Winterwood by Shea Ernshaw (English) Hardcover Book

Description: Winterwood by Shea Ernshaw "Rumored to be a witch, Nora Walker attempts to uncover the truth about a boy she discovers in the woods who went missing weeks ago during a brutal winter storm, only to learn that he wasnt the only one to go missing all those weeks ago"-- FORMAT Hardcover LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description From New York Times bestselling author of The Wicked Deep comes a haunting romance perfect for fans of Practical Magic, where dark fairy tales and enchanted folklore collide after a boy, believed to be missing, emerges from the magical woods—and falls in love with the witch determined to unravel his secrets.Be careful of the dark, dark wood… Especially the woods surrounding the town of Fir Haven. Some say these woods are magical. Haunted, even. Rumored to be a witch, only Nora Walker knows the truth. She and the Walker women before her have always shared a special connection with the woods. And its this special connection that leads Nora to Oliver Huntsman—the same boy who disappeared from the Camp for Wayward Boys weeks ago—and in the middle of the worst snowstorm in years. He should be dead, but here he is alive, and left in the woods with no memory of the time hed been missing. But Nora can feel an uneasy shift in the woods at Olivers presence. And its not too long after that Nora realizes she has no choice but to unearth the truth behind how the boy she has come to care so deeply about survived his time in the forest, and what led him there in the first place. What Nora doesnt know, though, is that Oliver has secrets of his own—secrets hell do anything to keep buried, because as it turns out, he wasnt the only one to have gone missing on that fateful night all those weeks ago. For as long as there have been fairy tales, we have been warned to fear what lies within the dark, dark woods and in Winterwood, New York Times bestselling author Shea Ernshaw, shows us why. Author Biography Shea Ernshaw is the author of A History of Wild Places, the New York Times bestseller The Wicked Deep, Winterwood, and A Wilderness of Stars. She is the winner of the 2019 Oregon Book Award. She lives in a small mountain town in Oregon and is happiest when lost in a good book, lost in the woods, or writing her next novel. Review Winter 2019 Indie Next Pick Kirkus Reviews "Falls Biggest YA Books of 2019" B&N Teen Blog "Most Anticipated Fantasy YA of 2019" B&N Teen Blog "10 of the Biggest Fall Fantasies" B&N Teen Blog "Our Most Anticipated Sophomore Novels of 2019""A delectably immersive, eerie experience." -- Kirkus "A spellbinding tale of witchery, deadly secrets, and woods that hold grudges. Winterwood is immersive, atmospheric, and bewitching. --Stephanie Garber, #1 New York Times & international bestselling author of the Caraval series."Winterwood casts a deliciously dark spell with a rich lineage of witches, secretive boys, and a sinister forest that will pull in any reader and never let them go." -- Megan Shepherd, New York Times bestselling author of Grim Lovelies "Shea Ernshaw spins yet another haunting tale in Winterwood. Mythic prose and atmospheric storytelling will leave readers spellbound and hungry for more of Ernshaws witchy worlds." --Adrienne Young, New York Times bestselling author of Sky in the Deep."The beauty and mystery of the natural world infuse every moment in this lush, spellbinding story that weaves romance with witchcraft—a seductive, lyrical tale of lost boys, old legends and haunted woods." –Lexa Hillyer, author of Spindle Fire"Lyrical, magical and mysterious, Winterwood left me intoxicated, dancing beneath an endless moon." -- Dawn Kurtagich, author of Teeth in the Mist"Readers who loved A Discovery of Witches, Practical Magic, The Physick Book of Deliverance Dane and other books featuring long lineages of magical women . . . will find much to enjoy here. Ernshaws deeply atmospheric prose makes Winterwood the perfect read for a cold and gloomy day." --Bookpage"Ernshaw weaves an irresistible spell, entwining nature, romance, and magic through a lyrical text." -- Booklist "A vivid fantasy world and a dark, thrilling atmosphere that drives the biting cold of Winterwood deep into readers bones." --Publishers Weekly"Gasp- and sigh-worthy." -- BCCB"A dynamic thriller for fans of paranormal fiction." -- SLJ Review Quote " Winterwood casts a deliciously dark spell with a rich lineage of witches, secretive boys, and a sinister forest that will pull in any reader and never let them go." -- Megan Shepherd, New York Times bestselling author of Grim Lovelies Excerpt from Book Chapter 1: Nora NORA N ever waste a full moon, Nora, even in winter , my grandmother used to say. Wed wander up the Black River under a midnight sky, following the constellations above us like a map I could