{"product_id":"the-tearsmith-isbn-9780593874387","title":"The Tearsmith","description":"\u003cb\u003eNOW A HIT NETFLIX MOVIE • The bestselling international sensation and viral TikTok phenomenon—a dark, sexy, haunting novel of two aching young adults who are taken in by the same family and forced to reckon with a destructive love that could be the undoing of them both\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Ready for the next \u003ci\u003eTwilight\u003c\/i\u003e?”—\u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrowing up in a ghastly orphanage run by an abusive matron, Nica coped in the only way she could—by retreating to her imagination, where she lived out fantastical stories\u003ci\u003e, \u003c\/i\u003eespecially about the Tearsmith, the man who makes tears, a terrifying figure who forges all the fears that dwell in people’s hearts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen she’s finally taken in by an adoptive family at seventeen, Nica thinks she’s leaving the group home, its torments, and her prison of otherworldly tales behind her. That is, until Rigel\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003ea young man raised from birth in the same dreadful orphanage\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003ejoins her new family.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRigel is as mesmerizingly handsome as he is troubled, and he and Nica have a long history of distrust and hostility. But as they come to live together again under one roof, the deep shared trauma of surviving such vicious circumstances sparks something magical, and Nica begins to fall for Rigel’s forbidden love.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBefore any relationship can become reality, though, they’ll have to face the darkness of their past  . . . and the dangerous stakes of pursuing a future together.\u003cb\u003eErin Doom \u003c\/b\u003eis an pseudonymous author whose debut novel \u003ci\u003eFabbricante di lacrime\u003c\/i\u003e (\u003ci\u003eThe Tearsmith\u003c\/i\u003e) was a #1 Italian bestseller, selling over over half a million copies. It has been translated into twenty-six languages. Her second and third novels, \u003ci\u003eNel modo in cui cade la neve\u003c\/i\u003e (\u003ci\u003eThe Way the Snow Falls\u003c\/i\u003e) and \u003ci\u003eStigma\u003c\/i\u003e, are also bestsellers. Doom studied law and currently resides in Italy.\u003cb\u003e1. A New Home\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘They want to adopt you.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThese were words I never thought I would hear. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI wanted it so much, had wanted it ever since I was a little girl, so for a moment I thought I must have fallen asleep and be dreaming. Again. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut this wasn’t the voice from my dreams. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was the gruff bark of Mrs Fridge, her voice infused with the usual contempt. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Me?’ I gasped incredulously. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe sneered at me with a curled upper lip. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘You.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘You’re sure?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe gripped her pen with her pudgy fingers, and I flinched under her glare. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Have you gone deaf?’ she snapped. ‘Did all that fresh air block your ears?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hurried to shake my head, my eyes wide in disbelief. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNo one wanted teenagers. No one wanted older children, never, not under any circumstances . . . It was a proven fact. It was like in the dog shelter—everyone wanted a puppy, because they were cute, innocent, and easy to train. No one wanted a dog that had been there its whole life. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThis had been a difficult truth for me to accept, having grown up under that roof. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen you were little, they would at least look at you. But gradually, as you grew up, those looks would become fleeting glances, and their pity would carve you into those four walls forever. But now . . . now . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Mrs Milligan wants to have a little chat. She’s downstairs waiting for you. Show her round the institute and try not to ruin everything. Keep your head out of the clouds and with a bit of luck you’ll be out of here.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy head was spinning. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe skirt of my good dress fluttered against my knees as I climbed down the stairs, and again, I wondered if this was just another of my daydreams. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSurely, it was a dream. At the bottom of the stairs, I was greeted by the kind face of a mature woman, clutching an overcoat in her arms. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Hi,’ she smiled, and I noticed that she was looking me directly in the eyes. That hadn’t happened in a very long time. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Hello . . .’ I exhaled. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe told me that she’d noticed me in the garden earlier, as she was coming in through the institute’s wrought-iron gates. She had seen me in the long grass, lit by the shafts of sunlight filtering through the tree leaves. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I’m Anna,’ she introduced herself as we started to walk. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHer voice was velvety, mellowed by age. I gazed at her, enraptured, wondering if it was possible to be electrocuted by sound, or to be so enamoured by something you’d only just heard. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘What about you? What’s your name?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Nica,’ I answered, trying to contain my emotion. ‘My name is Nica.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe looked at me curiously, and I was so keen to hold her gaze that I didn’t even look where I was stepping. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘That’s a very unusual name. I’ve never heard it before.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Yes . . .’ My gaze became evasive and shy. ‘My parents named me. They . . . well, they were both biologists. Nica is a type of butterfly.’ I remembered very little of my mom and dad, and what I could remember was hazy, as if I was looking at them through a dirty window. If I closed my eyes and sat silently, I could just about make out their faces looking down at me. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI was five years old when they died. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTheir tenderness was one of the few things that I could remember—and what I most sorely missed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘It’s a really lovely name, “Nica” . . .’ Her lips rolled around my name as if she wanted to taste how it sounded. ‘Nica,’ she repeated decisively, with a graceful nod. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe looked into my face, and it felt like a warm light was beaming down on me. It seemed as if my skin was glowing under her gaze, as if a single glance from her could make me shine. This was a big deal for me. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSlowly, we wandered around the grounds of the institute. She asked me if I’d been there long, and I replied that I’d basically grown up there. The sun was bright as we strolled past the climbing ivy. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘What were you doing before . . . when I saw you over there?’ she asked during a lull in the conversation, pointing towards the shoots of wild heather in a distant corner of the grounds. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI quickly turned to look where she was pointing, and without knowing why, I felt the urge to hide my hands. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eKeep your head out of the clouds.\u003c\/i\u003e Mrs Fridge’s warning flashed through my mind. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I like being outside,’ I said slowly. ‘I like . . . the creatures living here.’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Are there animals here?’ she asked, a little naïvely, but I knew I hadn’t explained myself very clearly. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Little ones, yes . . .’ I replied vaguely, taking care not to step on a cricket. ‘Often, we don’t even see them . . .’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI blushed a little as we caught each other’s eyes, but she didn’t ask me any more questions. Instead, we shared a gentle silence, listening to the jays chirping and children whispering as they spied on us through the windows. She told me that her husband would arrive at any moment. \u003ci\u003eTo get to know me\u003c\/i\u003e, she implied, and my heart felt so light I felt like I could fly. As we went back inside, I wondered if I could pour those feelings into a bottle and keep them forever. Hide them under my pillow and bring them out to watch them shine like a pearl in the darkness of the night. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI hadn’t felt so happy in a long time. ‘Jin, Ross, no running,’ I said good-naturedly as two children rushed past, jostling my dress. They snickered and ran up the creaky stairs. I turned to look at Mrs Milligan and realised that she had been watching me. She was gazing deep into my eyes with a touch of something that seemed almost like . . . admiration.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘You’ve got really beautiful eyes, Nica,’ she said unexpectedly. ‘Do you know that?’\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Embarrassment gnawed at me. I didn’t know what to say. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Everyone must tell you that all the time,’ she prompted tactfully. But the truth was that no, no one at The Grave had ever told me anything of the sort. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe younger children would sometimes innocently ask me if I saw colours like everyone else did. They said my eyes were ‘the colour of a crying sky’ because they were a strikingly light, speckled grey. I knew that many people thought they were unusual, but no one had ever told me they were beautiful. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt the compliment, my hands began to tremble. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘I . . . no . . . but thank you,’ I stammered awkwardly, making her smile. I discreetly pinched the back of my hand and felt the slight pain with an infinite joy. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was real. It was all real. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThat woman was really there. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eA family\u003c\/i\u003e, for me . . . A new life, away from all of this, away from The Grave . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI had thought that I would be trapped inside those walls for much longer. For another two years, until I turned nineteen – that’s when you legally become an adult in Alabama. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut now, perhaps I wouldn’t have to wait to come of age. I had given up praying that somebody would come and take me away, but now . . . perhaps . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘What’s that?’ Mrs Milligan asked suddenly. She was looking around, captivated. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen I heard it too. A beautiful melody. Deep, harmonious music was reverberating through the cracks and flaking plaster of the institute’s walls. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn angelic sound floated through The Grave, as bewitching as a siren’s call. I felt my skin crawl. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMrs Milligan wandered towards the sound, entranced. There was nothing for me to do but follow her. She reached the arched doorway into the living room and came to a stop. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe stood, bewitched, staring at the source of this invisible wonder. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe upright piano was old, clunky and a bit out of tune, but despite all of that, it still sang sweetly. And, of course, those hands . . . those pale hands and those sculpted wrists, flying fluidly over the keys. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘Who is he . . . ?’ Mrs Milligan breathed after a moment. ‘Who is that boy?’ \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI clenched the skirt of my dress in my fists. I hesitated, and at the other end of the room, the boy paused. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis hands came to a gradual stop. His squared shoulders were a stark silhouette against the wall. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen, gradually, as if he had been expecting it, \u003ci\u003eas if he already knew,\u003c\/i\u003e he turned around. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis hair was a dark halo, as black as a crow’s wings. His face was pale, with a sharp jawline and two narrow eyes that were darker than coal. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere it was, that fatal charm. The seductive beauty of his pale lips and finely chiselled features made Mrs Milligan fall silent at my side. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked over his shoulder at us and his hair flopped over his lowered, shining eyes and high cheekbones. Trembling, I was certain I saw him smile. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e‘That’s Rigel.’A gripping tale of impossible love","brand":"Dell","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303271616741,"sku":"NP9780593874387","price":18.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593874387.jpg?v=1767741798","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/the-tearsmith-isbn-9780593874387","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}