Together Again - Joan Lennon

I've recently moved into a small flat of my own and been reunited with books that defined the first 70 years of my life. I wasn't aware of missing them before - I knew where they were and I knew they were safe, and I didn't think about them. But now they are in my bookcases. I can see them, touch them, nod a greeting, and know they are there within arm's reach (it is a VERY small flat) at any time of the day or night.

And I am starting to re-read! Old friends, revisited, that remind me of why they were my friends in the first place. It's a very specific, particular pleasure.

One bookcase - three more in the bedroom

When my mother, who was by then almost completely blind, moved into her last home, she brought all their books with her. Her sitting room was lined with bookcases, filled with books she couldn't read. But they were there, within reach, full of memories from a rich reading life that she'd shared with my father. It made absolute sense she wanted them, old friends, with her. Some of those books are with me now. I guess I'm re-reading for both of us. She'd like that.

Joan Lennon's website

Joan Lennon's Instagram

THE COMPANY OF FRIENDS by Penny Dolan

I like being alone, but there’s always some kind of company at my house. There’s always somebody around who can match my mood, or come up with an interesting fact or idea, or offer a different way of thinking about things. There are friends whose voices I enjoy, even though they just to ramble on about whatever they want. Most of the time, they hang about together, peaceful enough, but they can be also be surprisingly chatty and conversational. 

                    

Often, when I see them waiting, simply stepping away and ignoring them is not as easy as it should be. I ought to be paying attention elsewhere but how, in that moment, can I stop listening? How can I ignore that voice? I rarely think, let alone say, ‘I’m done with you,’ although I might think ‘Sorry. Not right now,” and scuttle on.

Friends, I have heard what your voices told me and I remember, or did once; the memory fades. Some of them stay huddled together, muttering and whispering, as if there is more they could tell me. A few speak freshly and brightly, like new neighbours who have moved into an established street, eager to share their experiences and views. There are, I admit, a few with old or complicated voices, those who ask for a little too much time and patience whenever we have a moment together.

To be honest, I like seeing them waiting around, all gathered together, here and there, as I pass by. They do make it easy to know who is with who, which ones are likely to be kindred spirits, which ones share the same vibe. I watch out for the colours each one is wearing: their style and design. What hints do they give off? What mood? What feeling? Does this one carry a whiff of worthiness, or is that one, loudly and clearly, occupying more room than really necessary? I know there are other ways of enjoying such friendships: ways maybe more admirable than this, and I have tried. However, at heart, I am not someone happy with that kind of virtual relationships.

So, there it is. Company! Friends, eh? Hey ho! So many days, weeks - and even years - spent with some. Those happy, contented moments of joy. Or those times of waiting, when their initial greeting was minimal or worse: plainly discouraging. So easy to be lured on by the need to know, to listen to what this or that friend says, to be in awe of their personalities, and then slowly steadily feel the need to seek out more friendly guests.

However, for now, sssh! Enough! Enough! A hard thing has been decided.

This space is too crowded for all of them, and I’m fairly that sure that some haven’t spoken my name for ages. The time has come for many of the present company to leave the room, to shift somewhat closer to the door and, yes, to exit and depart. An area waits, ready in the hall: an ideal spot for a last gathering, a final chance to pause, eye to eye with old friends, and say goodbye. 

I am not joyful about seeing so many friends leave, but there are places they can go, and bags and boxes to aid their journey. All is ready. The time has come. This - ta da! - is a moment for action. And so I shift a couple gently towards the exit, following up with a group I had honestly forgotten about.  

So sorry, goodbye, farewell, adieu, my friends. We’ve had some good times together, and you were very useful way back when, I know, I know. 

Time for the big sigh and the shake of the head. Tears? No, I don’t think so.

Yet now is when I make my mistake. I pause, lose focus. I should be escorting an old friend briskly to where they need to wait but instead, I take that one book, one particular title, down from the shelf. And worse. I open the book's cover, and then cannot help but turn a couple of pages. I start to read, and read on, and read on - and the  whole chance passes. 

A little later, I slip the book fondly back on to the shelf again. That friend isn’t going anywhere, and in addition, by all things Mari-Kondo, I glance at the clock and see that my book de-cluttering moment is now over, done and gone. Things happen.

Saying farewell to good company is never easy.                      