trace with my fingertips--imprints of stardust on my skin. She would hum a melody from deep within her belly, gliding sure-footed across the frozen river to the other side. Can you hear it? shed ask. The moon is whispering your secrets. It knows your darkest thoughts. My grandmother was like that--strange and beautiful, with stories resting just behind her eyelids. Stories about moonlight and riddles and catastrophes. Dreadful tales. But bright, cheery ones too. Walking beside her, I mirrored each step she took into the wilderness, in awe of how swiftly she avoided stinging nettles and poison buckthorns. How her hands traced the bark of every tree we passed, knowing its age just by touch. She was a wonder--her chin always tilted to the sky, craving the anemic glow of moonlight against her olive skin, a storm always brewing along her edges. But tonight, I walk without her, chasing that same moon up the same dark, frozen river--hunting for lost things inside the cold, mournful forest. Tree limbs sag and drip overhead. An owl hoots from a nearby spruce. And Fin and I slog deeper into the mountains, his wolf tail slashing above him, nose to the air, tracking some unknown scent to the far side of the riverbank. Two weeks have passed since the storm blew over Jackjaw Lake. Two weeks since the snow fell and blocked the only road out of the mountains. Two weeks since the electricity popped and died. And two weeks since a boy from the camp across the lake went missing. A boy whose name I dont even know. A boy who ran away or got lost or simply vanished like the low morning fog that rises up from the lake during autumn rainstorms. Who crept from his bunk inside one of the camp cabins and never returned. A victim of the winter cold. Of madness or desperation. Of these mountains that have a way of getting inside your head--playing tricks on those who dare to walk among the pines long after the sun has set. These woods are wild and rugged and unkind. They cannot be trusted. Yet, this is where I walk: deep into the mountains. Where no others dare to go. Because I am more darkness than girl. More winter shadows than August sunlight. We are the daughters of the wood , my grandmother would whisper. So I push farther up the shore of the Black River, following the map made by the stars, just like she taught me. Just like all Walkers before me. Until I reach the place . The place where the line of trees breaks open to my right, where two steep ridges come together to form a narrow passage into a strange, dark forest to the east--a forest that is much older than the pines along the Black River. Trees that are bound in and closed off and separate from the rest. The Wicker Woods. A mound of rocks stands guard ahead of me: flat stones pulled up from the riverbed and stacked four feet high beside the entrance to the wood. Its a warning. A sign to turn back. Only the foolish enter here. Miners who panned for gold along the riverbank built the cairn to steer away those who would come later, those who might wander into this swath of land, unaware of the cruel dark that awaited them. The rocks that mark the entrance have never toppled, never collapsed under the weight of snow or rain or autumn winds. This is the border. Only enter under a full moon , Grandma cautioned, eyes like watery pools dewing at the edges. Inside this hallowed wood, I will find lost items, but only beneath a full moon--when the forest sleeps, when the pale glow of moonlight lulls it into slumber--can I slip through unnoticed. Unharmed. A sleeping forest will allow safe passage. But if it wakes, be prepared to run. Each month, when the swollen moon rises in the sky, I enter the Wicker Woods in search of lost things hidden among the greening branches and tucked at the base of trees. Lost sunglasses, rubber flip-flops, cheap plastic earrings in the shape of watermelons and unicorns and crescent moons. Toe rings and promise rings given to girls by lovesick boys. The things that are lost at Jackjaw Lake in summers past are once again found in the woods. Appearing as if the forest is giving them back. But sometimes, under a particularly lucky full moon, I find items much older--long forgotten things, whose owners fled these mountains a century ago. Silver lockets and silver buttons and silver sewing notions. Toothbrushes made of bone, medicine bottles with labels long since worn away, cowboy boots and tin cans once filled with powdered milk and black coffee grounds. Watch fobs and doorknobs. And from time to time, I even find gold itself: crude coins hammered into a disc, gold nuggets tangled in moss, flakes that catch in my hair. Lost things found. By magic or maleficence, these things appear in the woods. Returned. Fin sniffs the air, hesitant. And I draw in a breath, spinning the thin gold ring around my index finger. A habit. A way to