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192 pages

English

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Description

In 1918, the world seems on the verge of apocalypse. Americans roam the streets in gauze masks to ward off the deadly Spanish influenza, and the government ships young men to the front lines of a brutal war, creating an atmosphere of fear and confusion. Sixteen-year-old Mary Shelley Black watches as desperate mourners flock to sances and spirit photographers for comfort, but she herself has never believed in ghosts. At her bleakest moment, however, shes forced to rethink her entire way of looking at life and death, for her first lovea boy who died in battlereturns in spirit form. But what does he want from her?Featuring haunting archival early-20th-century photographs, this is a tense, romantic story set in a past that is eerily like our own time.

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Publié par	ABRAMS BOOKS
Date de parution	02 avril 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781613124598
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	2 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0372€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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IN A CITY FILLED WITH THE DEAD AND DYING,
WHILE A NIGHTMARISH WAR RAGES HALFWAY ACR O SS THE WORLD,
THE GRIEVING L O O K F O R ANSWERS IN PH O T O GRAPHS AND S ANCES.
IT S 1918. SAN DIEG O .
AND A GIRL WH O D O ESN T BELIEVE IN SPIRITS
STEPS O FF THE TRAIN AND INT O A NEW LIFE . . .

Image Credits
Page vi: Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, LC-DIG-ds-01290; this page : Library of Congress, Prints Photographs Division, WWI Posters, LC-USZ62-8278; this page : National Media Museum / Science Society Picture Library; this page : Wm. B. Becker Collection/PhotographyMuseum.com, 2013 The American Photography Museum, Inc.; this page , this page , this page , and this page : Courtesy U.S. National Library of Medicine; this page : National Media Museum / Science Society Picture Library; this page : National Archives (165-WW-269B-25)
PUBLISHER S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Winters, Cat. In the shadow of blackbirds / Cat Winters. p. cm.
Summary: In San Diego in 1918, as deadly influenza and World War I take their toll, sixteen-year-old Mary Shelley Black watches desperate mourners flock to s ances and spirit photographers for comfort and, despite her scientific leanings, must consider if ghosts are real when her first love, killed in battle, returns. ISBN 978-1-4197-0530-4 [1. Spiritualism-Fiction. 2. Ghosts-Fiction. 3. Influenza Epidemic, 1918-1919-Fiction. 4. World War, 1914-1918-Fiction. 5. San Diego (Calif.)-History-20th century- Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.W76673In 2013 [Fic]-dc23 2012039262
Text copyright 2013 Catherine Karp Book design by Maria T. Middleton
Published in 2013 by Amulet Books, an imprint of ABRAMS. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the publisher. Amulet Books and Amulet Paperbacks are registered trademarks of Harry N. Abrams, Inc.
Amulet Books are available at special discounts when purchased in quantity for premiums and promotions as well as fundraising or educational use. Special editions can also be created to specification. For details, contact specialsales@abramsbooks.com or the address below.
115 West 18th Street New York, NY 10011 www.abramsbooks.com
For Adam, Meggie, and Ethan, who patiently share me with my characters
Contents
1 A Year the Devil Designed
2 Aunt Eva and the Spirits
3 Mr. Muse
4 The Mysterious Island
5 A Transparent Figure
6 The Buzz of Electricity
7 Death
8 The Expert
9 Blue Smoke and Whispers
10 The Butterfly and the Lightning Bolt
11 Phantom
12 Come Talk to the Spirits
13 Ugly Things
14 Stay Safe
15 The Weight of Souls
16 Of Rats and Crows
17 Keep your Nightmares to Yourself
18 The Pirate King
19 A Bloodstained Sky
20 Paul Spitz
21 The Compass Phenomenon
22 Living and Breathing
23 The Cage
24 Discoveries
25 Cousin Gracie
26 Soldier s Heart
27 The Darkest Hours
28 Stephen s Room
29 Death, Again
30 I Do Lose Ink
31 Mary Shelley Black
Author s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Portland, Oregon-October 16, 1918
I STEPPED INSIDE THE RAILROAD CAR, AND THREE DOZEN pairs of eyes peered my way. Gauze masks concealed the passengers mouths and noses. The train smelled of my own mask s cotton, boiling onions, and a whiff of something clammy and sour I took to be fear.
Keep moving, I told myself.
My legs shook and threatened to buckle, but I managed to clomp down the aisle in the brown Boy Scout boots I wore in case I ever needed to run at a moment s notice. The heavy tread drew unwanted glances and at least one raised eyebrow, but nobody uttered a word.
Good morning, I said to a woman with a puff of black poodle curls crowning her head.
Morning, the woman grunted into her gauze.
As I had hoped, all eyes soon lost interest in me and drifted back to their own concerns. I was merely a healthy-sounding sixteen-year-old girl in a navy-blue dress. I didn t talk like a foreign spy, and I wasn t sick with the flu. No harm there.