                 

Penny Dolan

BOOKSHELVING AT HALLOWEEN by Penny Dolan

                         

I write this on Halloween, surrounded by the spirits of the past and the words of the present. I hear their voices all around, reaching out to me: some insistently, some muttering at my neglect and others whispering affection. Each one promises me the safety of an escape from the present, and space and time in another world if I will only stay for a few minutes . . . or hours . . . or days . . .

How has this haunting happened? By my very own deed. The darkening nights have driven me to face, at last, a necessary task, no matter what the reckoning.. I was stirred me to start on an exorcism, to thin out some of the voices that have now grown so loud. I am the one who resurrected these presences, these spirits that sense their own disturbance. 

 A simple decision, I thought: the time had come to reduce the books on the shelves in my workroom. Right now, there are more authors around me, more muttering presences on pages than I can ever read or re-read. There are titles spread across the desk, the spare pasting table, the filing cabinet and any other spare surface available. So many! Certainly signs of a serious book addiction.

I have real attachment issues with books, knowing them as the safe and secure space of my childhood and, at times, ever since. Being able to buy books and having the space for them all my life has been both a need and a great privilege.

                            

Now some of them must go. Where to, though? A few places will accept discarded books - the Oxfam bookshop in town, an active local church, a National Trust Book Barn and Freecycle - so the books won’t, yet, go for pulping, This makes me much happier about the Big Sorting Out that has to be done, for all sorts of practical reasons. Yet having to choose makes me feel emotionally uncomfortable.                            

Some books remind me of my past, recalling a gift given, a special person or even the age I was when I first met the book. Some have mattered because of a particular character or a compelling landscape or setting. Some books I value because of the patterns of their language or a particular phrasing or vocabulary – and some of just fun. Some I have because they taught me about a certain place or community, near or far away. 

Others titles are simply there for security, containing facts and details that make you think you understand how to do x or y, or know why and what a certain happened. Even with the internet, I cling on to old non-fiction books just in case there is a need to check the fact a decade or so later. And all this without mentioning the satisfying power of design or illustration and the very feel in the hand or the lap of the three-dimensional object.

The books on my shelves have brought so much to my life that I am reluctant to trust in my own too-poor memor by casting the magic within the pages aside,  and set the books free in the world. 

                 

Today, with the daylight fading and All Hallow's Eve at my door, I shift the volumes along the shelves or place them in useful groupings. A gentle dust rises up, like the spells cast by all the many, many voices.  

I feel uncertain about which ghosts I am releasing . . . and whether I will still be able to hear their voices when the books are gone.

 

                                             

Penny Dolan

@pennydolan1

World B**k Day - by Ciaran Murtagh

I should like World Book Day -  it's a no brainer surely.

I make a living writing words for a living, a lot of them go into books, World Book Day should be right up my street when it comes to all round good days. But the truth is, I'm just not sure it is. I like the idea of World Book Day, I like what it represents, it's definitely a 'GOOD THING' but in execution... well, it makes me feel a bit dirty. 

Partly it's because it feels like a wolf in sheep's clothing. Can't argue with celebrating books or reading can you? But is World Book Day about celebrating books, or is it about selling books? It's like Valentines Day - you can't argue with wanting to celebrate the one you love - but do you have to do it on one specific day in a way that just so happens to make a mint for florists and Hallmark cards?

I'm always busy on World Book Day, but truth be told none of my best visits occur on that day. My best visits occur on a random day in November when I just happen to be in a school to talk about books and writing. On World Book Day it's hard to connect. 

Partly that's because - as any teacher will tell you - putting 300 kids in fancy dress and sitting them in a hall is never the best way to ensure complete focus. The first half hour of any World Book Day assembly is usually spent trying to persuade all the Harry Potters to stop poking all the Boys in  Dresses with their magic wands, and to tell the Marvel Super Heroes to stop punching the Disney Princesses with their power fists. 

One memorable year I was in a school where all the staff had decided to dress as crayons in a homage to The Day the Crayons Quit. However, as they had effectively put themselves in full length tubes for the day it meant they couldn't use their arms, or climb up stairs, or sit down, or do just about anything else...It was an almost perfect metaphor for the problems with World Book Day -  we so desperately want to show how much we love books, that in our effort to do so we make it impossible to pick one up. 

