{"product_id":"the-song-of-seven-isbn-9781782695042","title":"The Song of Seven","description":"\u003cb\u003eA magical adventure about everyday heroes and the power of music, from the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Letter to the King\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDeep in the woods, a young boy is kept prisoner by his uncle. He cannot meet other children, or have any friends. He holds the key to a secret. Meanwhile, in a quiet village, Frans the schoolteacher invents stories of the perilous deeds, shipwrecks, desert islands, and haunted castles faced by his heroic alter ego, Frans the Red, to entertain his pupils. Then one stormy evening, too tired to invent something new, Frans fobs his students off with the invented excuse of awaiting an important letter – only when he gets home, a letter really does blow onto his doormat, summoning him to a meeting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSuddenly, Frans is on a real-life mission to liberate the boy in the woods, a mission on which he will encounter magicians, secret passages, conspiracies, hidden treasure and a sealed parchment which predicts the future. He will learn the secret of the Seven Ways. He will find seven allies. And he will make a fearsome enemy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFeaturing prophecies, wise herbalists, dilapidated coaches and a magical song that proves the solution to all of Frans’s problems, this classic adventure shows that our everyday selves can be every bit as heroic as the parts we play in our most swashbuckling fantasies.\"Enchanting. . .  Dragt’s tale is a curious, magical adventure that will appeal to those who love Tolkien and Lloyd Alexander.\" \u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e— Booklist \u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"Dragt's twisty, light mystery tale has the charm of an old classic (which it is, having been published originally in Dutch in 1967). The pleasure in this whimsically Kafkaesque tale is in its unfolding. . . the slow reveals will keep the pages turning for fans of Elizabeth Enright and E. Nesbit.\" —\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e Kirkus Reviews\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A cracking adventure... so nail-biting you'll need to wear protective gloves.\" \u003cb\u003e-- \u003ci\u003eThe Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"A wandering, winding ballad with occasional joyous percussion, to the spell of which the reader can’t help but succumb.\" –\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e Guardian\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A riveting story.\" \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e-- The Bay\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"A magical, strange gripping tale about a teacher and his class who help a boy, kept virtual prisoner by his wicked uncle, to find treasure, friends and liberation.\" -- \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eSpectator\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003ePraise for \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Letter for the King\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e: A \u003ci\u003eSunday Times\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eMetro\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eTimes\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e Book of the Year\u003c\/b\u003e; 'A true page-turner' \u003ci\u003eSunday Times\u003c\/i\u003e; 'Thrilling' \u003ci\u003eDaily Telegraph\u003c\/i\u003e; 'A pulse-pounding epic' \u003ci\u003eMetro\u003c\/i\u003e; 'Spellbinding' \u003ci\u003eFinancial Times\u003c\/i\u003e; 'A cracker' \u003ci\u003eSpectator\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eT\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ehe Secrets of the Wild Wood\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e: A \u003ci\u003eDaily Telegraph\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eSunday Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e Book of the Year\u003c\/b\u003e; 'Action-packed drama' \u003ci\u003eDaily Mail\u003c\/i\u003e; 'Thrilling' \u003ci\u003eMetro\u003c\/i\u003e; 'A spellbinding tale that will appeal to the young and old' \u003ci\u003eThe Lady\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTonke Dragt was born in Jakarta in 1930 and spent most of her childhood in Indonesia. Her family moved to the Netherlands after the war and, after studying at the Royal Academy of Art in The Hague, Dragt became an art teacher. She published her first book in 1961, followed a year later by \u003ci\u003eThe Letter for the King\u003c\/i\u003e, which won the Children's Book of the Year award and has been translated into sixteen languages. Dragt was awarded the State Prize for Youth Literature in 1976 and was knighted in 2001. She died in 2024.