Publisher Description

The highly anticipated new book from the acclaimed author of The Accident Season is a gorgeous, twisty story about things gone missing, things returned from the past, and a group of teenagers, connected in ways they could never have imagined.

One stormy Irish summer night, Olive and her best friend, Rose, begin to lose things. It starts with simple items like hairclips and jewelry, but soon it's clear that Rose has lost something much bigger, something she won't talk about, and Olive thinks her best friend is slipping away.

Then seductive diary pages written by a girl named Laurel begin to appear all over town. And Olive meets three mysterious strangers: Ivy, Hazel, and her twin brother, Rowan, secretly squatting in an abandoned housing estate. The trio are wild and alluring, but they seem lost too—and like Rose, they're holding tight to painful secrets.

When they discover the spellbook, it changes everything. Damp, tattered and ancient, it's full of hand-inked charms to conjure back things that have been lost. And it just might be their chance to find what they each need to set everything back to rights.

Unless it's leading them toward things that were never meant to be found...

Author Biography

Moïra Fowley-Doyle is half-French, half-Irish and lives in Dublin with her husband, their young daughter, and their old cat. Moïra's French half likes red wine and dark books in which everybody dies. Her Irish half likes tea and happy endings. Moïra started a PhD on vampires in young adult fiction before concentrating on writing young adult fiction with no vampires in it whatsoever. She wrote her first novel at the age of eight, when she was told that if she wrote a story about spiders she wouldn't be afraid of them anymore. Moïra is still afraid of spiders, but has never stopped writing stories. The Accident Season is her debut novel.

Review

"Fowley-Doyle is herself a literary spell caster, conjuring up a suspenseful and sensual ambiance . . . This smart and sexy page-turner that readers will want to devour and share with their friends is a real find."—School Library Journal, starred review

"Fowley-Doyle's lush, atmospheric storytelling contrasts brilliantly with her characters' teenage normalcy—drinking, skiving, and cursing while mostly loving their parents and sticking up for each other. Readers will need patience to untangle the plot's silver threads, but those who savored Fowley-Doyle's previous The Accident Season will relish this as well."—Kirkus

"Complex, ambitious, magical."—Daily Mail

"Spellbook is reminiscent of a medieval tapestry in its color, complexity, and stylistic texture. . . . This book is sure to please teens who enjoyed Fowley-Doyle's debut novel, The Accident Season."—VOYA

"This book is filled with mystery and the storytelling is as enchanting as the spell it contains. Readers will get lost in this tale."—School Library Connection


PRAISE FOR THE ACCIDENT SEASON:
 •  Kirkus Best Book of the Year
 •  SLJ Best Book of the Year
 •  YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults
 •  Indie Next Pick
 •  Carnegie Medal Nominee
 •  Waterstone's Children's Book Award finalist

"Fowley-Doyle's stunning debut novel weaves the temporal and the spiritual into a seamless reality, rich in emotional impact. Devastating loss and abuse are balanced by romance, teen hijinks, and spine-tingling discoveries. . . . This thought-provoking narrative will cast its spell over older teens and adults alike."—School Library Journal, starred review

"Ghosts, secrets, and magic collide in this Irish author's astonishing debut. . . . a moving portrait of a fractured family, knitting itself back together with courage and love. A powerful novel from an exciting new talent."—Kirkus, starred review

"Beautifully crafted and atmospheric, the magic realism of this book gradually peels away to expose secrets and reveal unexpected truths. Readers will be swept away by Fowley-Doyle's lyrical writing and entrancing premise in this tale of forbidden love and magic."—Booklist

"Sensuous, eerie, lyrical . . . Fowley-Doyle's The Accident Season reads like a poem. The mystery is intriguing, the writing is gorgeous, and the characters are vivid. A lovely debut."—April Tulcholke, author of Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

"The Accident Season is amazing."—Holly Black

"Atmospheric and magical."—VOYA

"A lyrical and sometimes chilling exploration of the ways in which we manipulate memories to fall in line with our present narrative—the lies we tell ourselves to keep our brains safe and happy. Cara's narration brilliantly, sometimes brutally conveys the unraveling of both Cara and her family . . . and the bittersweet ending will haunt readers as much it does Cara."—BCCB