I have the best events when people are surprised by what I'm doing, who look at books afresh because of it, not at the end of a long week of stress and preparation where quite frankly the pressure of the fancy dress competition, teachers doing masked reading and the book fair have made everyone sick of the sight of books by the time Thursday rolls around. 

I don't know if it's a uniquely British thing, or just a human thing, but there is a tendency to commit so whole heartedly to a 'good thing' that it stops being enjoyable or even necessarily a 'good thing' anymore. There are pressures on schools to find authors and come up with events, pressures on authors to cram as many events into the week as possible and pressures on parents to come up with a costume and find the cash for a book or two. 

What is wrong with simply having a day that is focussed on books without all the rigmarole? I guess you wouldn't sell as many, but who cares? Because the truth is, the argument that it's good for business only applies to certain authors. There was a feature on World Book Day in The Daily Mail this week, the kids authors they chose to highlight? David Walliams, Julian Clary, Ricky Gervais and Tom Fletcher. So even when there's a golden opportunity to repoint the conversation around children's books towards authors who do it for a living, who go into schools even when it isn't World Book Day - shock horror! -  it's missed. 

I am aware this may all be sounding a little like sour grapes, but that's a perennial problem. If children's authors can't critique a day that is supposedly all about children's books then who can? It's the problem with universal 'good things'. They become bullet proof and that makes it impossible to even comment on them without being told you have some kind of agenda.  

The nation has decided that World Book Day is a good thing and therefore you can't criticise it - it's good for books and books are good for children, what kind of monster wouldn't want to encourage children to read -  and you call yourself an author! 

Yes, but could it be better? And is suggesting that we might just take it down a peg or two to focus on what it's actually about really that wrong? I'm just saying that if people spend more on the costume than they do on the actual book then maybe, just maybe, World Book Day has become about something else. 

And as if to prove a point, here's The Mail's World Book Day coverage today. 

Is it about an author? 

No, it's about Amanda Holden. 

Is it celebrating books? 

No, it's celebrating Heart FM. 

Time for a rethink yet?

My Favourite Villains by Claire Fayers

Following on from last month's post I am still pondering villains as I work on my new book. As I read around for inspiration, I thought it was time for another favourites list. This time, some of my favourite fictional villains, and what I've learned from them.

Satan

The villain who gave rise to all villains. 

Satan falling. (Gustave Dore)

Anyone who has read Paradise Lost will know that Satan gets all the best lines.

"All is not lost: the unconquerable will,

And study of revenge, immortal hate,

And courage never to submit or yield,

And what is else, not to be overcome."

At first glance, this could be the hero in his black moment. But look closely and you'll see revenge and hate hidden among the proclamations of courage. Satan's courage comes from his pride and his pride caused his downfall.

I will give my villain heroic qualities but twist these qualities so they feed into his villainy.

Count Fosco (The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins)

One of the greatest criminal masterminds of gothic fiction, Fosco is fiendishly clever, honourable in his own way and he possesses a charisma that even attracts the heroic Marian. In his final confession, he admits his adoration of Marian. Most of all, however, he adores himself. Right after confessing he would have committed murder if it had been necessary, he writes: "Is my conduct worthy of blame? Most emphatically no!"

This is a villain who truly believes himself to be a hero. He's in love with his own good qualities and believes himself incapable of any real vice.

My villain will be blind to her own faults.

Captain Hook (Peter Pan by J M Barrie)

Obviously I had to have a pirate in here. My own pirate villain, Marfak West, is still one of my own favourites.

What do I like best about Captain Hook? His evil laugh? His relentless pursuit of Peter Pan? No, the fact that he has lost a hand - a hand which was eaten by a crocodile which is still chasing him. 

It's a well-known fact of fairytales that the monster must have a single weak point. Captain Hook's is the crocodile.

I will give my villain a fatal flaw that will be his undoing.

Cruella De Vil (The Hundred and One Dalmations by Dodie Smith)

Some books on writing say you should give your villain some good quality to show their humanity. Have them save a kitten, for example. Cruela de Vil drowns kittens and wants to skin puppies to make a fur coat. That's how evil she is.

My villain will demonstrate her true character in how she treats people (and animals).

Matilda's Parents (Matilda, Roal Dahl)

I know Miss Trunchbull is supposed to be the villain, but honestly every time I hear 'Put that book down and watch TV,' I quiver. Matilda's parents are her parents. They're supposed to love her, take pride in who she is and help her develop her potential. Instead they want to squash her down until she's an ugly little copy of themselves. At least they have the decency to let her go at the end.

