{"product_id":"skipshock-isbn-9781536228816","title":"Skipshock","description":"\u003cb\u003e\"Readers will burn through the pages as they traverse gorgeous, fully realized worlds replete with their own varied dramas. . . . Incredibly immersive and utterly unique.\" —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSet in a universe where time is key to power and privilege, this dazzlingly inventive, genre-defying fantasy romance is the first in a duology by best-selling author Caroline O’Donoghue.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMargo is a troubled schoolgirl. After the death of her father, she’s on her way to a new boarding school in a new city.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMoon is a salesman. He makes his living traveling through a series of interconnected worlds on a network of barely used train lines. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThey never should have met. But when Margo suddenly appears one day on Moon’s train, their fates become inextricably linked. If Margo wants to survive, she has to pass as a traveling salesman, too—except it’s not that easy. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMove north on the train line and time speeds up, a day passing in mere hours. Move south and time slows down—a day can last several weeks. Slow worlds are the richest ones: you live longer, your youth lasting decades. Fast worlds are sharp, cruel, and don’t have time for pleasantries. Death is frequent. Salesmen die young of skipshock. That is, if they’re not shot down by the Southern Guard first. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs Margo moves between worlds and her attachment to Moon intensifies, she feels her youth start to slip between her fingers. But is Moon everything he seems? Is Margo?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTold through the eyes of both naive Margo and desperate Moon, the unforgettable realm of \u003ci\u003eSkipshock\u003c\/i\u003e will shake the way you think about love, time, and the fabric of the universe. The first in a planned duology from the best-selling author of the Gifts series, this utterly original epic is a must-read.Readers will burn through the pages as they traverse gorgeous, fully realized worlds replete with their own varied dramas. . . . Incredibly immersive and utterly unique.\u003cbr\u003e—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn this dazzling duology opener, O'Donoghue (Every Gift a Curse) deploys inventive worldbuilding that complements an intricate plot advocating social justice and immigration reform. Moon's first-person narration alternates with third-person chapters following Margo; their witty banter and burgeoning romance buoys the tone amid constant danger and high-stakes action sequences.\u003cbr\u003e—Publishers Weekly (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCaroline O'Donoghue (All Our Hidden Gifts) has built a remarkable and complex series of worlds in which two people from extravagantly different backgrounds collide. Alternating chapters represent Margo's voice (in third person) and Moon's (first person), pulling the reader along on a harrowing, heartbreaking, life-or-death campaign to bring balance back to the worlds. Breathtaking and relevant.\u003cbr\u003e—Shelf Awareness (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVast worldbuilding, distinct characters, and gripping action propel the narrative and underpin the astute commentary on privilege, wealth, and colonialism in this power struggle where time is everything. This deeply romantic duology starts as fast as a two-hour day on Khaise and never lets up.\u003cbr\u003e—School Library Journal (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eO’Donoghue, best known for her All Our Hidden Gifts trilogy, skips into sf here and has great and intriguing ideas for magic and tech. This will hook readers fast, and they will be ready for the planned sequel.\u003cbr\u003e—Booklist\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSkipshock\u003c\/i\u003e isn’t just a book. It is, literally, a new world to dive into, and one so exquisitely conjured that you feel you live there for a while. A suspenseful, romantic, charming, and really unique tale. Will make you hungry for the next one. Strongly recommended.\u003cbr\u003e—Matt Haig, best-selling author of The Midnight Library\u003cb\u003eCaroline O’Donoghue\u003c\/b\u003e is the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebest-selling author of the fantasy trilogy the Gifts, including \u003ci\u003eAll Our Hidden Gifts\u003c\/i\u003e, which has been published in more than twenty territories around the world,\u003ci\u003e The Gifts That Bind Us\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eEvery Gift a Curse\u003c\/i\u003e, all\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eillustrated by Stefanie Caponi. She is also the author of an adult novel,\u003ci\u003e The Rachel Incident\u003c\/i\u003e, which NPR, \u003ci\u003eTime\u003c\/i\u003e, and LitHub all named on their best books of the year lists. She has written for the London\u003ci\u003e Times \u003c\/i\u003eand the\u003ci\u003e Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e and is the host of an award-winning podcast, \u003ci\u003eSentimental Garbage\u003c\/i\u003e. She was born in Ireland and lives in London.\u003cb\u003eMoon\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe most common response I get when I tell people what I do for a living is: I couldn’t do a job like that. What they mean is they \u003ci\u003ewouldn’t \u003c\/i\u003edo a job like this. Every so often a new gruesome story circulates about salesmen, and what traveling between time speeds does to one’s physical health.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe are twice as likely to be alcoholics, three times as likely to die by suicide, and infinitely more likely to disappear without anyone caring at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut all I ever say is—you’re right. You \u003ci\u003ecouldn’t\u003c\/i\u003e do a job like this. You couldn’t haggle in a language that you don’t speak. You couldn’t fall asleep anywhere, training your body to relish fifteen-minute-long seated naps in the middle of a busy market square. And you couldn’t wake up the way we do.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSalesmen wake up like dogs. Snoring one second, barking at a stranger the next.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wake up on the train. Somewhere between Crader and New Davia I feel the train car screech against a tunnel, and have the slightly spectral sensation of knowing—even with my eyes closed—that I am being watched. The tangled gari beads are pressed between the seat and the nape of my neck, leaving light indents in my skin.