Articles liés à Winterwood
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Chapter 1: Nora NORA
Never waste a full moon, Nora, even in winter, my grandmother used to say.
We’d 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? she’d 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 don’t 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. It’s 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—you’ll tell the Wicker Woods all manner of secrets. Stories you’ve 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, I’m 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 don’t 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 I’m 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 people’s 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 that’s 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 it’s just come through a storm, wings torn at the edges. Shredded.
A moth who’s faced death. Who’s seen it up close.
My heartbeat sinks into my toes and my eyelashes twitch, certain I’m not seeing it right. Just another trick of the woods.
But I know what it is—I’ve seen sketches of them before. I’ve 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 again touch the gold moonstone ring weighted heavy on my finger.
Every part of me that had felt brave, had felt the courage of my grandmother pulsing through me, vanishes. I squeeze my eyes closed, then open them again, but the moth is still there. Zigzagging among the trees. “We shouldn’t be here,” I whisper to Fin. We need to run.
I release my hand from Fin’s head, and my heart scrapes against my ribs. I glance over my shoulder, down the narrow path we followed in. Run, run, run! my heart screams. I take a careful step back, away from the moth, not wanting to make a sound. But the moth circles overhead, bobbing quickly out over the trees—called forth by something. Back into the dark.
Relief settles through me—my heart sinking back into my chest—but then Fin breaks away from my side. He darts around a dead tree stump and into the brush, chasing after the moth. “No!” I shout—too loud, my voice echoing over the layer of snow and bouncing through the treetops. But Fin doesn’t stop. He tears around a cluster of spiny aspens and vanishes into the dark. Gone.
Shit, shit, shit.
If it were anything else, a different kind of moth, or another wolf he will chase deep into the snowy mountains only to return home in a day or two, I’d let him go.
But a bone moth means something else—something cruel and wicked and bad—so I run after him.
I sprint around the clot of trees and follow him into the deepest part of the forest, past elms that grow at odd angles, down steep, jagged terrain I don’t recognize—where my boots slip beneath me, where my hands press against tree trunks to propel me forward, and where each footstep sounds like thunder against the frozen ground. I’m making too much noise. Too loud. The woods will wake. But I don’t slow down; I don’t stop.
I lose sight of him beyond two fallen trees, and little stabs of pain cut through me. “Fin, please!” I call in a near hush, trying to keep my voice low while the sting of tears presses against my eyes, blurring my vision. Panic leaps into my throat and I want to scream, shout Fin’s name louder, but I bite back the urge. No matter what, I can’t wake the woods, or neither Fin nor I will make it out of here.
And then I see him: tail wagging, stopped a few yards away between a grove of hemlocks. My heart presses against my ribs.
He’s led us farther into the Wicker Woods than I’ve ever been before. And the moth—frayed body, white wings with holes torn along the edges—flutters among the falling snowflakes, slow and mercurial, as if it were in no great hurry. It moves upward toward the sky, a speck of white among the black canopy of trees, and then vanishes into the dark forest to the north.
I step carefully toward Fin and touch his ear to keep him from running after it again. But he bares his teeth, growling. “Shhh,” I say softly.
His ears shift forward, his breathing quick as he sucks in bursts of air, and a low guttural growl rises up from deep within his chest.
Something’s out there.
A beast or shadow with hooked claws and grim pinhole eyes. A thing the forest keeps, a thing it hides—something I don’t want to see.
My fingers twitch, and dread rises up at the base of my throat. It tastes like ash. I hate this feeling building inside me. This awful fear. I am a Walker. I am the thing whispered about, the thing that conjures goose bumps and nightmares.
I swallow and stiffen my jaw into place, taking a step forward. The moth led us here. To something just beyond my vision. I scan the dark, looking for eyes—something blinking out from the trees.
But there’s nothing.
I shake my head and let out a breath, about to turn back to Fin, when my left foot thuds against something on the ground. Something hard.
I squint down at my feet, trying to focus in the dark.
A mound of snow. A coat sleeve, I think. The tip of a boot. A thing that doesn’t belong.
