{"product_id":"den-of-wolves-isbn-9780451467041","title":"Den of Wolves","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe enchanting fantasy series from the award-winning author of the Sevenwaters novels continues, as embittered healer Blackthorn and her companion, Grim, struggle to fulfill the rules of her bond to the fey. . . . \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDespite her personal struggles, Blackthorn agrees to help take care of a troubled young girl who has recently been brought to court, while Grim is sent to the girl’s home at Wolf Glen to aid her wealthy father with a strange task—repairing a broken-down house deep in the woods. It doesn’t take Grim long to realize that everything in Wolf Glen is not as it seems—the place is full of perilous secrets and deadly lies. . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBack at Winterfalls, the evil touch of Blackthorn’s sworn enemy reopens old wounds and fuels her long-simmering passion for justice. With danger on two fronts, Blackthorn and Grim are faced with a heartbreaking choice—to stand once again by each other’s side or to fight their battles alone.\u003cb\u003ePraise for Den of Wolves and the Blackthorn \u0026amp; Grim Novels\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Evocative, poetic . . . a thoroughly convincing and touching journey.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review) \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Emotionally powerful.”—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Riveting...like stepping into a fairy tale.”—The BiblioSanctum\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An enchanting tale.”—Jacqueline Carey, New York Times bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eMiranda\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eCaliban\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A fabulous read, a rich tale that resonates of deepest myth peopled by well-drawn characters.”—Kristen Britain, New York Times bestselling author of the Green Rider series\u003cb\u003eJuliet Marillier\u003c\/b\u003e was born in Dunedin, New Zealand, a town with strong Scottish roots. She graduated from the University of Otago with degrees in languages and music, and has had a varied career that includes teaching and performing music as well as working in government agencies. Juliet now lives in a hundred-year-old cottage near the river in Perth, Western Australia, where she writes full-time. She is a member of the druid order OBOD. Juliet is active in the field of animal rescue and shares her home with a small pack of waifs and strays. She is the author of the Blackthorn \u0026amp; Grim novels, including \u003ci\u003eTower of Thorns\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eDreamer’s Pool\u003c\/i\u003e, and the Sevenwaters series, including \u003ci\u003eFlame of Sevenwaters\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eSeer of Sevenwaters\u003c\/i\u003e. Her historical fantasy novels and short stories are published internationally and have won a number of awards.1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Bard‡n\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e H       e's curled in a ball, shivering, under a piercing white moon. He'd      forgotten how bright the moon was, how its light could go right      through a man, cold in his bones, searching out what was hidden      deep. Go away, he breathes, arms up over his head, knees to his      chest, trying to be invisible. Leave me alone. But the light seeks      him out, finding a way through the high canopy of the beeches,      through the rough blanket of bracken and fern he's scrambled      together, through the rags of his clothing, right inside him. Into      his mind, tangling his thoughts. Into his heart, probing his      wounds. It's been so long. How long has it been? How long has he      been away?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e An owl cries, eerie, hollow. In the undergrowth, something      screams. Something dies. Stop, he whispers. Don't. But nobody's      listening. His words fall into the quiet of the night forest and      are lost. He's lost. The cold moon will kill him before he can      find his way. The way back to . . . to . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A fragment comes to him; then it's gone. Another piece, and      another. A story . . . but the meaning slips away before he can      grasp it. Shivering body. Chattering teeth. A man . . . A man      building . . . A man making a house, a strange house . . . He can      feel the wood under his hands, his crooked hands . . . Long ago,      so long ago . . . Was there a rhyme for the building, a charm, a      spell? Crooked hands. Crooked yew. He makes the words with his      lips, but there is no sound. Blackthorn, ivy and crooked yew.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He can't remember much. But what he remembers is enough, for now.      Enough to keep his heart beating; enough to keep him breathing      through the cold night, until morning. The beech tree will shelter      him; she will spread her strong arms over him, shutting out the      chill eye of the moon. And when the sun rises and the long night      is over, he knows where he will go.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Cara\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e T        he forest knew everything. News passed on a breath of wind, in the      call of an owl, in the small pattern of a squirrel's paw prints.      The trout in the stream learned it. The lark soaring high above      saw it. The knowledge was in the hearts of the trees and in the      mysterious rustling of their leaves. It was a deep-down wisdom, as      solemn as a druid's prayer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She never talked about it. Not with Father, not with Aunt Della,      not even with Gorm‡n. She'd learned long ago that if she spoke of      that great knowledge, people thought she was being foolish or      fanciful. That didn't matter. What mattered was saying it to the      trees, over and over, so they knew she was their friend and      guardian and could hear their slow voices. She spoke to each of      them in turn, in a whisper, with her body against the trunk and      her cheek pressed to the bark, as if she and the tree shared the      same beating heart. Rough oak, smooth willow, furrowed ash, every      tree in the wood. I will protect you. I will guard you. I give you      my word.