My villains will not always be the obvious one.

I think I have enough inspiration to start writing now. I'm looking forward to meeting my next villain.

Which fiction villains have inspired you?


Claire Fayers is the author of the Accidental Pirates series, Mirror Magic and Storm Hound. Website www.clairefayers.com Twitter @clairefayers

The Books That Made Me Fall In Love With Words by Emma Pass

My mum and dad tell me that when I was very young, I used to come into their room into the small hours of the morning to announce I was bored. So they did what any self-respecting parents driven half-crazy by middle-of-the-night demands for entertainment would do: they taught me to read.

I don’t remember this; for me, reading’s something that’s always been there, like breathing. What I do remember is the books that were more than just books – the ones that made me fall in love with words. (Follow the links to find out more!)

Tim and the Hidden People (series) by Sheila K. McCullagh

I discovered these at school when I was about 5 or 6. While everyone else was listening to the teacher reading about Roger Red Hat (another series by Sheila McCullagh) I’d sneak these off the shelves to catch up with the adventures of Tim, a boy who finds a hidden kingdom and explores it with the help of a cat called Tobias. Often, I’d get so absorbed, I’d be completely unaware that the teacher had stopped reading and was giving me the Stare of Death™ until she came over and took the book out of my hands.

Black Harvest by Ann Pilling

By the time I got to middle school, I’d developed an appetite for ghost stories. One of my favourites was this dark and incredibly creepy book about Colin and Prill, who are dismayed to find out their dorky cousin Oliver is coming with them on a much-anticipated holiday to Ireland. When they get there, though, Oliver turns out to be the least of their worries. Strange things start to happen – a terrible smell hangs in the air, Prill is haunted by nightmares and their baby sister falls ill. In the end it’s Oliver, the only one who seems unaffected, who discovers a connection to the Great Famine and must fight to save them all. I remember this being the first book I ever read where, instead of seeing places I already knew in the real world, I saw places that were completely out of my own imagination, conjured up entirely by the words.

You’re Thinking About Doughnuts by Michael Rosen

I also loved funny books, and there’s few authors funnier than Michael Rosen. This book is about Frank, who has to wait at the museum one night while his mum, who’s the cleaner there, finishes her shift. The exhibits, which include a talking doughnut-obsessed skeleton, come to life and together, they have all sorts of adventures. I got it through a book club at school and read it until it dropped to pieces.

In honour of the great man himself, I’m going to leave you with a video of another of my all-time Rosen favourites – his poem Chocolate Cake. The only word for it is… genius.

What about you? Which books, stories and poems made you fall in love with words and reading?

Why Libraries Matter by Emma Pass

Image licensed for reuse on Creative Commons

Forget Hogwarts. Never mind Narnia. When I was a kid, there was only one place where magic really happened. In this place, I could go anywhere. I could be anyone. I could fly; I could make myself invisible; I had superpowers.



That place was my local library.



As soon as I stepped inside, I entered another world. I never knew what I might find – what worlds waited for me between the covers of the books lining the shelves. Even better, I got to take that magic home, and it didn’t cost me a penny. For a child with a reading habit like mine, the library was a lifeline, feeding my book addiction and filling up my brain with stories and experiences and life.



Later, as an adult, I got a job in a library, and had the chance to see life from ‘the other side of the desk.’ I was also an aspiring author, writing stories of my own. I spent every day surrounded by books, by authors, by words. That familiar magic filled the air; I took it in with every breath. When I was supposed to be shelving books, I’d find a quiet corner in which to read. Between customers, I’d scribble ideas down on old receipts and tickets and request cards. I’d look at the books on the shelves and daydream about seeing my name on a book spine one day.



But there was more to it than that.



The stereotype of the library as an archaic, dusty institution, inhabited by stern, bespectacled librarians saying SHHH! every time you so much as breathe persists to this day. But that’s never been my experience, even as a child. The library I worked in was a cheerful, welcoming place. We had author events, storytimes, readings and more. And best of all was seeing children come in – some already keen readers like I had been, others just starting their first uncertain forays into the world of words.



I’ll never forget the fourteen year old boy who “didn’t read”, only, after we recommended a list of authors to his frustrated mother, he did. Or the kids devouring their favourite series who came running in every week to see if the next book had arrived.



