{"product_id":"the-good-thief-isbn-9780385337465","title":"The Good Thief","description":"\u003cb\u003eRichly imagined, gothically spooky, and replete with the ingenious storytelling  ability of a born novelist, \u003ci\u003eThe Good Thief\u003c\/i\u003e introduces one of the most appealing young  heroes in contemporary fiction and ratifies Hannah Tinti as one of our most exciting  new talents. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e• \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e  \u003c\/b\u003e• \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e• \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eWinner of the Center for Fiction First Novel Prize and an American Library Association Alex Award\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwelve year-old Ren is missing his left hand. How it was lost is a  mystery that Ren has been trying to solve for his entire life, as well as who his  parents are, and why he was abandoned as an infant at Saint Anthony’s Orphanage for  boys. He longs for a family to call his own and is terrified of the day he will be  sent alone into the world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut then a young man named Benjamin Nab appears, claiming  to be Ren’s long-lost brother, and his convincing tale of how Ren lost his hand and  his parents persuades the monks at the orphanage to release the boy and to give Ren  some hope. But is Benjamin really who he says he is? Journeying through a New England  of whaling towns and meadowed farmlands, Ren is introduced to a vibrant world of  hardscrabble adventure filled with outrageous scam artists, grave robbers, and petty  thieves. If he stays, Ren becomes one of them. If he goes, he’s lost once again.  As Ren begins to find clues to his hidden parentage he comes to suspect that Benjamin  not only holds the key to his future, but to his past as well. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Good Thief\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Every once in a while—if you are very lucky—you come upon a novel so marvelous and enchanting and rare that you wish everyone in the world would read it, as well. \u003ci\u003eThe Good Thief\u003c\/i\u003e is just such a book—a beautifully composed work of literary magic.\"\u003cb\u003e—Elizabeth Gilbert, author of \u003ci\u003eEat, Pray, Love\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Darkly transporting . . . [In] \u003ci\u003eThe Good Thief,\u003c\/i\u003e the reader can find plain-spoken fiction full of traditional virtues: strong plotting, pure lucidity, visceral momentum and a total absence of writerly mannerisms. In Ms. Tinti’s case that means an American Dickensian tale with touches of Harry Potterish whimsy, along with a macabre streak of spooky New England history.\"\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"Every once in a while—if you are very lucky—you come upon a novel so marvelous and enchanting and rare that you wish everyone in the world would read it, as well. \u003ci\u003eThe Good Thief\u003c\/i\u003e is just such a book—a beautifully composed work of literary magic.\"\u003cb\u003e—Elizabeth Gilbert, author of \u003ci\u003eEat, Pray, Love\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Darkly transporting . . . [In] \u003ci\u003eThe Good Thief,\u003c\/i\u003e the reader can find plain-spoken fiction full of traditional virtues: strong plotting,  pure lucidity, visceral momentum and a total absence of writerly mannerisms. In Ms.  Tinti’s case that means an American Dickensian tale with touches of Harry Potterish  whimsy, along with a macabre streak of spooky New England history.\"\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\"Tinti, like John Barth with his postmodern picturesque classic,\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Sot-Weed Factor\u003c\/i\u003e,  has created one of the freshest, most beguiling narratives this side of\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003eOliver Twist\u003c\/i\u003e.\"\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eO:  The Oprah Magazine\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\"Hannah Tinti has written a lightning strike of a novel—beautiful  and haunting and ever so bright. She is a 21st century Robert Louis Stevenson, an  adventuress who lays bare her character's hearts with a precision and a fearlessness  that will leave you shaken.\"\u003cb\u003e—Junot Díaz\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eThe Good Thief'\u003c\/i\u003es  characters are weird and wonderful. . . . [It] has all the makings of a classic—a hero,  a villain and a rollicking good tale set in 19th century New England about a good  boy who gets mixed up with a lot of bad men. . . . All of that, along with its humor,  ingenuity and fast pace, make \u003ci\u003eThe Good Thief\u003c\/i\u003e compelling.\"\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Ren lives every child's fantasy, to leave a mundane life for an adventure in which  he discovers who he was supposed to be and who he could yet become. . . . [His] mischievous  ways earned the character comparisons to \u003ci\u003eHuck Finn\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eOliver Twist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e And the plot,  which winds its way through a mousetrap factory and the memory of a family tragedy,  certainly give him a literary playground in which to frolic.”\u003cb\u003e—Associated Press\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“The key to Tinti's success with this novel  is the constant tension between tenderness and peril, a tension that she ratchets  up until the final pages. . . . [With] enough harrowing scrapes and turns to satisfy your  inner Dickens.