The Memory Spinner - Hardcover

Cornwell, C M

 
9780593898765: The Memory Spinner
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 0593898761 ISBN 13: 9780593898765
Verlag: Random House Children's Books, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

A luminous fantasy debut about a young girl who must choose between staying immersed in a magical past with her deceased mother, or saving those she loves most in the complicated, yet real present.

A JLG SELECTION!

"Emotions bubble like potions: Grief, anger, jealousy, and regret simmer beneath the surface of richly drawn characters with complex motivations....A heartfelt story that will leave readers hoping for more from this promising new voice."--Kirkus Reviews

Since her mama died, thirteen-year-old Lavender has a disastrous memory problem. She forgets her lessons with her papa, an apothecary. She develops elaborate evasions to hide her lack of memory of the herbs and remedies she must learn to attain her dream of being an apothecary apprentice. Worst of all, she forgets memories of her mama.

Despite her papa’s disdain for magic, Lavender seeks a memory remedy from a clothing enchantress named Frey. As the two develop a friendship, Frey uses her spinning magic to help Lavender re-experience past moments with her mama. Lavender hears her mama’s laughter again, her singing voice, and how it felt to be wrapped in her hugs.

But when Lavender discovers the truth about Frey's magic and its vengeful purpose she must decide whether to stay immersed in beloved memories with her mama or save the people she loves most in the present.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

C. M. Cornwell spent her childhood reading, climbing trees, and brewing imaginary potions with her seven siblings in the San Francisco Bay Area. She has a degree in English Literature from Utah Valley University and lives in Pennsylvania with her family. The Memory Spinner is her debut novel.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

1

A Non-Magical Hat

Since Mama died, my memories are slippery little things. They weave through my fingers. Snake away in the darkness.

It’s created a giant problem. Disastrous, really.

As I stand behind the counter of our family-owned apothecary shop, I know I’m in trouble. Near my elbow sits a crate full of bottled ingredients I haven’t labeled and shelved. I can’t. Each one is an annoying little mystery.

I frown at the glass bottle in my hand. Inside, a dried herb leans against the glass. An herb I used to know, but I can’t remember, no matter how hard I try.

“Lavender, can I order cough medicine?” Greta Anders, the baker’s seven-year-old daughter, says to me as she approaches the shop counter. Her wide brown eyes are the color of syrup, and she lifts her chin to peer at me over the tall antique counter. “My mama gave me money for it.” Her golden-brown fingers arrange coins in a row between us. Then she turns away to shield a cough.

The hacking sound makes fear strum inside me. Her cough isn’t as severe as the one Mama had before she died, but I can’t help the worry that sprouts inside me each time I hear a cough.

I swallow my nerves and pocket the mystery bottle. I’ll look up the herb later. For now, I need to focus on finding Greta the right medicine. “Yes, let me find something to help.”

Greta nods.

Tall shelves lined with apothecary bottles loom from the walls. I scan the labels on the nearest shelf, and I hope a remedy will stand out. Maybe with a conveniently printed label like Cough remedy--for healing little kids who trust you (even when you’ve forgotten everything).

No such luck. Instead, the labels are marked with unhelpful, single-word clues: rosemary, ginger, feverfew, laudanum.

On my thirteenth birthday a few weeks ago, I officially became the new apothecary apprentice. From the time I was little, Papa has been training me to become his apprentice--the first girl apprentice ever at our family’s apothecary shop. Now that I’m old enough, now that I finally have the position I’ve worked toward for years, I worry it will slip through my fingers along with my memories.

As an apothecary’s apprentice, it’s my job to know which remedy will calm a cough. I’m supposed to know what will ease pain. It’s my job to interpret the labels for our patients.

And more than that, I want to help Greta. If only my brain worked as well as it used to before Mama died.

“Where’s your mother?” I ask Greta as I search.

“She’s at the cobbler’s next door. She told me to get a head start in case it takes you a while to make the medicine. She also said she might buy me a new button for doing all my chores this week. I love buttons. Especially shiny ones.”

“Buttons are nice.” I nod, half listening. The bottle I now hold has a label that reads burdock. The name is familiar, but I can’t remember what it does.