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hello,” I say, eyes fluttering open. Everything about the stranger tells me she’s in the wrong place. First of all, she’s a \u003ci\u003eshe\u003c\/i\u003e. You rarely get women travelers these days, unless they’ve got a visa to work a special trade, and she looks too young and too out of sorts for that to be the case. Every detail uncovers a new question. Questions like: Why is she wearing summer clothes, on a train heading this far west? Why is she wearing a man’s watch that doesn’t fit her wrist? I squint at the glint of light catching the clock’s face. It’s heavy. Expensive. Silver.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hello,” she responds anxiously. The longer I look at her, the more her strangeness unfurls like new petals. Frantic green eyes glancing worriedly down at an orange slip, a paper rectangle no bigger than her palm. “You’re in my seat.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI gesture around the empty train car, arms wide with emphasis. Evidencing that there are quite a\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003efew\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eseats free, and it’s rather churlish of her to be protective of this one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There is no \u003ci\u003emy\u003c\/i\u003e seat,” I reply. “This is the Northwest quad—no assigned seating. Who are you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe says nothing. Just shows me her orange rectangle, creased in her nervous hand. I take it from her and read it aloud like I’ve been handed a story written by a small and imaginative child.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“13:05 single,” I read. “Cork Kent to Dublin Heuston.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe looks at me expectantly. “Am I near?” she asks, the hope draining from her speech. “Am I near Dublin?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hand the bright stub back to her. I’ve never heard of where she’s from or where she’s going to. I choose not to share this information. Salesmen are supposed to know about everywhere. The licensing tests are rigorous. They give you a big empty train map to mark with every world station, and it’s 90 percent pass-fail. They want to make sure you know every world so there’s less plausible deniability if they catch you in the wrong one with the wrong visa. Perhaps she’s a plant. A test. A mole. Some new plan of Semper’s, designed to trial our memories, our sympathies, and our resistance to a pretty face.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePretty face\u003c\/i\u003e comes to me unbidden, instinctive, the way “sleep tight” might follow a softly uttered “good night.” It presents itself to me in a childish way, because even though she’s about the same age as me, she reminds me of childhood. The wild hair—red, but nowhere near a natural color. The big eyes. The willingness to show fear to a stranger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFear. It’s something I’ve tried to grow beyond. I’m not an idiot, and I don’t think of myself as superhuman. I’m victim to the same thoughts and emotions as anyone else. But I do think that in almost all cases you can subdivide large emotions into smaller ones—fear into anxiety, love into affection, empathy into sympathy—therefore protecting yourself from those who will reliably take advantage. In the way insects will cloak themselves to look like their surroundings, I will respond blandly, in the hopes that blandness will cover me and that peace will follow.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is only very traumatized people, Ves once told me, who confuse stasis for peace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis person, meanwhile. This person is making no secret of her feelings. She’s completely animated by fear, and for a few seconds, I simply stare at her. Her uneasy eyes flitting all around the train car. Her breath running short. Fingers fidgeting at her hair, then her scalp, then at the cuticles on her other hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Why don’t you sit down?” I suggest.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe sit, uneasily, in a moment of mutual study. Now that she’s across from me, her eyes level with mine, I can feel her digesting my appearance. To be fair to her, it’s a lot to take in. The crescent moon that starts above my left eyebrow and hugs around my cheekbone is far bigger than most salesmen’s tattoos, its largeness in direct proportion to how much they didn’t want to give a license to a Lunati boy. They dug deeply, sharply, and despite their insistence on professionalism and neutrality, with some spite. The scar was violent red in the beginning. Now, six years on, it has smoothed to a papery beige. I watch her watching me. She forgets her panic for a second, because she is wondering how a person could end up with a scar that is so aggressive, yet so precise.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The answer is yes,” I say. Eager, for some reason, to get these private thoughts of hers into the open. “It did hurt, and yes, I was awake. And yes, I gave my permission.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe laughs then, embarrassment briefly overriding terror. “Sorry,” she says. “I was staring, wasn’t I?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Oh, not so much that anyone would notice.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere is a brief trading of apologetic smiles, and then a silence.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore we continue, I want to say something about that trade and that silence, because it happened so quickly, and no one was there to see it. Among salesmen, there is a practice known as scooping. This means that a salesman “scoops” a bunch of his old inventory into a handkerchief for you at a low price, and while most of it will be useless or cheap or out of date, there will always be something strangely valuable in there. A little gem, or a rare coin, or a kind of glass that you didn’t think they made anymore. Maybe the salesman didn’t realize he was giving it to you. Maybe he holds you in higher esteem than you originally thought.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat’s what it was like with her, during that first train journey. A gemstone was briefly uncovered in silence. She scooped me up, is what I’m saying. Or maybe it was the other way around. The face and the eyes and all the silly red hair. Not red like fire. Red like rust. Red like metal. Red like a chemical spill.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe moment passes. She remembers that she has no idea where she is, and her breath starts coming short. She lays the palm of her hand across her chest, as though trying to block her own heart from escaping.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“My name is Moon,” I say at last. “And I think you’re in the wrong place.”","brand":"Walker Books US","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303166169317,"sku":"NP9781536228816","price":19.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781536228816.jpg?v=1767736732","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/skipshock-isbn-9781536228816","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}