I was able to volunteer to help out at events like the Big Book Bash, an annual celebration of books and authors for young people in care. I was asked to join a team of writers for a website that recommended books to young people. Later on, I was lucky enough to set up two writing groups – one for adults, and one for children (which I still run after we were adopted by Writing East Midlands), passing on my love of words to other people and – I hope – encouraging them to find their own magic in writing. After I got a book deal – much to the surprise of my colleagues, who I’dkept my writing a secret from, never daring to dream I might actually get anywhere with it – I had two book launches at two different libraries on the same day.



But libraries aren't just about books. The one I worked at certainly wasn't. There were the people working their way through their family trees. People who came in to use the computers to do their work, type up CVs, look for jobs or simply keep in touch with far-flung friends. People who needed information, who needed help, and it was us they came to – I hope that most of the time, we were able to give them what they needed.



This is why libraries matter. They are important to me on a personal level, but it goes wider than that. I know the difference libraries make to people because I’ve seen it – and I know what a difference they made to me.



We must look after our libraries. They are truly democratic – a space for everyone – and in this age of increasing ever-cuts and austerity, they need to stay that way.

Emma Pass lives in the north east Midlands. Her YA novels ACID and The Fearless are published by Corgi Children’s Books/Penguin Random House. You can find more details about her writing and workshops on her website at www.emmapassauthor.wordpress.com.

A POST FOR APRIL FOOL'S DAY! by PENNY DOLAN

Today is Easter Sunday but, as the First of April, the date is also known as All Fools Day. 



Here, for before or after your Easter Egg Hunt, are a few rather easy and ancient library jokes.
(Answers below.)

1. What has a spine but no bones?

2. What's the longest word in the dictionary?

3. Who tells the most fibs in school? 

4. In what section of the library can you get bitten by a snake? 

5. Why is a maths book always unhappy?
6. On a scale from one to ten, how big a Harry Potter fan are you?  

7. What’s the tallest building in the world? 

 8. What did the frog say when he landed on a book? 

Finally, a short story of times past: 

It was midnight, and the librarian was at home by the fire, deep in a really interesting book. All at once, the phone rang. The librarian, a little concerned by the time, decided to answer.

A gruff, unknown voice spoke. "When does the Library open?"

The librarian hesitated but, being a true professional, replied: "The Library will open at nine o'clock in the morning." Then, overwhelmed by curiosity, she asked "Why are you calling me at midnight to get in?" 

The questioner's voice trembled a little, and then burst out plaintively. 

"I don't want to get IN! I want to get OUT!" 

Somehow this tale made me think about those "attendant-free twenty-four hour " libraries now being tried out by some authorities. I know I really wouldn't like to visit one of those libraries alone at night. Just in case the automatic system failed and nobody, anywhere, was watching . . .  

Have a Very Happy Easter Weekend! 

 Penny Dolan 

Answers:  1: A book; 2: Smiles Because there’s a mile between each S; 3: The Lie-brarian; 4: The Hisssstory section; 5: Because it always has lots of problems; 6: Nine and three-quarters; 7: A library, because it has lots of stories; 8: Reddit, reddit, reddit.

What are your favourite books of the year? by Jess Butterworth

I recently received the most wonderful letter from a reader and it inspired me to celebrate my own favourite middle-grade ‘books of the year!’

Please share your own favourite books of 2017 too and I’ll put them to the top of my to-be-read pile. I adore getting cosy over Christmas and reading as many books as I can!

The Tale of Angelino Brown by David Almond (Author),‎ Alex T. Smith (Illustrator)

Bert and Betty Brown have got themselves a little angel. Bert found him in his top pocket when he was driving his bus. Bert and Betty’s friends think he’s lovely. So do Nancy and Jack and Alice from Class 5K. What a wonder! But Acting Head Teacher Mrs Mole is not so sure. Nor is Professor Smellie. Or the mysterious bloke in black who claims to be a School Inspector. Then there’s Basher Malone – big, lumbering Basher Malone. He REALLY doesn’t like Angelino. And it looks like he’s out to get him...

The Girl Who Drank the Moon by Kelly Barnhill  

An epic fantasy about a young girl raised by a witch, a swamp monster, and a Perfectly Tiny Dragon who must unlock the powerful magic buried deep inside her.

