{"product_id":"the-song-of-the-swan-isbn-9780593121726","title":"The Song of the Swan","description":"\u003cb\u003eA magical retelling of \u003ci\u003eSwan Lake,\u003c\/i\u003e featuring a clever orphan, a castle filled with enchanted swans, and a quest to unearth the secrets of the past.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOlga is an orphan and a thief, relying on trickery and sleight of hand to make her way in the world. But it’s magic, not thievery, that could get her into trouble.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Olga and her partner-in-crime Pavel learn of a valuable jewel kept in a secluded castle, Olga sees an opportunity to change their lives: a prize so big, they’d never have to steal again. But the castle is not as it seems, ruled by an enchanter who hosts grand balls every night, only for the guests to disappear each morning, replaced by swans. Guided by cryptic clues from the palace spiders, Olga soon realizes she’s in over her head—torn between a bargain with the enchanter, loyalty to Pavel, and determination to understand how the enchanted swans are linked to her own fate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne thing is certain: there is dark magic behind the castle’s mysteries, and Olga will stop at nothing to unmask it.\u003cb\u003e“Sutton's prose shines in this fast-paced adventure featuring engaging characters, a unique take on magic, and some truly creepy moments. I loved it!” \u003c\/b\u003e— J.A. White, award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eNightbooks\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Thickety\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An enchanting fairy tale\u003c\/b\u003e. . . . The characters are interesting, and the story, lovingly inspired by the ballets \u003ci\u003eGiselle \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eSwan Lake\u003c\/i\u003e, moves briskly.\u003ci\u003e\" —Kirkus Reviews\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eWise spiders, magical threads, and flawed illusions\u003c\/b\u003e anchor this traditionally structured fantasy that nods to \u003ci\u003eSwan Lake\u003c\/i\u003e, focused on a child who uses her magical powers to help her swindling merchant caretaker.\" —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003cb\u003eRipe for fairytale fans...\u003c\/b\u003e Sutton conjures a folkloric Eastern European setting in this \u003ci\u003eSwan Lake \u003c\/i\u003eretelling, and Illustrator Hannuniemi lends a cozy feel with blaack-and-white renderings.\" —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003eKarah Sutton is an American\/New Zealand children’s author and former bookseller. Her debut middle grade fantasy adventure \u003ci\u003eA Wolf for a Spell\u003c\/i\u003e was an American Booksellers Association Indies Introduce selection, an Indie Next List Top 10 selection, a Junior Library Guild selection, and was nominated for a Goodreads Choice Award. Inspired by her many years as a ballet dancer, \u003ci\u003eThe Song of the Swan\u003c\/i\u003e is her second novel.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVisit her online at KarahSutton.com or on Instagram at @KarahdactylAuthor.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003ePauliina Hannuniemi\u003c\/b\u003e is a Finnish illustrator with her Bachelor of Arts from Metropolia UoAS. In addition to \u003ci\u003eThe Song of the Swan\u003c\/i\u003e, she is also the illustrator of Karah Sutton's \u003ci\u003eA Wolf for a Spell.\u003c\/i\u003eone\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Years of traveling with a notorious swindler had taught Olga an important lesson: people who are trusting are the easiest to trick.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So she ignored the obvious lies being spun by her deceitful guardian as she jabbed her needle into the sewing in her lap.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “My illustrious lady!” shouted Mr. Bulgakov at a passing woman. “Don’t be shy. Your beauty needs no decoration, but our fine jewelry will complement the sparkle of your eyes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mr. Bulgakov gave his usual speeches to the visitors of  the market, but so far no one had been drawn in. Other merchants were beginning to disassemble their stalls, and very few stragglers meandered past, those who did only half listening to Mr. Bulgakov’s entreaties. “Jewelry, fine fabric, delicate trinkets, and music boxes! We have sold to tsars and kings  and sultans, so exquisite are our wares!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Behind the wagon, which had fabric draped over it to form the tent of their stall, Olga stayed hidden. She wasn’t good at interacting with customers. She yanked the thread, groaning as she made yet another messy stitch that her magic could not quite hide.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was a rustle of fabric, and Mr. Bulgakov peeked around the tent to glare at her. “This is your fault. They can see through your magic—­they know that the merchandise is shoddy.” His cheeks were red beneath his beard from the heat of the day. Dust from the road flecked the brim of  his cap.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Olga bit back the temptation to tell him that he could lie a little less extravagantly, but that was a criticism he would not receive well. And his critique of her magic was accurate—­ her crudely knotted heartstring around the tin necklaces and threadbare fabrics could fool only one person in ten. Most people could discern that something wasn’t right, even if they couldn’t tell that magic was involved.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Psst, Olga, what do you think?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She turned to find Pavel admiring himself in a mirror at the stall next to theirs, sporting an embroidered tunic and outrageous hat. The tunic looked well made, and the fabric hung elegantly on Pavel’s hulking form, but: “The hat’s too small for your big head,” she hissed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You’re right,” Pavel whispered, swapping out the first hat for another, this time with a ridiculous feather.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “That’s a ladies’ hat,” she said, trying to focus on her own stitching.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I still think it suits me,” said Pavel. He turned back to the mirror and stroked the feather on this new hat, flicking his bushy red eyebrows up and down and wrinkling his nose. He was a good five years older than Olga—­nearly eighteen—­but sometimes he acted like a younger brother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her stomach rumbled. She would need to learn how to prepare better illusions if she wanted to avoid going hungry so often. The meager stash of coins from their last sale was already running low.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Mr. Bulgakov claimed that one day their trickery would yield a sum so grand that they would never go hungry again, but in the meantime a life of swindling was their only choice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And now he would demand that Olga steal food, since they hadn’t managed to sell anything at the market.