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The promise wasn't foolish or fanciful. It made perfect sense. One      day the holding at Wolf Glen would be hers to watch over. Mother      was dead. Father would never marry again. There was nobody else to      inherit the house, the farm, the forest. All of it, and all the      folk who lived and worked there, would be hers to care for, hers      to look after.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Father didn't talk about the future, even now that Cara was in her      sixteenth year. But she knew he expected her to marry someday and      produce an heir. She let herself dream, sometimes, about what      might have been if she had not been a girl and the only child. She      could have become a master wood-carver. She could have spent all      day making creatures and chests and chairs with fine decoration,      toys for children, platters to hold fruit, spindles and cradles      and walking staves with owls on them. Or she could have been a      forester like Gorm‡n. Gorm‡n had been her friend since almost      before she could walk. He had taught her the properties of      different woods. Sometimes she would open up her special storage      chest and get out the collection of little animals she'd made over      the years. She loved them all, from the rabbit she had crafted      from pine at six years old to the owl she'd coaxed not long ago      from a well-weathered block of oak. The owl had its wings lifted,      ready for flight, and when Cara looked at it she imagined      spreading wings of her own and flying off over the treetops, wild      and free. When she had held each of her little creatures in turn,      stroked each, spoken softly to each, she would shut them away in      the chest again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Soon, she knew, Father would start looking for a prospective      husband for her. Father and Aunt Della had set their expectations      high, hoping for a chieftain's son. But wouldn't that mean she      would have to leave Wolf Glen? That could not happen. She would be      like a sapling pulled up roughly, roots and all, then shoved into      barren ground where it could not thrive. She would turn into a      dull shadow of a woman whom nobody could possibly want as a wife.      And who would look after the forest if she was not here? Her      father loved Wolf Glen as she did, but his love was tinged with a      darkness she did not understand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Some girls were already wed at fifteen. Some were mothers. But      that was not possible for her. It was unthinkable. If she married,      how would she have time for any of the things that mattered? There      would be no time to hear the many voices of the forest, no time to      watch the patterns of leaves and light, no time to breathe the      crisp air, no time to feel the weight of a fine piece of wood in      her hands, seeing in her mind the forms that lay within. What if      the husband her father chose for her did not understand these      things? What if she tried to talk to him and her words suddenly      vanished, the way they did sometimes when she was talking to      Father or Aunt Della? The suitor would think her a half-wit, and      Father would be furious, and that would make it even more      impossible to get words out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Perhaps she could refuse to wed unless the man loved the same      things she loved. Somewhere, surely, there must be at least one      other person like her. If she could summon the right words, maybe      she could persuade Father to wait awhile. Some women married and      had babies when they were quite old, twenty or even      five-and-twenty. Her maid Alba had told her so. There was plenty      of time. Years.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Or so she thought, up till the day the wild man came to Wolf Glen,      and everything changed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e SheÕd been out by the barn, showing Gorm‡n a drawing sheÕd made      for a carving of a squirrel. HeÕd promised to look out for the      right piece of wood but warned her it might take some time to find      it. ÒOff you go, then,Ó heÕd said in his gruff way. ÒIÕve my big      ax to sharpen, and I donÕt want you anywhere near while IÕm doing      it, young lady.Ó\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Alba had come to the yard too, but now she was nowhere in sight.      One of the farm cats had produced a litter of kittens not long      ago, and Cara guessed her maid was in the barn petting them; Alba      loved cats. It was a good opportunity to go walking on her own-not      far enough to get either Gorm‡n or Alba in trouble, just down to      the heartwood house. She could be back before anyone noticed she      was gone. There was a rule about wandering off without a      companion, and Aunt Della would be unhappy if she found out Cara      had broken it. The rule was nonsense. Cara could find her way home      from anywhere in the forest, even places where she had never been      before. The trees were her friends. What harm could she possibly      come to? Perhaps Aunt Della thought her stupid enough to get in      the way of an ax like that giant implement Gorm‡n was working on      now. That was just as silly. Gorm‡n had taught her to be careful      in the workshop. She knew how tools should be used, how they were      kept sharp, how they were protected from rust. She knew how to      avoid cutting herself or someone else when she used her      wood-carving knives. But she couldn't explain that to Aunt Della.      In her aunt's opinion, a young lady should spend her time sewing,      spinning, weaving, and learning how to run a household, not      messing about with sharp objects and making things that were of no      possible use to anyone. Most times, while Cara was still      struggling to find the right words, Aunt Della would end the      conversation by saying, \"Oh, Cara, you're such a child.\" But that      wasn't true. She had her moon-bleeding now, and her body was      changing, and that meant, surely, that she was not a child but a      woman.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The heartwood house was not much of a house, only an old ruin in a      clearing. Each winter it crumbled away a bit more. Although it was      not very far from the barn, the pattern of the trees and the rise      and fall of the land meant it could barely be seen until a person      was almost on top of it. Father had been building it at the time      of her mother's death. Once Suanach was gone, work on the house      had ceased. It had been left as it was, hardly even a shelter for      forest creatures, since it had no roof. In another year or two the      last of it would fall and the forest would reclaim the clearing.      