Review Quote

"Fowley-Doyle is herself a literary spell caster, conjuring up a suspenseful and sensual ambiance . . . This smart and sexy page-turner that readers will want to devour and share with their friends is a real find."-- School Library Journal , starred review "Fowley-Doyle's lush, atmospheric storytelling contrasts brilliantly with her characters' teenage normalcy--drinking, skiving, and cursing while mostly loving their parents and sticking up for each other. Readers will need patience to untangle the plot's silver threads, but those who savored Fowley-Doyle's previous The Accident Season will relish this as well."-- Kirkus "Complex, ambitious, magical."-- Daily Mail " Spellbook is reminiscent of a medieval tapestry in its color, complexity, and stylistic texture. . . . This book is sure to please teens who enjoyed Fowley-Doyle's debut novel, The Accident Season ."-- VOYA "This book is filled with mystery and the storytelling is as enchanting as the spell it contains. Readers will get lost in this tale."-- School Library Connection PRAISE FOR THE ACCIDENT SEASON : * Kirkus Best Book of the Year * SLJ Best Book of the Year * YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults * Indie Next Pick * Carnegie Medal Nominee * Waterstone's Children's Book Award finalist "Fowley-Doyle's stunning debut novel weaves the temporal and the spiritual into a seamless reality, rich in emotional impact. Devastating loss and abuse are balanced by romance, teen hijinks, and spine-tingling discoveries. . . . This thought-provoking narrative will cast its spell over older teens and adults alike."-- School Library Journal , starred review "Ghosts, secrets, and magic collide in this Irish author's astonishing debut. . . . a moving portrait of a fractured family, knitting itself back together with courage and love. A powerful novel from an exciting new talent."-- Kirkus, starred review "Beautifully crafted and atmospheric, the magic realism of this book gradually peels away to expose secrets and reveal unexpected truths. Readers will be swept away by Fowley-Doyle's lyrical writing and entrancing premise in this tale of forbidden love and magic."-- Booklist "Sensuous, eerie, lyrical . . . Fowley-Doyle's The Accident Season reads like a poem. The mystery is intriguing, the writing is gorgeous, and the characters are vivid. A lovely debut."--April Tulcholke, author of Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea " The Accident Season is amazing."--Holly Black "Atmospheric and magical."-- VOYA "A lyrical and sometimes chilling exploration of the ways in which we manipulate memories to fall in line with our present narrative--the lies we tell ourselves to keep our brains safe and happy. Cara's narration brilliantly, sometimes brutally conveys the unraveling of both Cara and her family . . . and the bittersweet ending will haunt readers as much it does Cara."-- BCCB

