I Am Half-Sick of Shadows (Flavia de Luce Mystery, Book 4)

By Alan Bradley

“Every Flavia de Luce novel is a cause to celebrate.”—USA Today
ALAN BRADLEY, writer OF the main AWARD-WINNING sequence DEBUT OF ANY 12 months, RETURNS WITH one other impossible to resist FLAVIA DE LUCE NOVEL.
“[Alan] Bradley has created some of the most unique, captivating, devilishly inventive and hilarious detectives of any age or any time.”—Bookreporter
It’s Christmastime, and Flavia de Luce—an eleven-year-old sleuth with a fondness for chemistry—is tucked away in her laboratory, whipping up a concoction to ensnare Saint Nick. yet she is quickly distracted while a movie workforce arrives at Buckshaw, the de Luces’ decaying English property, to shoot a film starring the famed Phyllis Wyvern. Amid a raging snowstorm, the full village of Bishop’s Lacey gathers at Buckshaw to monitor Wyvern practice, but no one is ready for the evening’s stunning end: a physique chanced on strangled to dying with a size of movie. yet who one of the assembled site visitors might degree one of these chilling scene? because the hurricane worsens and the record of suspects grows, Flavia needs to ferret out a killer hidden in undeniable sight.
“[Flavia is] the main intrepid and fascinating adolescent chemist/detective/busybody in all of rural, post–World struggle II England.”—The Seattle Times
“Quirky and pleasant . . . Flavia is a vintage literary personality who manages to entice either old and young readers equally.”—Wichita Falls Times checklist News
“Bradley’s plot twists and turns delightfully.”—Fort worthy Star-Telegram

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That should repair the little sod. ” “You’re disgusting,” Feely acknowledged. “I’ll inform Mr. Haskins in regards to the bat the following day. ” Mr. Haskins was once the sexton at St. Tancred’s, who was once anticipated to house every thing from grave-digging to brass-polishing. “How do you consider it received into the church? The bat, I suggest. ” We have been jogging domestic among the hedgerows. Scrappy clouds scudded around the moon and a uncooked cross-wind blew and tugged at our coats. “I don’t comprehend and that i don’t are looking to discuss bats,” Feely acknowledged. really, i used to be simply making dialog. I knew that bats didn’t are available via open doorways. there have been adequate of the issues placing within the attics at Buckshaw for me to understand that they often received in via damaged home windows or have been dragged in, injured, by way of cats. when you consider that St. Tancred’s didn’t have a cat, the reply appeared visible. “Why are they establishing his tomb? ” I requested, altering the topic. Feely may be aware of i used to be relating the saint. “Saint Tancred? simply because it’s the quincentennial of his dying. ” “The what? ” “Quincentennial. It potential years. ” I set free a whistle. “Saint Tancred’s been lifeless years? That’s 5 instances longer than previous Hezekiah Whytefleet lived. ” Feely acknowledged not anything. “That capability he died in 1451,” I stated, creating a fast psychological subtraction. “What do you feel he’s going to seem like once they dig him up? ” “Who understands? ” Feely stated. “Some saints stay without end uncorrupted. Their complexions are nonetheless as tender and peachy as a baby’s backside, they usually have a odor of flora approximately them. ‘The scent of sanctity,’ it’s referred to as. ” while she felt love it, my sister will be downright chatty. “Supercolossal! ” I acknowledged. “I wish i am getting a superb squint at him after they hoist him out of his field. ” “Forget approximately Saint Tancred,” Feely acknowledged. “You won’t be allowed anyplace close to him. ” * * * “It’s like eatin’ cooked ’eat,” Mrs. Mullet acknowledged. What she intended, in fact, used to be “eating cooked warmth. ” I stared doubtfully on the bowl of squash and parsnip soup as she placed it at the desk in entrance of me. Black peppercorns floated within the stuff like pellets of used birdshot. “Looks nearly more than enough to eat,” I remarked pleasantly. Sticking a finger into The Mysteries of Udolfo to mark her position, Daffy shot me one among her paralyzing appears to be like. “Ungrateful little wretch,” she muttered. “Daphne …,” Father stated. “Well, she is,” Daffy went on. “Mrs. Mullet’s soup is not anything to comic story approximately. ” Feely quick clapped a serviette to her lips to stifle a grin, and that i observed one other of these silent messages wing its means among my sisters. “Ophelia …,” Father stated. He had no longer overlooked it, both. “Oh, it’s nothin’, Colonel de Luce,” Mrs. Mullet stated. “Miss Flavia ’as to ’ave ’er little funny story. Me an’ ’er ’as an understandin’. She capacity no ’arm. ” This was once information to me, yet I trotted out a hot smile. “It’s alright, Mrs. M,” I informed her. “They comprehend no longer what they do. ” Very intentionally, Father closed the most recent factor of The London Philatelist that he were examining, picked it up, and left the room. a number of moments later, I heard his research door remaining quietly.

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