbed anyone yet, but I would. The dagger had stabbed lots of people.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e  “More than you can count,” \u003c\/i\u003esaid the dagger.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e  “Not more.” \u003c\/i\u003eI could count as high as there were numbers. I could count as low as there were numbers. I could count down to zero.\u003cbr\u003e   Yesterday had been Day One. Today was Day Zero. The important part of Day Zero had already started. We’d left the hideout and were riding through the ravine. The path tilted up, the cliffs leaned in on us. Here the horses had to walk in a single line. Later we would have to be quiet, but not yet. Stones went rattling down the path. Hoofbeats and stone falls echoed between the cliffs. The stone was gray, but later, when we had to be quiet, the stone would be pink. It was a long way up to the top of the world, where the stone turned pink.\u003cbr\u003e   Here the world was small, the stone walls pressing at us, breathing their damp ancient breath. First in line was Gentleman Jack. He was always first, the ribbons fluttering from his horse’s mane, the yellow gloves on his hands.\u003cbr\u003e   Primrose. That was the color of Gentleman Jack’s gloves.\u003cbr\u003e   I came next. Yellow ribbons fluttered from my pinto’s mane, but they were regular yellow, not primrose. Primrose was just for Gentleman Jack.\u003cbr\u003e   Then came Rough Ricky. No gloves, no ribbons. Just the web of scars on his hands and face. We always came first: Gentleman Jack, then me, then Rough Ricky. The rest of the Gentlemen came behind us, but the three of us were always first.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e  “And me,” \u003c\/i\u003esaid the dagger. \u003ci\u003e“Don’t forget about me!”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   I would never forget about the dagger.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e  “I have the sharpest point,” \u003c\/i\u003esaid the dagger. \u003ci\u003e“I have two edges, sharp as death.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   The dagger was sharp, I was sharp. Together we were sharp, together we were wild.\u003cbr\u003e   Soon the ravine would end and the Plains would begin. In the middle of the Plains rose the Indigo Heart, where there would be gullies to leap and mountains to climb. There would be a thousand-thousand tons of pink stone. That’s what I’d been waiting for. Today I’d use the dagger. Today I’d get my name.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e   We threaded the horses through the three great stones that hid the ravine. Here the world burst upon us, a sea of yellowed grass poking through the snow, and in the distance, the earth shrugging its shoulders into the mountains of the Indigo Heart. When you stay in the ravine all winter, you begin to think that’s all there is—the cliffs, the cave, the river. It’s easy to forget that the ravine is buried in the Plains, like a hollow egg.\u003cbr\u003e   Today I’d get a house.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e  “It’s not really your house,” \u003c\/i\u003esaid the dagger.\u003cbr\u003e   Today I’d get a grandmother.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e  “She’s not really your grandmother,” \u003c\/i\u003esaid the dagger.\u003cbr\u003e   Gentleman Jack, Rough Ricky, and I still rode first, but now we had enough room to fan ourselves into an arrowhead, with Gentleman Jack making the point. The rest of the Gentlemen rode single file behind. They made the shaft of the arrow.\u003cbr\u003e   The wind shrieked across the Plains. It smelled of cold and snow. The wind was fast, and we were fast, but we didn’t shriek. We were practicing to be quiet. Ahead rose the mountains, pink above the tree line but dark with indigo trees below.\u003cbr\u003e   Nothing could go wrong, not on Day Zero. Day Zero was Now. At last I’d arrived at Now. Now was a yellow ribbon in a pony’s mane. Now was a cascade of lace at Gentleman Jack’s wrists. Now was a pair of primrose gloves, with the letters GJR embroidered on the cuffs. Now was the glint of a ruby in Gentleman Jack’s ear.\u003cbr\u003e   Nothing could go wrong, not when Gentleman Jack, Rough Ricky, and I made the head of the arrow.\u003cbr\u003e   I knew we were close when we reached the railroad tracks. It was funny how you couldn’t see the Indigo Heart as well when you got close. You couldn’t see the mountains, pink against the sky. All you could see were the indigo trees and, minutes later, the red clay road that circled the Heart.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e  “There’s iron in the clay.” \u003c\/i\u003eThe dagger knew everything about metal. \u003ci\u003e“That’s why it’s red.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   The Indigo Heart was just the way Gentleman Jack had described.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e  “Iron is magnetic,” \u003c\/i\u003esaid the dagger.\u003cbr\u003e   The dagger was magnetic, too, which meant it would feel the pull of the road. I wasn’t expecting to feel it, but I did, just a little tug when we leapt upon the clay.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e  “There’s a bit of iron in blood,” \u003c\/i\u003esaid the dagger.\u003cbr\u003e   It was like the tug of sleep when it was time to wake up. You could break the tug but you didn’t want to.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e  “Magnets are not like sleep,” \u003c\/i\u003esaid the dagger.\u003cbr\u003e   It would be faster and easier to take the road that went winging up the mountain, but it wasn’t safe: someone might see us.\u003cbr\u003e   We leapt up the embankment, onto the mountainside. Here, among the indigo trees, the horses slowed, crunching over indigo needles and aspen leaves and pockets of snow. It was winter in the Indigo Heart. The birds were silent; there was just the sound of crunching. The horses wound through the indigos, sidestepped jabs of rock punching through the earth. Above, a hawk sailed in descending spires.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e  “Watch where we’re going!” \u003c\/i\u003esaid the dagger.\u003cbr\u003e   The dagger meant both of us had to watch. The dagger was in the sheath at my waist, and it was also in my head. But it could only see what I saw, so if I wasn’t watching, it couldn’t watch, either.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e  “We have to remember where we’re going,” \u003c\/i\u003esaid the dagger. \u003ci\u003e“If something goes wrong, we have to get back to the hideout.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e   I couldn’t remember a time the dagger wasn’t in my head, six inches of carbon and iron, reminding me to be wild. If I ever wished for taming things, like more food or a heavier coat, it would press at my thoughts, cool and sharp. Together we had a blade that cut on both sides. Together we had a spear-point tip.\u003cbr\u003e   Together we were wild.","brand":"Candlewick","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301104439525,"sku":"NP9780763669560","price":18.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780763669560.jpg?v=1767741269","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-robber-girl-isbn-9780763669560","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}