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLaura Watkinson is a British literary translator. She has translated works from Dutch, Italian and German, and resides in the Netherlands.1\u003cbr\u003eFrans Receives A Mysterious Letter\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAnd now the story has begun\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This is one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was boiling hot, even though the windows and the door\u003cbr\u003e into the corridor were all open. The children had been silent for\u003cbr\u003e an hour, but that probably had more to do with the heat than\u003cbr\u003e with the tongue-lashing their teacher had given them at the\u003cbr\u003e beginning of the afternoon. Now that they’d nearly all finished\u003cbr\u003e the dull grammar exercises he’d told them to do, the noise was\u003cbr\u003e creeping back, little by little – whispers, a cough, quiet giggles,\u003cbr\u003e feet shuffling, desks creaking, paper rustling.\u003cbr\u003e Frans van der Steg, sitting at his desk on the platform at the\u003cbr\u003e front of the classroom, tutted and looked up. His stern look\u003cbr\u003e didn’t make much impression on the class though, perhaps in\u003cbr\u003e part because his spectacles had slipped down to the tip of his\u003cbr\u003e nose. But he didn’t say anything. He simply wasn’t in the mood.\u003cbr\u003e In the class of first-years at the end of the corridor, the little\u003cbr\u003e ones were singing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDo you know the Seven, the Seven,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eDo you know the Seven Ways?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eWhat a tedious tune\u003c\/i\u003e, thought Frans van der Steg.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ePeople say that I can’t dance,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eBut I can dance like the King of France.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eThis is one…\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Well, I know I certainly couldn’t dance at this tempo,” he said\u003cbr\u003e out loud. “By the time they get to seven, I could have counted\u003cbr\u003e to a hundred.”\u003cbr\u003e The buzz and bustle in the classroom increased, but Frans\u003cbr\u003e banged his hand on the desk and put a stop to it before it\u003cbr\u003e became a din. Twenty-five pairs of eyes looked at him. Frans\u003cbr\u003e stared back and then pretended to go on marking the books\u003cbr\u003e in front of him. He looked at the red line he’d drawn beneath\u003cbr\u003e the title of Marian’s essay, THE SEKRIT TRESURE, and gloomily\u003cbr\u003e wondered why he tried so hard to teach his students to spell.\u003cbr\u003e As he glanced at his watch, he heard Maarten’s voice: “Sir?”\u003cbr\u003e Frans van der Steg looked up again. He still wasn’t used to\u003cbr\u003e being called “sir”. He hadn’t been working in this village for\u003cbr\u003e long, and in town he’d just been “Mr Van der Steg”. What he\u003cbr\u003e should have said to Maarten was: “Did I give you permission to\u003cbr\u003e speak?” But instead he said, “What is it, Maarten?”\u003cbr\u003e The chattering began again. The children could tell their\u003cbr\u003e teacher wasn’t really angry with them anymore, and besides…\u003cbr\u003e “It’s twenty-five past three,” said Maarten.\u003cbr\u003e Twenty-five past three was packing-up time, and Frans van\u003cbr\u003e der Steg’s group of ten- and eleven-year-olds could pack up faster\u003cbr\u003ethan any other class. It had been like that almost since the first\u003cbr\u003e day back to school after the summer holidays. At first, the class\u003cbr\u003e had been very noisy when twenty-five past three came around,\u003cbr\u003e but that hadn’t lasted for long. Kai, one of the most boisterous\u003cbr\u003e boys in the class, had – accidentally on purpose – dropped a big\u003cbr\u003e box of coloured pencils, much to his classmates’ secret delight.\u003cbr\u003e Mr Van der Steg had just shaken his head and said with a serious\u003cbr\u003e look on his face, “Kai, Kai, you probably think there’s no harm\u003cbr\u003e done and it’ll be easy enough to pick up the pencils and tidy\u003cbr\u003e them away, but I’ve seen for myself the terrible consequences\u003cbr\u003e of such clumsiness. A friend of mine once did the same thing,\u003cbr\u003e only it wasn’t pencils he dropped, but two whole armfuls of\u003cbr\u003e lances and spears.”\u003cbr\u003e Kai had just gaped at his teacher, but Maarten, who always\u003cbr\u003e spoke without being spoken to, had squawked, “Huh? Lances\u003cbr\u003e and spears? But how come?”\u003cbr\u003e “Lances and spears,” his teacher had repeated, “with sharp\u003cbr\u003e iron points, which don’t break as easily as pencil points. It made\u003cbr\u003esuch an incredible din! And it had to happen just as we were\u003cbr\u003e sneaking through the palace at night…”\u003cbr\u003e “Palace? What palace?”\u003cbr\u003e “The King of Torelore’s palace. We were caught like rats\u003cbr\u003e in a trap. We’d worked so hard to steal those spears from the\u003cbr\u003e armoury. And then that idiot let them go crashing to the floor!