Excerpt from Book

PROLOGUE That night, everybody lost something. Not everybody noticed. It was a Saturday night on the cusp of summer and the air smelled like hot wood and burning rubber, like alcohol and spit, like sweat and tears. It was warm because of the bonfire in the middle of the field, and because of the stolen beers, the wine coolers bought with older siblings'' IDs, the vodka filched from stepparents'' liquor cabinets. There was the hint of a strange sound, that some thought might have been a trapped dog howling, but most decided was just in their imagination. Some kept drinking, thinking this was just another night spent in a field at the edge of town, close to that invisible line where suburbs become countryside. Some noticed without really understanding what they''d lost. Some kissed each other with cake on their tongues, rainbow icing dissolving between mouths to make new colors. Some took their schoolbooks and threw them on the bonfire, not caring that there were still two weeks before end-of-year exams. Some turned around and went back home. Some forgot things they''d always known. Others stumbled, just for a moment, not knowing that they''d lost more than their step. Some hung back, nervous, torn between edging closer to the fire and calling their parents to come get them. Some slipped small pills onto their tongues and swallowed them with soft drinks, the bubbles tickling their throats as it all went down. Some choked on cigarette smoke even though they''d been smoking for years. Some gripped others'' zippers in shivering fingers, lowered jeans or hitched up skirts. Others watched from the shadows. By the time the fire had burned down to glowing ashes and a pile of charred wood, when everyone was dreaming deep in their own beds or lying through wine-stained teeth to their parents or getting sick in their best friends'' bathrooms or continuing the party in someone else''s house, apart from the few who''d passed out where they sat, there was nothing left in the field but the things we had lost. OLIVE Sunday, May 7th Lost: Silver, star-shaped hair clip; jacket (light green, rip in one sleeve); flat silver shoe (right, scuffed at the toes) Daylight is only just touching the tips of the trees when the bonfire goes out. I am leaning against a bale of hay upon which someone I don''t know is sleeping. I roll my head over to look for Rose, who I was sure was sitting, legs splayed, on the ground beside me. The grass is mostly muck at this point, beaten down by many pairs of shoes and feet. My own feet--bare, the nails painted a shiny metallic green that doesn''t show up in the morning darkness--are dirty. So is the rest of me. Rose isn''t here. I call out for her but nobody answers. Not that I expect she''ll be able to; sometime in the night she lost her voice from shouting over the music, from singing along to really bad songs and from all the crying. Getting ready to go out last night, Rose told me, "Our plan for the evening is to get excessively drunk and then cry." She swiped her lashes with another layer of mascara, which seemed fairly unwise, given the aforementioned plan. "Can we make the crying optional?" I said. "My eyeliner''s really good right now." It had taken me twenty minutes, six cotton swabs, and five tissues to get it even. "Absolutely not." I sneaked a look at my best friend''s reflection. She blinked to dry her mascara. It gave her a deceptively innocent air. "I don''t know why you want to go to this thing in the first place," I said. This thing was the town''s bonfire party. It''s held in May every year. Until midnight it''s filled with sugar-hyper children stuffed dangerously full of badly barbecued burgers threatening to throw up on the bouncy castle. Their parents bop self-consciously to decades-old pop music blaring from rented speakers while the teenagers--our classmates--sneak off to nearby fields to drink. "I told you why I want to go," Rose said. "I plan to get excessively drunk." "And then cry," I reminded her. "And then cry." "Well, you know what they say," I said to the back of her head. "Be careful what you wish for." We slept in the field, which seemed like a good idea at the time. There is a growing chill despite the slowly rising sun and I don''t know if it means that a storm is coming or just that I''ve been in the same position for far too long. I''m beginning to lose all feeling in my right shoulder, the one propped on the prickly pile of hay. When I look down, on one bare and dirty arm I see the words: If you don''t get lost, you''ll never be found . They''re blurry because my eyes are blurry; it takes five blinks for me to make them out. They run from shoulder to wrist and seem to be written in my own wobbly handwriting, although I don''t remember writing them. When I lick a finger and rub at an n , it doesn''t smudge. For about as long as we''ve been friends, Rose and I have written what we refer to as our mottos on each other''s arms. When we were younger, they were things like You are beautiful or Carpe diem. These days they''re in-jokes or particularly poignant quotes. We both got detention for a week last year because of our matching block capitals reading DO NO HARM BUT TAKE NO SHIT . I must have written this one during the party, although when or why, I have no idea. My head feels fuzzy. With a wince and a sigh, I drag myself out of the last dregs of drunkenness and shakily stand up. I take stock: I am missing a shoe (the other is half buried in the muck beside me) and my jacket. My dress is covered in grass stains and smells distinctly of vodka. I have the beginnings of an epic headache forming and I seem to have lost my best friend. "Rose!" I call. "Rose?" The boy on the hay bale twitches in his sleep. "Hey," I say to him loudly. I poke his shoulder when he doesn''t wake up. "Hey!" The boy opens one eye and grunts. He has dirty-blond hair, a stubbly chin, and an eyebrow piercing. I vaguely remember dancing with him last night. He squints at me. "Olivia?" he says hesitantly. "Olive." I have absolutely no idea what his name is. "Have you seen my friend?" "Rois

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