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Olga looked once more at her embroidery, wishing the lumpy birds and malformed roses were beautiful enough that she could sell her work without resorting to illusion. She gave Pavel a sidelong glance. “Looks like I’ll need to find some supper for the evening.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Pavel returned the hat and cloak and ducked back into their tent, his full height knocking the canvas from the wagon so it fluttered down. The sounds of Mr. Bulgakov grumbling were crystal clear without that cloth barrier. Pavel gave the old man a smile and stooped to set everything right again with a quick “Sorry!” Pavel was always forgetting how tall he was.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Don’t bother,” said Mr. Bulgakov. “We might as well pack everything away anyway. Olga, find us some food before it’s all gone—­”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I’m going, I’m going,” Olga muttered. She was already a few paces away from their wagon, venturing out into the half-­shuttered market.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e With practiced fingers, Olga swiped what she could from the final few stalls: old potatoes, a couple of apples. She reached to her chest and withdrew a short length of her heartstring—­the magic glimmering in a way that only she could see—­and used it to lasso a bit of cheese off a table and into her waiting hand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When she returned to their wagon, Mr. Bulgakov wrinkled his nose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “That’s the best you could do?” he said. “That won’t last us one meal, let alone to the next village.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Olga bristled. She hated it when Mr. Bulgakov made her feel like a disappointment. “What would you have done?” she snapped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “That stall is selling meat pies,” he said, gesturing to a table balanced at the end of a rickety cart. “Bring us one of those.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Olga took a step toward the stall, then hesitated. At the front of the stall, two children younger than her were playing a chasing game of some sort. They giggled and shrieked with laughter. Their shoeless feet slipped on loose stones, and their clothes had bare patches and threads unraveling at the hems. It was one thing to swindle people who could afford the fake jewelry they sold, or to steal an apple that was no better than pig food, but stealing a whole pie from a struggling family felt different.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sensing her reluctance, Mr. Bulgakov waved the young children over. “You there! Do you want to see something \u003ci\u003ewondrous\u003c\/i\u003e?” he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The boy, who looked to be the older of the two, stopped chasing his sister when Mr. Bulgakov called. The sister ducked behind him, peering under her brother’s arm at the strangers. Mr. Bulgakov had timed his greeting well: The parents were in the midst of packing away their cart and had disappeared behind it. There was no one to usher the children away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “I see you have a few pies remaining,” Mr. Bulgakov observed, confident that the children were still listening. “We can trade.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Olga was about to ask what on earth he planned to tempt these children with when he reached under their cart to withdraw a small music box.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A sharp laugh nearly choked her. The music box ruse was a trick to swindle wealthy aristocrats with more money than sense. Olga would use her magic to craft an illusion that the figure inside the box could move on its own, like a puppet without strings. But these kids were from a working family, the kind that prized every loaf baked, every pail of milk from their goats. The cracked boards on the family’s cart and the threadbare patches on their clothes made this obvious. What on earth would they do with a music box?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Still, the children crept close, and Mr. Bulgakov gave Olga a meaningful look as he opened the music box, leaning forward so that the little girl was afforded a clear view of the sculpted dancer spinning inside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When Olga didn’t move, Mr. Bulgakov gave her a sharp jab with his elbow, then cleared his throat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Olga’s insides twisted. The elbow meant that he wanted her to perform magic. She could bewitch the box to make it something these kids couldn’t refuse, and they were unlikely to see through her illusions. But the thought made unease bubble inside her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “These are usually sold for a silver coin,” Mr. Bulgakov said to the children, pausing to let the boy’s eyes light up at the mention of so much money. “You could sell this at the next market and get much more for it, I am certain.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Beside her, Pavel tensed. “I thought we only took from people what they can stand to lose,” he said in a low whisper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “We take from people whose need is less than ours! They are not starving!” Mr. Bulgakov snapped in a voice pitched so only Olga and Pavel could hear. To Olga’s surprise, his expression shifted to one of pleading.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Olga closed her eyes, wanting to ignore him, to walk away from these children and their remaining pies. But she  didn’t.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e After her mother’s death, Olga had tried to find out about her father but been able to learn nothing other than that he was born somewhere in the Kamen Mountains. With no other relatives to care for her, Olga needed Mr. Bulgakov’s reliance on her magic to give her a home. Even if that home was only the cart they used to get from village to village.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e So she tugged a small strand of magic from her chest and reached out to take the music box from Mr. Bulgakov, acting as though she intended to demonstrate how it worked. With shaking fingers, she looped the strand of magic around the dancer, wrapping the tiny sculpture in an illusion that made her dance more lifelike than any wooden carving could be. The eyes of  the children widened in wonder as they watched the dancer twist and twirl, finishing at last with a low  curtsy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The girl was  itching to  touch it. She’d  emerged from be­hind her brother,  her fingers twitch­ing. She bit her lip. Her brother reached down and gave her hand a squeeze, then nodded, smiling. The girl squealed with glee, then in a burst of speed turned and ran back to their cart, returning a moment later with a pie on outstretched hands. She nearly tripped in her haste, her bare feet managing to quickly recover on the uneven cobbles, and she clutched the pie close as a newly hatched duckling.","brand":"Yearling","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301163159781,"sku":"NP9780593121726","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593121726.jpg?v=1767741589","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-song-of-the-swan-isbn-9780593121726","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}