\u003cbr\u003e Well, of course, everyone woke up: the King of Torelore, the\u003cbr\u003e Queen of Torelore, and all their soldiers with their sabres. And\u003cbr\u003e then the fun really started…”\u003cbr\u003e As the teacher continued his tale, you could have heard\u003cbr\u003e a pin drop. But when the bell went, the class exploded with\u003cbr\u003e questions. “And then? What happened next?!”\u003cbr\u003e Their teacher couldn’t let them go home until they’d\u003cbr\u003e heard how he’d managed to escape from the deepest dungeon\u003cbr\u003e in the royal palace, where he was tied up with thick ropes\u003cbr\u003e and guarded by a hungry lion, could he? But Frans van der\u003cbr\u003e Steg had simply told Kai to pick up the pencils and sent\u003cbr\u003e them home with a promise to continue the story another\u003cbr\u003e day.\u003cbr\u003e And he’d done exactly that. He’d been teaching the class\u003cbr\u003e for three weeks now and, at the end of every day, from twentyfive\u003cbr\u003e past three to half past, as they packed up, he told them a\u003cbr\u003e story, and on Saturday mornings, when the children also had\u003cbr\u003e lessons, the stories went on for much longer, sometimes for\u003cbr\u003e as long as three quarters of an hour.\u003cbr\u003e His class had heard the tale of his adventures in the Kingdom\u003cbr\u003e of Torelore, and his account of his journey back home, complete\u003cbr\u003e with a shipwreck and a desert island. They knew all about his\u003cbr\u003e stay in the haunted castle, and about the time he’d faced the\u003cbr\u003e Abominable Snowman in the Himalayas.\u003cbr\u003e “But it’s not true, is it?” Maarten sometimes said. “You’re\u003cbr\u003e just making it up.”\u003cbr\u003e The other children knew that too, but that didn’t make\u003cbr\u003e them any less interested in their teacher’s tales. Somehow,\u003cbr\u003e in their imaginations, he was two people – one was just their\u003cbr\u003e teacher, Mr Van der Steg, but the other was a kind of fearless\u003cbr\u003e knight, with hair like flames, FRANS THE RED, a hero who\u003cbr\u003e could take on anyone.\u003cbr\u003e And now the only thing that could save this hot, boring\u003cbr\u003e afternoon was a new adventure. Yesterday Frans the Red had\u003cbr\u003e returned safe and sound from an expedition to the rainforests\u003cbr\u003e of Urozawa, and he had a few minutes left today to set off on\u003cbr\u003e his next escapade.\u003cbr\u003e Mr Van der Steg straightened his glasses, ran his fingers\u003cbr\u003e through his hair and then slowly shook his head.\u003cbr\u003e “Um, chaps,” he said (he always called them that, even\u003cbr\u003e though there were girls in the class too), “I’m tired.” He\u003cbr\u003e knew he was disappointing his students, but he really had no\u003cbr\u003e idea what to tell them. “The thing is…” he continued, “I’m\u003cbr\u003e waiting for…”\u003cbr\u003e “For what, sir?” (there’s no need to explain who asked that\u003cbr\u003e question).\u003cbr\u003e “For a letter,” said the teacher. It was the first answer that\u003cbr\u003e came to him. “A very important letter,” he added. “It might\u003cbr\u003e arrive this evening. The sender is… something of an enigma…\u003cbr\u003e And I hope,” he concluded, “that it’ll be the beginning of a new\u003cbr\u003e adventure, with a mysterious and perilous mission.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eThey’ll have to make do with that\u003c\/i\u003e, he thought. When all the\u003cbr\u003e books had been handed in, it would be time to go home anyway.\u003cbr\u003e He leant back in his chair, stifled a yawn and absent-mindedly\u003cbr\u003e hummed along with the first-years, who were singing the Song\u003cbr\u003e of Seven again.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ePhew, this weather\u003c\/i\u003e! thought Frans van der Steg, as he cycled\u003cbr\u003e home. \u003ci\u003eIt didn’t get this hot all summer holiday\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003ci\u003eI really should\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ehave taken the class outside, instead of being annoyed with them\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003efor not doing their work properly\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e When he got home, to the house where he rented a room,\u003cbr\u003e he found his landlady in the conservatory with a big pot of tea.\u003cbr\u003e “Ah, there you are,” she greeted him. “I bet you could do\u003cbr\u003e with a nice cup of tea.”\u003cbr\u003e “I most certainly could, Mrs Bakker,” he said. “You know just\u003cbr\u003e what a person needs after a hard day at work. Shall I get the\u003cbr\u003e deckchairs out of the shed? Then we can sit outside.”\u003cbr\u003e “Oh no, don’t bother,” his landlady replied. “There’s a storm\u003cbr\u003e coming, and we’ll only have to bring everything back in.”\u003cbr\u003e Frans opened his mouth to point out just how brightly the\u003cbr\u003e sun was shining today, but then he heard thunder rumbling in\u003cbr\u003e the distance, and he changed his mind.\u003cbr\u003e “Once it starts raining,” his landlady said, “that’ll be the end\u003cbr\u003e of the summer.”