And then I see. See.
Hands.
There, lying beneath a dusting of snowfall, in the middle of the Wicker Woods, is a body.
Snowflakes have gathered on stiff eyelashes.
Eyes shuttered closed like two crescent moons. Pale lips parted open, waiting for the crows.
Even the air between the trees has gone still, a tomb, as if the body is an offering that shouldn’t be disturbed.
I blink down at the corpse and a second passes, followed by another, my heart clawing silently upward into my windpipe. But no sound escapes my lips, no cry for help. I stare in stupefied inaction. My mind slows, my ears buzz—an odd crackle crack crack, as if a radio were pressed to my skull. I inch closer and the trees quiver overhead. For a second I wonder if the entire forest might snap at the roots and upend itself—trunks to the sky and treetops to the ground.
I’ve seen dead birds in the woods before, even a dead deer with the antlers still attached to the hollowed-out skull. But never anything like this. Never a human body.
Fin makes a low whine behind me. But I don’t look back. I don’t take my eyes off the corpse, like it might vanish if I look away.
I swallow and crouch down, my knees pressing into the snow. Eyes watering from the cold. But I need to know.
Is it him? The boy who went missing from the camp?
His face is covered by a dusting of snow, dark hair frozen in place. There are no injuries that I can see. No trauma, no blood. And he hasn’t been here long, or he wouldn’t be here at all. The dead don’t last in the mountains, especially in winter. Birds pick apart what they can before the wolves close in, scattering the bones across miles of terrain, leaving barely an imprint of what once had been. The forest is efficient at death, a swift wiping away. No remains to bury or burn or mourn.
A soft wind stirs through the trees, blowing away the snow from hi...
Revue de presse :
Never waste a full moon, Nora, even in winter, my grandmother used to say.
We’d 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? she’d 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 don’t 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. It’s 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—you’ll tell the Wicker Woods all manner of secrets. Stories you’ve 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, I’m 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 don’t 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 I’m 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 people’s 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 that’s 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 it’s just come through a storm, wings torn at the edges. Shredded.
A moth who’s faced death. Who’s seen it up close.
My heartbeat sinks into my toes and my eyelashes twitch, certain I’m not seeing it right. Just another trick of the woods.
But I know what it is—I’ve seen sketches of them before. I’ve 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 again touch the gold moonstone ring weighted heavy on my finger.
Every part of me that had felt brave, had felt the courage of my grandmother pulsing through me, vanishes. I squeeze my eyes closed, then open them again, but the moth is still there. Zigzagging among the trees. “We shouldn’t be here,” I whisper to Fin. We need to run.
I release my hand from Fin’s head, and my heart scrapes against my ribs. I glance over my shoulder, down the narrow path we followed in. Run, run, run! my heart screams. I take a careful step back, away from the moth, not wanting to make a sound. But the moth circles overhead, bobbing quickly out over the trees—called forth by something. Back into the dark.
Relief settles through me—my heart sinking back into my chest—but then Fin breaks away from my side. He darts around a dead tree stump and into the brush, chasing after the moth. “No!” I shout—too loud, my voice echoing over the layer of snow and bouncing through the treetops. But Fin doesn’t stop. He tears around a cluster of spiny aspens and vanishes into the dark. Gone.
Shit, shit, shit.
If it were anything else, a different kind of moth, or another wolf he will chase deep into the snowy mountains only to return home in a day or two, I’d let him go.
But a bone moth means something else—something cruel and wicked and bad—so I run after him.
I sprint around the clot of trees and follow him into the deepest part of the forest, past elms that grow at odd angles, down steep, jagged terrain I don’t recognize—where my boots slip beneath me, where my hands press against tree trunks to propel me forward, and where each footstep sounds like thunder against the frozen ground. I’m making too much noise. Too loud. The woods will wake. But I don’t slow down; I don’t stop.
