Publisher Description

A beautifully written story of friendship, discovery, myths, and magic that the London Times called "reminiscent of fantasy greats such as Philip Pullman and Neil Gaiman."

Legends say that the island of Joya was once a place where songbirds sang in every tree and the islanders were free to come and go as they pleased. That was before the harsh-ruling Governor arrived, and ravens drove out the native birds. Now there are no songbirds, and the people are forbidden to travel beyond the forest that separates them from the rest of the island.
But for Isabella, the legends of her island home have always seemed like more than just stories. And when a series of mysterious events shakes the community, it's Isabella—daughter to the island's only mapmaker—who will lead a party of explorers into the forest in search of answers. As the group ventures deeper and deeper into the island, dark secrets begin to surface, and the legends Isabella has listened to all these years show signs of coming to life.
 
Debut novelist Kiran Millwood Hargrave draws on the cultural folklore of the Canary Islands in this richly told story of a girl's quest to map her own place in a world that legends alone have shaped.


Advance Praise:
"[R]eminiscent of fantasy greats such as Philip Pullman and Neil Gaiman." --The London Times

Author Biography

Kiran Millwood Hargrave is an award-winning poet and novelist. A graduate of Oxford University's Creative Writing MA, she currently lives and writes in Oxford, England. Learn more about her at kiranmillwoodhargrave.com.

Review

Praise for The Cartographer's Daughter:

"[R]eminiscent of fantasy greats such as Philip Pullman and Neil Gaiman."
     --The London Times

"A fine mix of magic and adventure with a captivating heroine – enthralling and engrossing by turns." --Celia Rees, Witch Child

"[A] spellbinding world of magic, myth and adventure. The story holds you like a labyrinth and won't let you go.' Emma Carroll, In Darkling Wood

Review Quote

Praise for The Cartographer's Daughter : "[R]eminiscent of fantasy greats such as Philip Pullman and Neil Gaiman." -- The London Times "A fine mix of magic and adventure with a captivating heroine - enthralling and engrossing by turns." --Celia Rees, Witch Child "[A] spellbinding world of magic, myth and adventure. The story holds you like a labyrinth and won't let you go.' Emma Carroll, In Darkling Wood

Excerpt from Book

1 They say the day the Governor arrived, the ravens did too. All the smaller birds flew backward into the sea, and that is why there are no songbirds on Joya. Only huge, ragged ravens. I''d watch them perch on the rooftops like omens, and try to squint them into the chaffinches and goldcrests Da drew from memory. If I imagined hard enough, I could almost hear them singing. "Why did the songbirds leave, Da?" I''d ask. "Because they could, Isabella." "And the wolves? The deer?" Da''s face would darken. "Seems the sea was better than what they were running from." Da would tell me another story then, about the girl-warrior Arinta, or Joya''s mythical past as a floating island, and refuse to say more about the wolves and the backward birds. But I kept asking, until the day came when I found my own answers. The morning it began was like any other. I woke in my narrow bed, sunrise just starting to brighten the mud walls of my room. The smell of burnt porridge hung on the air. Da must have been up for hours, as it took a long time for the fire to heat the heavy clay pot. I could hear Miss La, our hen, scratching about outside my room, seeking out crumbs. She was twelve years old, same as me, but even though it''s young for a person, it''s very, very old for a chicken. Her feathers were gray, her mood was black, and even our cat, Pep, was scared of her. My tummy rumbled as I stretched out my arms. Pep was sprawled across my legs, and he yowled loudly as I sat up. "You awake, Isabella?" Da called from the kitchen. "Morning, Da." "Porridge is ready. A little overready, in fact ..." "Coming!" I eased my legs out and smoothed the cat''s rough fur where it had ruffled in the night. "Sorry, Pep." He purred and closed his green eyes. I washed my face in the basin by the window and stuck a tongue out at the reflection in the polished metal above Gabo''s bed. I straightened his sheets, dustier every day but still made, and traced the voice line arched next to his pillow--a long, thin hollow Da had etched for us up the walls and over the ceiling. When we pressed our lips to it and whispered, it carried our voices so we could talk even when we were at each end of the room in our separate beds. Three years now. Three years since I sat there, my twin''s hand fire in mine as he faded in the night, fast as a blown-out match. But still I could conjure him. Easy as breathing. It would not do to start the day sad. Shaking the thoughts out of my head, I pulled on my school dress instead. It was as big as it had been six weeks before. My best friend, Lupe, would laugh. Still the shortest in the class! she''d say. I quickly braided my unbrushed hair and hoped Da wouldn''t notice I hadn''t untangled it all summer. Pep was rolling on the bed, but I wasn''t allowed to stroke him with my uniform on. My teacher, Se

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