{"product_id":"the-patron-thief-of-breadisbn-9781536229609","title":"The Patron Thief of Bread","description":"\u003cb\u003e“Imbued with real suspense and a gorgeous warmth. . . . An utterly enchanting exploration of family in its many forms.” —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review) \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFished from the river as an infant and raised by a band of street urchins who call themselves the Crowns, eight-year-old Duck keeps her head down. It’s a rollicking life, thieving and on the run—until the Crowns infiltrate an abandoned cathedral in the city of Odierne and decide to settle down. It’s part of the bold new plan hatched by the Crowns’ fearless leader, Gnat: one of their own will pose as an apprentice to the local baker, relieving Master Griselde of bread and coin to fill the bellies and line the pockets of all the Crowns. But no sooner is she apprenticed to the kindly Griselde than Duck’s allegiances start to blur. Who is she really—a Crown or an apprentice baker? And who does she \u003ci\u003ewant \u003c\/i\u003eto be? Meanwhile, high above the streets of Odierne, on the roof of the unfinished cathedral, an old and ugly gargoyle grows weary of waiting to fulfill his own destiny—to watch \u003ci\u003eand \u003c\/i\u003eprotect. Told in alternating viewpoints, this exquisite novel evokes a timeless tale of love, self-discovery, and what it means to be rescued.The engrossing story is imbued with real suspense and a gorgeous warmth, and it’s a particular joy to watch Duck blossom. . . Vivid descriptions and gentle introspection easily transport readers into the teeming medieval world, but at its core, it’s an utterly enchanting exploration of family in its many forms. \u003cbr\u003e—Booklist (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e[M]ore impressive are the ways she [Eagar] not only wields atmospheric language to make both her vaguely medieval, vaguely French setting and the art and craft of bread making vivid, but kneads her protagonist (the two-legged one) into a resilient, responsible soul who can stay true to everyone she loves no matter how difficult or disagreeable. . . Ambitious, absorbing, and, at times, mouthwatering.\u003cbr\u003e—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEagar has written a complex and layered novel, with a vivid setting of medieval France and powerful themes of home and community.\u003cbr\u003e—School Library Journal (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBrimming with intriguing medieval-era details, Eagar’s (\u003ci\u003eThe Bigfoot Files\u003c\/i\u003e) tale of streets and skies boasts vividly wrought characters (protagonists are cued as white) and a satisfying, carefully paced narrative following one child’s gradual transition from street urchin to beloved community member.\u003cbr\u003e—Publishers Weekly (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSpectacular. . . [Eagar] is a master of nuanced characterizations and setting descriptions. Duck's story alternates with chapters that feature a gargoyle's grumpy and poignant commentary, adding a fantastical element and cathedral-high perspective to the street-level action. Duck's heartrending quandary about what makes a home is as relevant today as ever.\u003cbr\u003e—Shelf Awareness (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe plot, borne along by Eagar’s flawless, compelling voice, swells like a loaf of bread proofing: slowly, but developing delicious flavor as it grows. . . . the story comes to a hopeful conclusion that is balanced by wry, but not bitter, complexity.\u003cbr\u003e—The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books (starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEach member of the Crowns is given their own destiny. . . They become what they want to become, not what is necessarily a socially acceptable, predictable choice. This sort of closure provides an emotionally realistic ending to the book.\u003cbr\u003e—School Library Connection\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe gifted Lindsay Eagar, author of 'Hour of the Bees' and 'Race to the Bottom of the Sea,' offers a lovely tale of found family, of redemption and forgiveness in this beautifully written novel set in the fictional medieval-era French town of Odierne. . . . Eagar's beautiful narrative paints a vivid picture of life in a medieval-era French town and the Crowns' hard lives on the run.