summon the courage of my grandmother, who gave me the ring the night she died. "I am Nora Walker," I whisper. Let the forest know your name. It had seemed stupid once--to speak aloud to the trees. But after you step into the dark and feel the cold pass through you--the trees swallowing all memory of light--youll tell the Wicker Woods all manner of secrets. Stories youve kept hidden inside the cage of your chest. Anything to lull the forest--to keep it in slumber. I pinch my eyes closed and step over the threshold, through the line of tall soldier trees standing guard, into the dark of the forest. Into the Wicker Woods. Nothing good lives here. The air is cold and damp, and the dark makes it hard to see anything beyond your toes. But it always feels this way--each time colder and darker than the last. I breathe slowly and move forward, stepping carefully, deliberately, over fallen logs and dewdrop flowers frozen in place. In winter, these woods feel like a fairy tale suspended in time--the princess forgotten, the hero eaten whole by a noble fir goblin. The story ended, but no one remembered to burn the haunted forest to the ground. I duck beneath an archway of thorny twigs and dead cypress vines. Keeping my gaze at my feet, Im careful to never linger long on a single shadow, a thing skittering just beyond my vision--my mind will only make it worse. Twist it into something with horns and fangs and copper eyes. The dead stir inside this ancient wood. They claw their fingernails along the bark of hemlock trees, they wail up through the limbs, searching for the moonlight--for any sliver of the sky. But there is no light in this place. The Wicker Woods are where old, vengeful things lurk--things much older than time itself. Things you dont want to meet in the dark. Get in. Get the hell out. Fin follows close at my heels, no longer leading the way--so close his footsteps match mine. Human shadow. Dog shadow. I am a Walker , I remind myself when the thorn of fear begins to wedge itself along my spine, twisting between flesh and bone, prodding me to run. I belong in these trees. Even if Im not as formidable as my grandmother or as fearless as my mom, the same blood swells through my veins. Black as tar. The blood that gives all Walkers our nightshade, our "shadow side." The part of us that is different--odd, uncommon. Grandma could slip into other peoples dreams, and Mom can lull wild honeybees into sleep. But on nights like this, venturing into the cruelest part of the forest, I often feel terrifyingly ordinary and I wonder if the trees can sense it too: I am a girl barely able to call herself descended from witches. Barely able to call myself a Walker. Yet, I press forward, squinting through the dark and scanning the exposed roots poking up through the snow, searching for hidden things wedged among the lichen and rocks. Something shiny or sharp-cornered or rusted with time. Something man-made--something thats value is measured by weight. We pass over a dried creek bed, and the wind changes direction from east to north. The temperature dips. An owl cries in the distance, and Fin stops beside me--nose twitching in the air. I touch his head gently, feeling the quick pace of his breathing. He senses something. I pause and listen for the snapping of branches underfoot, for the sounds of a wolf stalking through the trees, watching us. Hunting. But a moth skims past my shoulder--white wings beating against the cold, flitting toward a sad, spiny-looking hemlock tree, leaving imprints of dust wherever it lands. It looks as if its just come through a storm, wings torn at the edges. Shredded. A moth whos faced death. Whos seen it up close. My heartbeat sinks into my toes and my eyelashes twitch, certain Im not seeing it right. Just another trick of the woods. But I know what it is--Ive seen sketches of them before. Ive even seen one pressed against the window while my grandmother coughed from her room down the hall, hands clasping the bedsheets. Blood in her throat. A bone moth. The worst kind. The bringer of portents and warnings, of omens that should never be ignored. Of death. My fingers agai Details ISBN1534439412 Author Shea Ernshaw Pages 336 Publisher Simon & Schuster Year 2019 ISBN-10 1534439412 ISBN-13 9781534439412 Format Hardcover Publication Date 2019-12-12 Language English DEWEY 813.6 UK Release Date 2019-12-12 Place of Publication New York Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2019-12-12 NZ Release Date 2019-12-12 US Release Date 2019-12-12 Illustrations f-c scuff-proof matte lam jacket w- print over matte foil, sculpt emboss, 5th ink & one hit opaque white Audience Age 14-99 Imprint Simon & Schuster Alternative 9781534439429 Audience Teenage / Young adult We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:126013199;

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