\u003cbr\u003e Frans looked out to see thick black clouds rolling towards\u003cbr\u003e the sun. He didn’t reply.\u003cbr\u003e “Would you like a biscuit, Frans?” his landlady asked. She\u003cbr\u003e was old enough to be his mother, so he didn’t mind her calling\u003cbr\u003e him by his first name. When he spoke to her, he was always\u003cbr\u003e polite and called her “Mrs Bakker”, but whenever he thought\u003cbr\u003e about her, it was as “Aunt Wilhelmina”. He knew that was her\u003cbr\u003e first name, and he thought the title of “aunt” suited her. She\u003cbr\u003e was rosy-cheeked, plump and perky, and she was a wonderful\u003cbr\u003e cook.\u003cbr\u003e “I’m going out this evening,” she told him. “The neighbours\u003cbr\u003e have asked me to go round and watch something on TV with\u003cbr\u003e them. Some kind of drama. It’s supposed to be good. So you\u003cbr\u003e can work at the big table in the dining room if you have lots\u003cbr\u003e of paperwork to do.”\u003cbr\u003e “Thank you,” said Frans. He sat down, stirred his tea and\u003cbr\u003e sighed again. “I still have another nineteen essays still to mark,”\u003cbr\u003e he added, “and twenty-five spelling tests. And I’ve got to do my\u003cbr\u003e own homework for tomorrow too.”\u003cbr\u003e “That’s the biggest nonsense I’ve ever heard! Schoolteachers\u003cbr\u003e are supposed to give out homework, not do it themselves.”\u003cbr\u003e “Ah, but I want to get ahead,” said Frans, “which is why I’m\u003cbr\u003e studying for another qualification.”\u003cbr\u003e His landlady gave him a look of disapproval. “You should be\u003cbr\u003e satisfied with the job you have! My son was always interested\u003cbr\u003e in getting ahead too, and where did that get him? All the way\u003cbr\u003e over there on the other side of the globe! In Australia! My only\u003cbr\u003e son, and he’s all I have.”\u003cbr\u003e “But he writes you lots and lots of letters,” Frans said, to cheer\u003cbr\u003e her up, “and he sends you photographs of the grandchildren.”\u003cbr\u003e “That’s true,” she said. “I’m expecting one today, in fact. I suppose\u003cbr\u003e that’s better than nothing. But the postman’s late though.”\u003cbr\u003e “I’m waiting for a letter too,” said Frans with a smile. “And\u003cbr\u003e it’s a very important one, or at least that’s the story I told.”\u003cbr\u003e “Have you been making things up again? I hear you’ve got\u003cbr\u003e those children’s heads spinning with all kinds of crazy stories.\u003cbr\u003e Mind they don’t return the favour. Would you like another cup\u003cbr\u003e of tea? Ooh, look how dark and cloudy it’s getting now! I’m\u003cbr\u003e glad I only have to go next door this evening. Looks like we’re\u003cbr\u003e in for a terrible storm.”\u003cbr\u003e Mrs Wilhelmina Bakker was right: that evening, after dinner,\u003cbr\u003e the rain came hammering down against the window panes.\u003cbr\u003e Frans was sitting at the big table, with all his papers spread out\u003cbr\u003e over the plush red tablecloth. The wind blew so hard that the\u003cbr\u003e curtains were rippling, even though the windows were closed.\u003cbr\u003e The whole house was creaking; at times it sounded like someone\u003cbr\u003e was walking up and down the hallway, sighing and groaning.\u003cbr\u003e But of course there was no one there; Frans was all alone in the\u003cbr\u003e house. He tried to concentrate on his work, but after a while he\u003cbr\u003e had to get up to look. Opening the curtain, he peered outside. A\u003cbr\u003e flash of lightning blinded him for a second, followed, a moment\u003cbr\u003e later, by an almighty clap of thunder.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eI hope that lightning didn’t strike anything important\u003c\/i\u003e, he thought.\u003cbr\u003e But then other sounds filled the air – windows rattling away,\u003cbr\u003e doors banging and flying open.\u003cbr\u003e “What on earth…!” said Frans, dashing into the hallway.\u003cbr\u003e A gust of wind blasted towards him; the front door had blown\u003cbr\u003e wide open. The brass lantern in the hallway swayed to and fro,\u003cbr\u003e and strange shadows danced across the walls. Rain lashed Frans’s\u003cbr\u003e face as he struggled to close the door. It was only then that he\u003cbr\u003e spotted the letter on the mat. He picked it up; the envelope was\u003cbr\u003e damp and the writing was smudged. Yet he could still clearly\u003cbr\u003e make out his own name and address.\u003cbr\u003e “My goodness me,” he said to himself. “It seems my story\u003cbr\u003e has become reality – a letter for me, and it just blew in with\u003cbr\u003e the storm.”\u003cbr\u003e He checked that all the\u003cbr\u003e other doors and windows were\u003cbr\u003e properly closed, before going\u003cbr\u003e back into the dining room and\u003cbr\u003e sitting down at the table to\u003cbr\u003e open the envelope. After reading\u003cbr\u003e the letter, he sat there for\u003cbr\u003e a while, staring at it in amazement.