\u003cbr\u003e—The Buffalo News\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA riveting novel full of tension and action; sensory-rich scenes and settings; and vividly portrayed, believable characters. . . There are revelations at the end (one involving the gargoyle narrator), but they’re as nuanced as the rest of the novel. Eagar’s deep themes never feel tacked on but instead are thoroughly kneaded into her characters and story.\u003cbr\u003e—The Horn Book\u003cb\u003eLindsay Eagar \u003c\/b\u003eis the highly acclaimed author of three previous middle-grade novels: \u003ci\u003eHour of the Bees\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Race to the Bottom of the Sea\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Bigfoot Files.\u003c\/i\u003e She lives in the mountains of Utah with her husband and their two daughters.\u003cb\u003ePrelude\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003eAll the gargoyles on the unfinished cathedral in the dusty market district of Odierne face east except one.\u003cbr\u003e   Which means that all the gargoyles are insufferable early risers who begin their gossiping the moment sunshine hits their stone faces. Except one.\u003cbr\u003e   “Did you hear?” says one of the east-­side gargoyles. “The tanner’s wife caught him buying a pint for that saucy new laundress!”\u003cbr\u003e   The rest of them chortle. “Well, which would you choose? One smells like fresh linens, and the other one stinks like the entrails of a boar.”\u003cbr\u003e   Only one gargoyle on the cathedral roof faces west, thereby avoiding the morning departure of the pigeons from their roosts, which means there is only one gargoyle who does not get coated in bird grime. Only one gargoyle who does not have to wait for the rain to wash the smelly splatters from his horns.\u003cbr\u003e   And that gargoyle, in faith, is me.\u003cbr\u003e   “Serves you right, you noisy scummers!” I hoot the minute I hear the \u003ci\u003eslap-­slap\u003c\/i\u003e of white pigeon poop hitting the heads of the east-­side gargoyles. “One of these days, you’ll get a special delivery right in the chops—​that’ll teach you to talk so much!”\u003cbr\u003e   “Bite your tongue, ugly!” the east-­side gargoyles screech back at me. “No one likes you!”\u003cbr\u003e   I chuckle to myself. Always to myself. Their words roll off my back like water.\u003cbr\u003e   There are five of them, of uniform size and shape except for their monstrous heads, which are chiseled to look like various beasts from God’s green earth.\u003cbr\u003e   They have a decent view of Odierne’s best streets, the vendors, our city’s front gates, the count’s manor. My ledge overlooks the Sarluire, a river of little color that winds between Odierne and an expanse of barley fields beyond. The water carries the city’s refuse, which tends to bunch at the nearby canal bridge. After ninety years of this view, I weary of it.\u003cbr\u003e   I weary of the gleam of the Sarluire at high noon, angled right into my eyes.\u003cbr\u003e   For ninety years, I have been blinded by that river.\u003cbr\u003e   For ninety years, I have had to listen to those east-­side ninnies speaking about things I cannot see, their voices so loud I cannot hear anything else.\u003cbr\u003e   They were made by a different sculptor. Perhaps that is why it is so easy to argue with them. Or perhaps it is because there is little else to do up here except spin new ways to insult each other, new cruelties to shout across the roof like sermons.\u003cbr\u003e   Every day is the same when you are waiting. Tomorrow we will call each other guileless toads, wart-­faced nanny goats, great horned devils. I will growl for quiet; they will refuse me my request. \u003cbr\u003e   And above, the sun will burn a trail across the sky, and the moon will rise vapors from the sea. Time marches on.\u003cbr\u003e   Ninety years.\u003cbr\u003e   They call me ugly—​but we are gargoyles. We are all ugly.\u003cbr\u003e   And ugly has never once stopped the birds. They roost in the eaves, in the bell-­less belfries, safe from weather and wind. And when there is no more room in the hollow places of our unfinished frame, they try to roost on top of my head. Every time one of these feathered rodents steers too close, I bite at them, \u003cbr\u003e hard as I can.\u003cbr\u003e   “Fly south forever!” I shout. “Get plucked!”\u003cbr\u003e   At night, when the birds think I am snoozing, they bring their sticks and leaves and pieces of straw to my mouth, hoping to construct a nest before morning. But I snap my jaws shut, aiming to squash them, and end up with dirty feathers between my teeth.\u003cbr\u003e   “I hope someone roasts you with fennel and rotten potatoes!” I call as they flap into the darkness. It’s a good thing I do not sleep, or else they would make a birdbath out of me.