By Peter S. Beagle
From the bestselling writer of The final Unicorn comes an “engaging tale of a friendship that transcends time”(Library Journal)...
Arriving within the significant geographical region of Dorset, England, to reside along with her mom and new stepfather, the younger and extremely American Jenny Gluckstein has no real interest in her old atmosphere, together with that of the seven-hundred acre Stourhead Farm her stepfather is restoring. Then she meets Tamsin, a kindred spirit that has haunted the lonely property for three hundred years, trapped by way of a hidden trauma she cannot be mindful, and via a robust evil even the spirits of evening can't identify. to aid her, Jenny needs to delve deeper into the darkish global than any human has in centuries, and face a hazard that would swap her lifestyles perpetually.
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Extra info for Tamsin
Example text
He wouldn’t let me out of his sight, no matter how much the Siamese Hussy yowled in the street. It was scary, actually, because he’s not like that. I should have known he knew something. I found out what it was the same day Evan came back. Sally went to the airport to meet him, but I was at a Mets game with Norris. Not that either of us is that crazy about baseball—I just didn’t want to be there for the big reunion scene, and Norris wanted to aggravate Sally about all the family-tradition stuff I’d be pining for in England.
He wouldn’t let me out of his sight, no matter how much the Siamese Hussy yowled in the street. It was scary, actually, because he’s not like that. I should have known he knew something. I found out what it was the same day Evan came back. Sally went to the airport to meet him, but I was at a Mets game with Norris. Not that either of us is that crazy about baseball—I just didn’t want to be there for the big reunion scene, and Norris wanted to aggravate Sally about all the family-tradition stuff I’d be pining for in England.
But some of it was really funny. Anyway, for the last month or so Mr. Hammell had been maybe not exactly coming on to me. Not that I’d have known if he was, because nobody in the world had ever actually come on to me, except Mark Rinzler one time, at a Christmas party. At first it was okay, fun even, and then it just turned gross—no, that’s not the word, it turned stupid and scary, and I made Mark quit, and he never spoke to me again. But Mr. Hammell used to stand right beside me while he was talking, and he’d let his long fingers trail over my desk, and now and then he’d look at me, as though I was the only one in the class who could ever possibly understand what he was saying.