Kingdom of Secrets
(Sprache: Englisch)
When her father is arrested for a crime she committed, Prismena will do anything to save him, taking her on a high-flying and shadowy adventure in this middle-grade fantasy debut.
In the kingdom of Oren, Prismena longs to fly hot-air balloons, but...
In the kingdom of Oren, Prismena longs to fly hot-air balloons, but...
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When her father is arrested for a crime she committed, Prismena will do anything to save him, taking her on a high-flying and shadowy adventure in this middle-grade fantasy debut.In the kingdom of Oren, Prismena longs to fly hot-air balloons, but her father insists she keep her feet on the ground. When he's arrested for a crime he didn't commit--and one that Prismena did--she must decide between following the rules and following her heart.
Her decision will catapult her on an adventure that challenges everything she knows about her identity, her kingdom, and even her beloved balloons.
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The Stranger and the Scarf Abigail Smeade arrived like a black eye: sudden, fierce, and blossoming under my skin. When I met her, I was sitting in the shade of an old oak tree, minding my own business. I d just removed a burlap sack from a hollow in the tree s trunk and poured its contents out in the grass--scraps of metal, twisted brackets, and a few strips of a stretchy material called rubber. Most people would ve described those things as junk fit for the bin, but I knew better. Pieced together just right, that junk would become more than the sum of its parts. And figuring out which way was just right happened to be one of my favorite pastimes.
But Father didn t like me tinkering with the odds and ends I gathered (and sometimes even pinched from his workshop). It wasn t proper, he said, and making something nobody had ever seen before might get a person looked at twice, which was the last thing we wanted. That s why I kept my collection stashed inside an oak tree in the middle of Fletcher s field. Nobody but Mr. Fletcher and me ever wandered into that field anymore, if you didn t count the sheep.
At the bottom of the bundle, rolled up tight, was a scarf, a single piece of fabric more precious than all the rest of it put together. I unfurled it across my knees, and the silk shone and rippled like running water. It was cool to the touch, but the pattern--in shades of blue and yellow and purple--made me think of places drenched in sun. The kind of faraway places Mother liked to visit when she was flying hot-air balloons. In fact, the scarf had been a souvenir from one of her trips. She d had a weakness for beautiful, unnecessary things. She d filled the house with them once.
Peanut brittle?
Startled, I crumpled the scarf and crammed it back into the sack. Then I whipped my head left and right, hunting for the owner of that voice. It wasn t until I looked up that I spotted her, sitting on a
... mehr
branch of the tree and kicking her legs like she was lounging on a swing. She peered down at me with shrewd, glittering brown eyes. Without prompting, she extended a half-eaten shard of candy through the leaves. It glistened with a semicircle of saliva where she d taken the last bite.
No, thanks, I said.
Your loss. She wedged the peanut brittle into the far reaches of her mouth and cracked off a piece. It rattled against her teeth as she spoke. What s that? She pointed down at one of my projects, something I was still trying to get just right. A small flying machine I d made using those strips of rubber Mr. Dudley had given me.
Excuse me . . . who are you? I asked. She looked about my age--long-limbed and gangly, with light brown skin. Her hair had been pulled into a ponytail that erupted at the back of her head in a burst of copper corkscrews. She wore several layers of clothes--an apple-green vest, a striped jacket two sizes too small, and two gauzy skirts that looked like petticoats that had been dyed pink and cut short. Her scuffed boots kicked at the air over my head.
Abigail Smeade, at your service, she said. You can call me Abi. She smiled with a mouth full of crowded, crooked teeth, each one shoving its way to the front. She stretched her arm down to me again, this time offering her long, tapered fingers for a handshake. As though it were completely normal to meet someone while perched in a tree. I unpretzeled my legs and stood on tiptoes to give her hand a single uninspired shake.
I m Prismena, I said. What are you doing here?
Same as you, she said. Trespassing.
That response almost knocked me backward. She was correct, legally speakin
No, thanks, I said.
Your loss. She wedged the peanut brittle into the far reaches of her mouth and cracked off a piece. It rattled against her teeth as she spoke. What s that? She pointed down at one of my projects, something I was still trying to get just right. A small flying machine I d made using those strips of rubber Mr. Dudley had given me.
Excuse me . . . who are you? I asked. She looked about my age--long-limbed and gangly, with light brown skin. Her hair had been pulled into a ponytail that erupted at the back of her head in a burst of copper corkscrews. She wore several layers of clothes--an apple-green vest, a striped jacket two sizes too small, and two gauzy skirts that looked like petticoats that had been dyed pink and cut short. Her scuffed boots kicked at the air over my head.
Abigail Smeade, at your service, she said. You can call me Abi. She smiled with a mouth full of crowded, crooked teeth, each one shoving its way to the front. She stretched her arm down to me again, this time offering her long, tapered fingers for a handshake. As though it were completely normal to meet someone while perched in a tree. I unpretzeled my legs and stood on tiptoes to give her hand a single uninspired shake.
I m Prismena, I said. What are you doing here?
Same as you, she said. Trespassing.
That response almost knocked me backward. She was correct, legally speakin
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Christyne Morrell
When she's not writing for kids, Christyne Morrell is busy raising one. She is a corporate attorney, and in her spare time enjoys reading, baking, and watching House Hunters marathons. She lives with her family in Decatur, Georgia. Kingdom of Secrets is her debut novel. Visit her online at christynewrites.com and follow her on Twitter and Instagram @christynewrites.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Christyne Morrell
- Altersempfehlung: 8 - 12 Jahre
- 2021, 304 Seiten, Maße: 15,2 x 21,5 cm, Gebunden, Englisch
- Verlag: Delacorte Press
- ISBN-10: 0593304780
- ISBN-13: 9780593304785
- Erscheinungsdatum: 03.09.2021
Sprache:
Englisch
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