NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER
Alan Bradley, author of the most award-winning series debut of any year, returns with another irresistible Flavia de Luce novel
In the hamlet of Bishop’s Lacey, the insidiously clever and unflappable eleven-year-old sleuth Flavia de Luce had asked a Gypsy woman to tell her fortune—never expecting to later stumble across the poor soul, bludgeoned almost to death in the wee hours in her own caravan. Was this an act of retribution by those convinced that the soothsayer abducted a local child years ago? Certainly Flavia understands the bliss of settling scores; revenge is a delightful pastime when one has two odious older sisters. But how could this crime be connected to the missing baby? As the red herrings pile up, Flavia must sort through clues fishy and foul to untangle dark deeds and dangerous secrets.
BONUS: This edition contains an excerpt from Alan Bradley's I Am Half-Sick of Shadows.
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|Title of eBook: A Red Herring Without Mustard||Series: A Flavia de Luce Mystery, , #3|
|Release Date: 02-08-2011|
|Allowed Countries (hover)|
|Publisher: Random House Publishing Group|
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|Parent title||A Red Herring...|
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A Red Herring Without Mustard
"You frighten me," the Gypsy said. "Never have I seen my crystal ball so filled with darkness."
She cupped her hands around the thing, as if to shield my eyes from the horrors that were swimming in its murky depths. As her fingers gripped the glass, I thought I could feel ice water trickling down inside my gullet.
At the edge of the table, a thin candle flickered, its sickly light glancing off the dangling brass hoops of the Gypsy's earrings, then flying off to die somewhere in the darkened corners of the tent.
Black hair, black eyes, black dress, red-painted cheeks, red mouth, and a voice that could only have come from smoking half a million cigarettes.
As if to confirm my suspicions, the old woman was suddenly gripped by a fit of violent coughing that rattled her crooked frame and left her gasping horribly for air. It sounded as though a large bird had somehow become entangled in her lungs and was flapping to escape.
"Are you all right?" I asked. "I'll go for help."
I thought I had seen Dr. Darby in the churchyard not ten minutes earlier, pausing to have a word or two at each stall of the church fête. But before I could make a move, the Gypsy's dusky hand had covered mine on the black velvet of the tabletop.
"No," she said. "No . . . don't do that. It happens all the time."
And she began to cough again.
I waited it out patiently, almost afraid to move.
"How old are you?" she said at last. "Ten? Twelve?"
"Eleven," I said, and she nodded her head wearily as though she'd known it all along.
"I see--a mountain," she went on, almost strangling on the words, "and the face--of the woman you will become."
In spite of t...