\u003cbr\u003e   The pigeons are enough of a plague, and my fellow gargoyles make me wish I could chip my ears right off my head, but they are nothing compared to the abbey next door.\u003cbr\u003e   The Glorious Congregation of the Sisters of Mercy, it is called, and its sisters are a bunch of white-­cloaked old hedge witches. After their morning prayers, which drone on and on, they stand in their garden and blend together in chant, as if each of their voices is a string and they must musick them into a benedictory banner that hangs above Odierne for all the town to hear.\u003cbr\u003e   It makes me sick. It makes me wish for a working spout so I could spit water and pretend to be throwing up whenever they start their singing.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003ci\u003e“Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,”\u003c\/i\u003e they sing.\u003cbr\u003e   \u003ci\u003e“Praise butts, from where all droppings flow!”\u003c\/i\u003e I sing back, as loud and triumphant as I can.\u003cbr\u003e   “Grow up!” the east-­side gargoyles scold. “You’re revolting.”\u003cbr\u003e   So revolting, I have alternate verses for every hymn in the Glorious Congregation’s repertoire: “All Glory, Farts, and Honor,” “Sing to Him in Constipation,” “Of the Fathers Doves Were Smotten.”\u003cbr\u003e   I do not think God minds. I like to think He is on my side.\u003cbr\u003e   After all, God made the silence to be enjoyed.\u003cbr\u003e   Ninety years I have watched the river from my ledge.\u003cbr\u003e   Ninety years since I was chunked from a strange mountain and chiseled into shape and hauled onto this rooftop to keep our cathedral safe.\u003cbr\u003e   “A gargoyle is made to protect,” said my maker as she brought her tools up to my horns. And that is what I am supposed to do. Protect.\u003cbr\u003e   Ninety years since they started working on our cathedral. But I still remember.\u003cbr\u003e   How my stone fizzed with excitement when I saw where my perch would be—​so high up, I could see all the way to the horizon. How our structure came together in bursts and bits, block by block, slathers of wet mortar and piles of split timber. All of Odierne came out to witness the birth of a new cathedral, a once-­in-­a-­lifetime spectacle. How I could not wait to keep watch over them. Whatever came through the city walls—​sieges, storms, spirits—​I would guard the people as my own.\u003cbr\u003e   And I remember when the workers left for a midwinter feast day and never came back. The hay they had stuck between our stones to keep the mortar from cracking in the cold was there for many winters and summers alike, until the mice carted it off for their burrows.\u003cbr\u003e   Odierne was able to forget. They forgot about us long ago. They stopped seeing our stones as potential walls. Now they look right past our deserted structure as if we are invisible. They walk around the foundation to get to the butcher, to get to the river, as if we are something fixed in the earth like a tree. We are an eyesore, an embarrassment. They have learned to ignore us the way you learn to ignore a festering pockmark on your chin.\u003cbr\u003e   And every evening, when we are silhouetted with the rest of Odierne’s skyline, I wonder if we will ever be finished? Or are we destined to rot up here for eternity?\u003cbr\u003e   “Someday they will come back and finish this box of bricks,” I tell myself when the taste of righteous longing overpowers the usual flavor of my tongue, sun-­warmed lumière rock. “They will finish the choir. They will finish the last wall. They will put in the windows. This will be a functioning cathedral, and we will protect the city. I will be a functioning gargoyle—​”\u003cbr\u003e   “You’re a functioning monster already.” Harpy, one of the east-­side gargoyles, a real delight with an eagle’s head and the temperament of a snarling boar, can never pass up a chance to harass me. “You’re so ugly, you scared the financiers away!”\u003cbr\u003e   Gargoyles are supposed to be ugly. \u003ci\u003eUgly \u003c\/i\u003edoes nothing.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e   We are all ugly.","brand":"Candlewick","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304317702373,"sku":"NP9781536229609","price":10.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781536229608.jpg?v=1730756953","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-patron-thief-of-breadisbn-9781536229609","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}