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eWashington Post Book World\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“Difficult to put down . . . A cavalcade of  chase scenes, suspenseful moments and revelations.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eSeattle Times\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e“The kind of story  that might have kept you reading all day when you were home sick from school. . . . Writing  for adults while keeping to a child’s perspective isn’t easy, and Tinti makes it  look effortless.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Tinti secures her place as one of  the sharpest, slyest young American novelists.\"\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “[A] striking  debut novel . . . Unfolds like a Robert Louis Stevenson tale retold amid the hardscrabble  squalor of Colonial New England.  The sheer strangeness of the story is beguiling. . . . Good  fun.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003eHannah Tinti's work has appeared in magazines and anthologies, including \u003ci\u003eThe\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eBest\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003eAmerican Mystery Stories 2003.\u003c\/i\u003e Her short-story collection, \u003ci\u003eAnimal Crackers,\u003c\/i\u003e has been sold in fifteen countries, and was a runner-up for the PEN\/Hemingway Award. She is the editor of \u003ci\u003eOne Story\u003c\/i\u003e magazine.Chapter One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The man arrived after morning prayers. Word spread quickly that someone  had come, and the boys of Saint Anthony’s elbowed each other and strained to catch  a glimpse as he unhitched his horse and led it to the trough for drinking. The man’ s face was hard to make out, his hat pulled so far down that the brim nearly touched  his nose. He tied the reins to a post and then stood there, patting the horse’s neck  as it drank. The man waited, and the boys watched, and when the mare finally lifted  its head, they saw the man lean forward, stroke the animal’s nose, and kiss it. Then  he wiped his lips with the back of his hand, removed his hat, and made his way across  the yard to the monastery.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Men often came for children. Sometimes it was for cheap  labor, sometimes for a sense of doing good. The brothers of Saint Anthony’s would  stand the orphans in a line, and the men would walk back and forth, inspecting. It  was easy to tell what they were looking for by where their eyes went. Usually it  was to boys almost fourteen, the taller ones, the loudest, the strongest. Then their  eyes went down to the barely crawling, the stumbling two-year-olds—still untainted  and fresh. This left the in-betweens—those who had lost their baby fat and curls  but were not yet old enough to be helpful. These children were usually ill-tempered  and had little to offer but lice and a bad case of the measles. Ren was one of them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He had no memory of a beginning—of a mother or father, sister or brother. His life  was simply there, at Saint Anthony’s, and what he remembered began in the middle  of things—the smell of boiled sheets and lye; the taste of watery oatmeal; the feel  of dropping a brick onto a piece of stone, watching the red pieces split off, then  using those broken shards to write on the wall of the monastery, and being slapped  for this, and being forced to wash the dust away with a cold, wet rag.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ren’s name  had been sewn into the collar of his nightshirt: three letters embroidered in dark  blue thread. The cloth was made of good linen, and he had worn it until he was nearly  two. After that it was taken away and given to a smaller child to wear. Ren learned  to keep an eye on Edward, then James, then Nicholas—and corner them in the yard.  He would pin the squirming child to the ground and examine the fading letters closely,  wondering what kind of hand had worked them. The R and E were sewn boldly in a cross-stitch,  but the N was thinner, slanting to the right, as if the person working the thread  had rushed to complete the job. When the shirt wore thin, it was cut into bandages.  Brother Joseph gave Ren the piece of collar with the letters, and the boy kept it  underneath his pillow at night.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ren watched now as the visitor waited on the steps  of the priory. The man passed his hat back and forth in his hands, leaving damp marks  along the felt. The door opened and he stepped inside. A few minutes later Brother  Joseph came to gather the children, and said, “Get to the statue.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The statue of  Saint Anthony sat in the center of the yard. It was carved from marble, dressed in  the robes of the Franciscan friars. The dome of Saint Anthony’s head was bald, with  a halo circling his brow. In one hand he held a lily and in the other a small child  wearing a crown. The child was holding out one palm in supplication and using the  other to touch the saint’s cheek. There were times, when the sun receded in the afternoon  and shadows played across the stone, that the touch looked more like a slap. This  child was Jesus Christ, and the pairing was proof of Saint Anthony’s ability to carry  messages to God. When a loaf of bread went missing from the kitchen, or Father John  couldn’t find the keys to the chapel, the children were sent to the statue. Saint  Anthony, Saint Anthony, come bring what I’ve lost back to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Catholics were rare  in this part of New England. A local Irishman who’d made a fortune pressing cheap  grapes into strong port had left his vineyard to the church in a desperate bid for  heaven before he died. The brothers of Saint Anthony were sent to claim the land  and build the monastery. They found themselves surrounded by Protestants, who, in  the first month of their arrival, burned down the barn, fouled the well, and caught  two brothers after dark on the road and sent them home tarred and feathered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After  praying for guidance, the brothers turned to the Irishman’s winepress, which was  still intact and on the grounds. Plants were sent from Italy, and after some trial  and error the brothers matched the right vine with their stony New England soil.  