![]() ![]() All the broad sky was grey, full of more snow that refused to fall. Further back there were only the flat fields of Dawson’s farm, dimly white-striped. That wide grey sweep was the lawn, with the straggling trees of the orchard still dark beyond the white squares were the roofs of the garage, the old barn, the rabbit hutches, the chicken coops. The snow lay thin and apologetic over the world. ![]() Even now, I can recall the deliciousness of first reading Susan Cooper’s words: Lewis’ The Lion, The Witch And The Wardrobe or fairy tales like The Snow Queen, Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights or Susan Cooper’s The Dark is Rising, I love finding a quiet, cozy corner to get beneath a blanket with a cup of tea, and lose myself within the pages of a book while, outside, the world is blanketed in the papery-white of snow. So begins The Way Past Winter by Kiran Millwood Hargrave.įor as long as I can remember, I have adored tales of winter. A winter that arrived so sudden and sharp it stuck birds to branches, and caught rivers in such a frost their spray froze and scattered down like clouded crystals on the stilled water. “It was a winter they would tell tales about. ![]()
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