I lose sight of him beyond two fallen trees, and little stabs of pain cut through me. “Fin, please!” I call in a near hush, trying to keep my voice low while the sting of tears presses against my eyes, blurring my vision. Panic leaps into my throat and I want to scream, shout Fin’s name louder, but I bite back the urge. No matter what, I can’t wake the woods, or neither Fin nor I will make it out of here.
And then I see him: tail wagging, stopped a few yards away between a grove of hemlocks. My heart presses against my ribs.
He’s led us farther into the Wicker Woods than I’ve ever been before. And the moth—frayed body, white wings with holes torn along the edges—flutters among the falling snowflakes, slow and mercurial, as if it were in no great hurry. It moves upward toward the sky, a speck of white among the black canopy of trees, and then vanishes into the dark forest to the north.
I step carefully toward Fin and touch his ear to keep him from running after it again. But he bares his teeth, growling. “Shhh,” I say softly.
His ears shift forward, his breathing quick as he sucks in bursts of air, and a low guttural growl rises up from deep within his chest.
Something’s out there.
A beast or shadow with hooked claws and grim pinhole eyes. A thing the forest keeps, a thing it hides—something I don’t want to see.
My fingers twitch, and dread rises up at the base of my throat. It tastes like ash. I hate this feeling building inside me. This awful fear. I am a Walker. I am the thing whispered about, the thing that conjures goose bumps and nightmares.
I swallow and stiffen my jaw into place, taking a step forward. The moth led us here. To something just beyond my vision. I scan the dark, looking for eyes—something blinking out from the trees.
But there’s nothing.
I shake my head and let out a breath, about to turn back to Fin, when my left foot thuds against something on the ground. Something hard.
I squint down at my feet, trying to focus in the dark.
A mound of snow. A coat sleeve, I think. The tip of a boot. A thing that doesn’t belong.
And then I see. See.
Hands.
There, lying beneath a dusting of snowfall, in the middle of the Wicker Woods, is a body.
Snowflakes have gathered on stiff eyelashes.
Eyes shuttered closed like two crescent moons. Pale lips parted open, waiting for the crows.
Even the air between the trees has gone still, a tomb, as if the body is an offering that shouldn’t be disturbed.
I blink down at the corpse and a second passes, followed by another, my heart clawing silently upward into my windpipe. But no sound escapes my lips, no cry for help. I stare in stupefied inaction. My mind slows, my ears buzz—an odd crackle crack crack, as if a radio were pressed to my skull. I inch closer and the trees quiver overhead. For a second I wonder if the entire forest might snap at the roots and upend itself—trunks to the sky and treetops to the ground.
I’ve seen dead birds in the woods before, even a dead deer with the antlers still attached to the hollowed-out skull. But never anything like this. Never a human body.
Fin makes a low whine behind me. But I don’t look back. I don’t take my eyes off the corpse, like it might vanish if I look away.
I swallow and crouch down, my knees pressing into the snow. Eyes watering from the cold. But I need to know.
Is it him? The boy who went missing from the camp?
His face is covered by a dusting of snow, dark hair frozen in place. There are no injuries that I can see. No trauma, no blood. And he hasn’t been here long, or he wouldn’t be here at all. The dead don’t last in the mountains, especially in winter. Birds pick apart what they can before the wolves close in, scattering the bones across miles of terrain, leaving barely an imprint of what once had been. The forest is efficient at death, a swift wiping away. No remains to bury or burn or mourn.
A soft wind stirs through the trees, blowing away the snow from hi...
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 Ernshaw‘s 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. Ernshaw’s 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
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 Ernshaw‘s 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. Ernshaw’s 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
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- ÉditeurSimon & Schuster Books for Young Readers
- Date d'édition2019
- ISBN 10 1534439412
- ISBN 13 9781534439412
- ReliureRelié
- Nombre de pages336
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Description du livre Hardcover. Etat : new. Hardcover. 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 woodsand 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 Huntsmanthe same boy who disappeared from the Camp for Wayward Boys weeks agoand 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 ownsecrets 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. "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 wasn't the only one to go missing all those weeks ago"-- Shipping may be from multiple locations in the US or from the UK, depending on stock availability. N° de réf. du vendeur 9781534439412
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