Before long Saint Anthony’s became well-known for their particular vintage, which  they aged in old wooden casks and used for their morning and evening masses. The  unconsecrated wine was sold to the local taverns and also to individual landowners,  who sent their servants to collect the bottles in the night so that their neighbors  would not see them doing business with Catholics.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Soon after this the first child  was left. Brother Joseph heard cries one morning before sunrise and opened the door  to find a baby wrapped in a soiled dress. The second child was left in a bucket near  the well. The third in a basket by the outhouse. Girls were collected every few months  by the Sisters of Charity, who worked in a hospital some distance away. What happened  to them, no one knew, but the boys were left at Saint Anthony’s, and before long  the monastery had turned into a de facto orphanage for the bastard children of the  local townspeople, who still occasionally tried to burn the place to the ground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To control these attempts at arson, the brothers built a high brick wall around  the property, which sloped and towered like a fortress along the road. At the bottom  of the wooden gate that served as the entrance they cut a small swinging door, and  it was through this tiny opening that the babies were pushed. Ren was told that he,  too, had been pushed through this gate and found the following morning, covered in  mud in the prior’s garden. It had rained the night before, and although Ren had no  memory of the storm, he often wondered why he had been left in bad weather. It always  led to the same conclusion: that whoever had dropped him off could not wait to be  rid of him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The gate was hinged to open one way—in. When Ren pushed at the tiny  door with his finger, he could feel the strength of the wooden frame behind it. There  was no handle on the children’s side, no groove to lift from underneath. The wood  was heavy, thick, and old—a fine piece of oak planed years before from the woods  beyond the orphanage. Ren liked to imagine he felt a pressure in return, a mother  reaching back through, changing her mind, groping wildly, a thin white arm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e • • •\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Underneath Saint Anthony’s statue the younger boys fidgeted and pushed, the older  ones cleared their throats nervously. Brother Joseph walked down the line and straightened  their clothes, or spit on his hand and scrubbed their faces, bumping his large stomach  into the children who had fallen out of place. He pushed it now toward a six-year-old  who had suddenly sprung a bloody nose from the excitement.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Hide it quick,” he said,  shielding the boy with his body. Across the yard Father John was solemnly approaching,  and behind him was the man who had kissed the horse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was a farmer. Perhaps forty  years old. His shoulders were strong, his fingers thick with calluses, his skin the  color of rawhide from the sun. There was a rash of brown spots across his forehead  and the backs of his hands. His face was not unkind, and his coat was clean, his  shirt pressed white, his collar tight against his neck. A woman had dressed him.  So there would be a wife. A mother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The man began to make his way down the line.  He paused before two blond boys, Brom and Ichy. They were also in-betweens, twins  left three winters after Ren. Brom’s neck was thicker, by about two inches, and Ichy’s feet were longer, by about two inches, but beyond those distinguishing characteristics  it was hard to tell the boys apart when they were standing still. It was only when  they were out in the fields working, or throwing stones at a pine tree, or washing  their faces in the morning that the differences became clear. Brom would splash a  handful of water over his head and be done with it. Ichy would fold a handkerchief  into fourths, dab it into the basin, then set to work carefully and slowly behind  his ears.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was said that no one would adopt Brom and Ichy because they were twins.  One was sure to be unlucky. Second-borns were usually considered changelings and  drowned right after birth. But no one knew who came first, Brom or Ichy, so there  was no way to tell where the bad luck was coming from. What the brothers needed to  do was separate, make themselves look as different as possible. Ren kept this information  to himself. They were his only friends, and he did not want to lose them.A New York Times Notable Book of the Year","brand":"Dial Press Trade Paperback","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46299752038629,"sku":"NP9780385337465","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780385337465.jpg?v=1767739600","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-good-thief-isbn-9780385337465","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}