Coal-colored traveling suits paired with fresh cotton masks gave the compartment a surreal black-and-white appearance, blurred slightly by the onion scent snaking in from the dining car. I imagined the cooks dicing up the pungent bulbs in a mad scramble to keep the flu from overtaking the train, their eyes watering, their foreheads dripping with sweat. I blinked away the sting of the air and took the sole empty seat, beside a woman of middle age and stout build, with thick arms and thicker eyebrows. An anti-influenza pouch reeking of medicine dangled from her neck, overpowering even the onions.
Hello. She rubbed the pouch and looked me over. I m Mrs. Peters.
I m I hoisted my black leather bag onto my lap and answered with a shortened version of my name: Mary. The newspapers rustling around me more than likely carried an article about my father, and I envisioned a mention of me: Also present at the house during the arrest last night was Mr. Black s daughter, Mary Shelley. The girl seems to have been named after the author of a certain horror novel with an extremely German-sounding title: Frankenstein.
Is that a doctor s bag? asked Mrs. Peters.
Yes. I squeezed the handles tighter. It was my mother s.
Your mother was a doctor?
The best one around.
I m sorry she s not on this train with us. Mrs. Peters eyeballed the other passengers. I don t know what will happen if anyone collapses while we re en route. No one will be able to save us.
If we get sick, we ll probably just get dumped off at the next stop.
She wrinkled her forehead and gasped. What a highly unpleasant thing to say.
I shifted my knees away from her. If you don t mind, I d rather not talk about the flu.
Mrs. Peters gasped again. How can you not talk about it? We re speaking through gauze masks, for heaven s sake. We re crammed together like helpless-
Ma am, please-stop talking about it. I ve got enough other worries.
She scooted an inch away. I hope you aren t riddled with germs.
I hope you aren t, either. I leaned back against the wood and tried to get comfortable, despite my surroundings and the nausea that had been haunting me ever since my father s arrest. Images of government officials punching Dad in the gut and calling him a traitor flickered though my head like grotesque scenes on a movie screen.
Steam hissed from all sides of the car. The floor vibrated against my boots. My hands and knees trembled, and my teeth chattered with the frantic intensity of a Morse code distress signal: tap tap tap TAP TAP TAP tap tap tap.
To escape, I undid my satchel s metal clasp and pulled out a bundle of letters six inches thick, bound together by a blue hair ribbon with fraying edges. I slid a crisp cream-colored envelope out from the top of the pile, opened the flap, and lost myself in the letter.
June 29, 1918
My Dearest Mary Shelley,
I arrived overseas four days ago. Our letters are censored, so I need to keep this message uneventful. The army will black out any phrases that indicate where I am, which makes me sound like an operative in a Sherlock Holmes novel. For example: I am in and soon we ll be going to . Mysterious, no?
I received your letter, and as much as seeing your words on paper sent my heart racing, I hated reading that my package never reached you. It should have arrived at your house nearly two months ago. I blame my brother. But I ll write to my mother and see if she knows when and if it was sent.
I also received your photograph. Thank you so much, Shell. That picture means the world to me. I look at your face all the time and still find it hard to believe that little Mary Shelley Black, my funny childhood friend and devoted letter-writing companion, grew up to be such a beauty. I would give anything to travel back in time to your visit in April and still be with you. If I close my eyes, I can almost taste your lips and feel your long brown hair brushing against my skin. I want so badly to hold you close again.
Sometimes I can t help imagining what would have happened if I hadn t moved away at fourteen. What if my grandfather hadn t died and my parents hadn t rushed us down to live in his house on the island? Would you and I still be as close? Would we have grown more intimate or drifted apart? Whatever the case, I feel robbed of your presence every day of my life.
Never worry about me, Shell. I chose to be here, so anything that happens to me is my own fault. You told me in your letter you wished you could have stopped me from leaving for the war when we were together in April. I was determined to go, and you know better than anyone else I can be as stubborn as you sometimes.
Write soon. Send me a book or two if you can.
I miss you.
Yours with all my love, Stephen
A sneeze erupted in the seat in front of me.
My eyes flew wide open, and Stephen s letter fell to my lap. All heads whipped toward a skinny redheaded woman, who sneezed again. My lips parted to utter a taboo word- gesundheit -but I quickly clamped them together.
My wife has allergies! said the woman s companion, a man with thick, mashed-potato swirls of white hair. He scooted closer to his wife and tightened her mask. It s not the flu. Stop looking at her that way.
The watchful stares continued.
At that moment, the train jerked into motion, knocking us all off balance. The whistle s cry evaporated into the October mist. I tucked Stephen s letter into my bag and gazed at the brick buildings passing by, followed by bursts of red and amber trees that offered small reminders of what I d mis