\u003cbr\u003e Written in strong, confident\u003cbr\u003e handwriting, the letter\u003cbr\u003e said the following:\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eTuesday 22 September\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eDear Mr Van der Steg,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eIn response to your letter of the eighteenth of this\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003emonth, I should very much like to meet you. As I live in\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ea somewhat remote spot in the woods, I shall send my\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eman to pick you up, on Friday 25 September, at exactly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ehalf past seven.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eRespectfully yours,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The signature was illegible. All Frans could make out was two\u003cbr\u003e large letter \u003ci\u003eG\u003c\/i\u003e’s, each followed by a small \u003ci\u003er\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003ci\u003eGr… Gr…\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But that wasn’t why he’d raised his eyebrows. He was most\u003cbr\u003e surprised because he had not in fact written a letter on the\u003cbr\u003e eighteenth of this month.\u003cbr\u003e Then he began to laugh. It was obviously just the children\u003cbr\u003e playing a joke on him.\u003cbr\u003e But which of his students had handwriting like that? One of\u003cbr\u003e their fathers must have written it, or an uncle, or a big brother.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eDo I know anyone who’s called \u003c\/i\u003eGr… Gr… \u003ci\u003esomething? \u003c\/i\u003ehe wondered.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eNo, I’m certain that person doesn’t exist. Someone’s deliberately\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003emade the signature impossible to read.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He studied the letter and then the envelope. They were\u003cbr\u003e made of beautiful, expensive-looking paper, with a small coat\u003cbr\u003e of arms in the corner, which had another G on it, with a cat’s\u003cbr\u003e head inside.\u003cbr\u003e Frans put down the letter and opened his textbook. After a\u003cbr\u003e couple of minutes, he caught himself thinking about the letter\u003cbr\u003e again. \u003ci\u003eWhat nonsense\u003c\/i\u003e, he told himself. \u003ci\u003eIt’s just the children having\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ea joke, that’s all\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003ci\u003eI’ll have to do something about this tomorrow\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ethough. I’m the one who makes up my adventures, and they shouldn’t\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ebe getting involved\u003c\/i\u003e. \u003ci\u003e“In response to your letter of the eighteenth of\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ethis month…” However did they come up with that\u003c\/i\u003e? \u003ci\u003eWhat day is it\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003etoday? Thursday the twenty-fourth. And the letter’s dated the day\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ebefore yesterday… Ha, they might as well have written April the\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003efirst! And of course there’s no stamp… No, wait a second, there \u003c\/i\u003eis \u003ci\u003ea\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003estamp on the envelope…\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He took a closer look and got another surprise. The stamp\u003cbr\u003e had been franked in the nearby village of Langelaan on 23\u003cbr\u003e September!\u003cbr\u003e “How can that be…?” he murmured. “That was yesterday,\u003cbr\u003e and I didn’t say anything to them about a letter until today.\u003cbr\u003e They must have faked it somehow… but they can’t possibly be\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003ethat \u003c\/i\u003eclever. I can’t imagine how they might have done it. The\u003cbr\u003e envelope’s dirty, but it doesn’t seem to have been tampered\u003cbr\u003e with. Hmm…”\u003cbr\u003e He took off his glasses and thoughtfully polished the lenses.\u003cbr\u003e That rain! It was coming down so hard and the wind was howling\u003cbr\u003e away!\u003cbr\u003e “A fine beginning for a ghost story,” he said to himself, shaking\u003cbr\u003e his head. “A letter that was franked on a date it couldn’t have\u003cbr\u003e been sent. Written by someone with the grim and gruesome\u003cbr\u003e name of Gr… Gr… And tomorrow he’s sending his ‘man’ to pick\u003cbr\u003e me up, at half past seven precisely. Who on earth does he think\u003cbr\u003e he is, ordering me about like that?”\u003cbr\u003eTHAT WAS ONE \u003ci\u003eand now for Part Two\u003c\/i\u003e","brand":"Pushkin Children's Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":48233745514725,"sku":"NP9781782695042","price":15.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781782695042.jpg?v=1767741588","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-song-of-seven-isbn-9781782695042","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}