Tender Earth by Sita Brahmachari.  

Laila Levenson has always been the baby of the family, but now with her older siblings, Mira and Krish, leaving home just as she starts secondary school, everything feels like it's changing... can the reappearance of Nana Josie's Protest Book and the spirit it releases in Laila, her friends and her local community, help her find her own voice and discover what she truly believes in.

Letters from the Lighthouse by Emma Carroll
February, 1941. After months of bombing raids in London, twelve-year-old Olive Bradshaw and her little brother Cliff are evacuated to the Devon coast. The only person with two spare beds is Mr Ephraim, the local lighthouse keeper. But he’s not used to company and he certainly doesn’t want any evacuees. Desperate to be helpful, Olive becomes his post-girl, carrying secret messages (as she likes to think of the letters) to the villagers. But Olive has a secret of her own. Her older sister Sukie went missing in an air raid, and she’s desperate to discover what happened to her. And then she finds a strange coded note which seems to link Sukie to Devon, and to something dark and impossibly dangerous.

The Huntress: Sea by Sarah Driver

Ever since Ma died, Mouse has looked after her little brother, Sparrow, dreaming of her destiny as captain of the Huntress. But now Da’s missing, Sparrow is in danger, and a deathly cold is creeping across Trianukka . . 

The Jamie Drake Equation by Christopher Edge

How amazing would it be to have a dad who’s an astronaut?

Rocket launches, zero gravity, and flying through space like a superhero! Jamie Drake’s dad is orbiting the Earth in the International Space Station and Jamie ought to think it’s cool but he just really misses him…Hanging out at his local observatory, Jamie picks up a strange signal on his phone. It looks like alien life is getting closer to home. But space is a dangerous place and when his dad’s mission goes wrong, can Jamie prove that he’s a hero too?

The Ones That Disappeared by Zana Fraillon

Around the world, millions of people - including many children - are victims of human trafficking. These modern-day slaves often go unseen even in our own cities and towns, their voices silent and their stories untold. In this incredible book, Zana Fraillon imagines the story of three such children, Esra, Miran and Isa. The result is powerful, heartbreaking and unforgettable.

The Island at the End of Everything by Kiran Millwood Hargrave

Amihan lives on Culion Island, where some of the inhabitants – including her mother – have leprosy. Ami loves her home – with its blue seas and lush forests, Culion is all she has ever known. But the arrival of malicious government official Mr Zamora changes her world forever: islanders untouched by sickness are forced to leave. Banished across the sea, she's desperate to return, and finds a strange and fragile hope in a colony of butterflies. Can they lead her home before it's too late?

Fly Me Home by Polly Ho-Yen

Feeling lost and alone in a strange new city, Leelu wishes she could fly away back home – her real home where her dad is, thousands of miles away. London is cold and grey and the neighbours are noisy and there’s concrete everywhere. But Leelu is not alone; someone is leaving her gifts outside her house – wonders which give her curious magical powers. Powers which might help her find her way home . . .

The Explorer by Katherine Rundell   

 From his seat in the tiny aeroplane, Fred watches as the mysteries of the Amazon jungle pass by below him. He has always dreamed of becoming an explorer, of making history and of reading his name amongst the lists of great discoveries. If only he could land and look about him.

As the plane crashes into the canopy, Fred is suddenly left without a choice. He and the three other children may be alive, but the jungle is a vast, untamed place. With no hope of rescue, the chance of getting home feels impossibly small.

Except, it seems, someone has been there before them …

Coyote Summer by Mimi Thebo

Jules is an expelled, exiled, failure. Sent away by her mother from a life of luxury in London to live on her aunt's farm halfway across the world, she feels like everyone has given up on her. Until, under the baking Kansas sun, a wild coyote helps her begin to find out who she really is.

A Girl Called Owl by Amy Wilson

It's bad enough having a mum dippy enough to name you Owl, but when you've got a dad you've never met, a best friend who needs you more than ever, and a new boy at school giving you weird looks, there's not a lot of room for much else. So when Owl starts seeing strange frost patterns on her skin, she's tempted to just burrow down under the duvet and forget all about it. Could her strange new powers be linked to her mysterious father? And what will happen when she enters the magical world of winter for the first time?

Happy Reading!

Jess Butterworth

Author of Running on the Roof of the World and When the Mountains Roared

Website