I adjust the large hat on my head, sitting over my long, wavy hair. The hat is supposed to be charmed with magic to help my disastrous memory problem. But it does nothing for my foggy mind.

Thanks a lot, hat.

“Is that new?” Greta asks, pointing to it. “It’s nice. So colorful.”

I frown. She must be the only person in Hattertown who likes this hideous hat. A wide pink brim dwarfs my head, and feathers sprawl every which way. Golden cats are embroidered along the faded brim. For two weeks, I’ve worn the ridiculous thing, even though it looks like an oversized, fluffy bird nesting in my hair.

“Maybe I’ll let you wear it sometime,” I tell her. Maybe the magic inside the hat will work better for her than it has for me.

Certainly, the magic should have worked by now. The peddler who sold it to me claimed it would lift the fog inside my head. That my mind would zoom in on memories, as if they were scenes through a spyglass.

I think the old peddler might be a liar. The idea makes me want to bite my nails, even though Papa says it’s a nasty, terrible habit that I need to break.

Since I can’t depend on the hat and its magic, I pull crumpled textbook pages from my dress pocket instead. I’ve torn them from Papa’s copy of the Encyclopedia of Medicinal Herbs and Their Functions. I flatten out the wrinkled pages and trace the print with my finger. A cough remedy must be in here somewhere. I hope.

“What are those?” Greta asks.

“Nothing important.” I wave her off. “I just need to look up something.” I bite the nail on my pointer finger as I search.

Greta cranes her neck to stare at the pages, too, as if they hold an interesting secret. I’m tempted to ask her to help search the pages with me, but before I can, a door squeals upstairs.

Footsteps tread on creaky floorboards, the gait steady and sure. I know it’s Papa coming down the stairs that connect our family apartment to the apothecary shop below.

I stuff the pages in my pockets as Papa rounds the corner, into the shop.

“Hi there.” My voice comes out shrill and wrong. I hide my hands behind my back so he won’t notice my bitten nail.

Greta laughs at me, but the laugh transforms into a cough.

“Ah,” Papa says. “You need something for a cold, Miss Anders? You’re in good hands with Lavender. She’ll find the right remedy.”

He retrieves his greatcoat and his black leather medical bag from the closet. Instead of leaving straightaway, he stands there, watching, as if he expects me to shoot off a textbook display of medical knowledge to make him proud.

My heart speeds up, but my hands and mind are frozen. I was afraid this might happen.

“Do you know what you’ll give Greta for her cold?” Papa prompts. His eyes are puffy and red, as if he’s been awake all night. Again.

“I . . . uh . . .” I walk toward the farthest shelf, buying time and giving the hat one last chance to work its magic. But my mind is blank. The only words that surface are ones I glanced on the encyclopedia page: basil and cinnamon.

I hesitate. “I don’t think basil would work. But maybe cinnamon?” It sounds like I’m planning a dinner recipe, not a remedy. I glance toward Papa to gauge his reaction.

His brow furrows. He isn’t impressed.

Heat creeps into my hairline and down my cheeks. “I’d love to know what your opinion is, Papa.” I feel three inches tall. It didn’t used to be like this. I used to be one of the smartest kids in our town’s school--back when I used to attend.

But not anymore.

If only my memories were like herbs. If only I could bottle them up. Keep them safe. Uncork them when I needed them.

“Prescribe a horehound syrup,” Papa says. “Look up the recipe if you can’t remember it. Lavender . . .”

I swallow. “Yes, Papa?”

“You should have known that answer. Remember, cinnamon helps with dizziness and blurred vision. We talked about it last week.”

The disappointment in his voice makes me want to curl into a ball and slip between the cracks in the floorboards. “I’ll remember next time,” I promise.

I can’t fail again.

“Anyway,” Papa says as if he’s oblivious to my embarrassment. “I need to make a few house calls. When you’ve finished here, there’s a few ingredients I need you to pick up.” He hands me a list.

“Yes, Papa.”

If I...

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Verlag
Random House Children's Books
Erscheinungsdatum
2025
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593898761
ISBN 13 
9780593898765
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
288
Kontakt zum Hersteller
preigu GmbH & Co. KG
mail@preigu.de

Lengericher Landstr. 19
Osnabrück
Niedersachsen
49078
Deutschland

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