Cara liked the quiet way the wild things were moving to blanket      the broken structure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When she was little, but old enough to be curious, she'd been full      of questions about the heartwood house. In those days she'd had no      trouble saying what she wanted to, straight out. She'd been      brimming with words. Why was it called that? What was it for? Why      couldn't they finish building it? Back then, more of the structure      had been standing, and it had been easier to imagine what it might      have been like had the work been finished. She had noticed, even      then, that there were different kinds of wood in it. She'd      wandered through the ruin touching them, looking at the colors and      the patterns of them, guessing what they were, until Father had      caught her at it and ordered her away from the place, saying it      was not safe. He did not answer any of her questions. Indeed, he      was so stern and sad that she stopped asking him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Aunt Della gave all the questions the same response: she had not      been living at Wolf Glen while Cara's mother was alive, and when      Suanach had died, the heartwood house had been abandoned. So Aunt      Della knew nothing at all about it except, she said, that it was a      subject best not discussed, and especially not in T—la's hearing.      Cara would be better off putting her excess curiosity into      learning her letters and numbers or improving her plain sewing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Gorm‡n knew the answers, some of them anyway, but even he was      reluctant to talk. When she was a little older Cara realized her      persistence could have got him into trouble. He could have lost      his position in the household and been sent away from Wolf Glen,      which had been his home for years. Gorm‡n was a kindly man, and      patient with her. Why was it called a heartwood house? That was a      name from an old tale. No, he did not know the tale, but a      heartwood house was said to be lucky. When Cara had commented with      five-year-old bluntness that it had not been very lucky for her      mother, since she had died, Gorm‡n had crouched down, taken her      hands in his and looked her straight in the eye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Cara,\" he'd said, his voice so soft and sorrowful it made her      feel shivery, \"don't ever say that to your father. Promise me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"But why?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Because he thinks, if he'd got it finished, she might have . . .      because it would make him very, very sad. Promise.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I promise.\" She'd hardly understood, back then. \"Why didn't he      get it finished?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Never mind that.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You could have built it,\" she'd said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e That had made Gorm‡n smile. \"Finding the wood, getting all the      pieces ready, maybe. Putting a house together, no. I'm no builder.      And this would be quite a tricky sort of house. A very special      house.\" Then, in a different tone, \"Want to see a thrush's nest? I      spotted one this morning, up in the big oak.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her mother and the heartwood house and the things she could not      ask her father had all been instantly forgotten. A thrush's nest!      With eggs in it, or even little baby birds! She was, after all,      only five years old.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But the promise she'd made was a deep-down thing, and Cara did      remember it. As time passed and she grew up, the heartwood house      crumbled away year by year, and Father did not mend it, and never      once did she ask him why.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was a special tree down by the heartwood house. Cara called      it the guardian oak. When she was little, it had seemed to her so      tall that its topmost branches surely touched the clouds. It had      seemed a being of wonder and secrets, full of hiding places,      tenanted by all manner of creatures, the seen and the unseen.      She'd been a confident climber almost from the time she could      walk, and had spent more time than her father and aunt ever      imagined up in that tree, safe in the cradle of its great arms,      pretending to be a squirrel or a bird or a beetle, peering out      through the foliage to see folk about their work, hoping nobody      would come looking for her before she was ready to be found. Birds      would gather on the branches around her, preening their feathers,      making their subtle sounds, taking so little notice of her that      she might as well have been part of the tree. Sometimes they would      come and perch on her shoulders or in her hair. She used to tell      the guardian oak stories, the kind of stories little children make      up, and she thought the tree replied in a voice so slow and deep      that human ears could not really understand it, though she knew      what it was saying: Ah, yes. Tell me more, small one. Even now she      told the tree her secrets. It was so much easier to talk to trees      than to people. People didn't stay quiet and listen, really      listen. People interrupted. They fidgeted. You could see from      their faces that their thoughts were at least half on something      quite different. Aunt Della would be thinking, How will this      strange child ever find a husband? Father would be lost in some      dream of the past, his eyes full of a sorrow his only daughter      could not lift. Gorm‡n was a good listener, but even he would have      his mind on whatever job he had to start on as soon as Cara had      finished her tale.","brand":"Ace","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303789023461,"sku":"NP9780451467041","price":7.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451467041.jpg?v=1767724992","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/den-of-wolves-isbn-9780451467041","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}