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Overview
After their escape from Norveg, Agatha and Jaime return with their clan to the Isle of Skye to find that their enclave is now in the hands of the treacherous people of Raasay. They find tenuous shelter with another clan, but disaster soon strikes when the terrifying shadow creatures known as sgàilean escape their magical prison and wreak havoc across the island. Now Agatha and Jaime must call on old and new allies to fight this threat. In the meantime, a ship from Norveg sails for the court of King Edmund of Ingland, where a dangerous alliance is forming, and Sigrid, a girl with an extraordinary memory, works to free herself from the clutches of a cruel king. All three protagonists must summon their particular powers to save the island from the horde of dark creatures and foil the plans of two vengeful monarchs.
Kirkus Reviews called The Good Hawk “a page-turning adventure” and Agatha an “original protagonist.” This second book in the Shadow Skye trilogy continues to expand the definition of hero as its neurodiverse heroine tackles ever greater challenges in a thrilling middle act to the battle over the fate of Scotia.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781536207484 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Candlewick Press |
| Publication date: | 01/12/2021 |
| Series: | Shadow Skye Trilogy , #2 |
| Pages: | 336 |
| Sales rank: | 1,114,013 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.20(w) x 9.10(h) x 1.20(d) |
| Lexile: | HL690L (what's this?) |
| Age Range: | 12 - 17 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Sigrid
My face is on fire, but I’m not gunna scream. I don’t think I could even if I tried. I need water but can’t ask for it. My mouth doesn’t work no more. I knew it was gunna hurt. It’s sposed to hurt. Still, I didn’t know it was gunna hurt as much as this. Somethin’s gushin down my cheek. I dunno if it’s ink or tears or blood or what. Praps it’s a mix of all three.
“I’m movin on to your neck,” ses the man. “Keep still.”
As if I’m gunna move with that hek massive needle close to skewerin me. I grip the sides of the stool, lettin its splinters dig into my skin. One of the stool’s legs is shorter than the others, so I gotta hold my weight slanted to stop it wobblin. Evrythin’s hek skittin in this shack. I knew soon as I came in that this was a bad idea, but it was too late by then. Mamma’d already paid him.
He looms over me, his breath harsk as milkreek. Dark blue ink drips from the end of the needle. I close my eyes as the stabbin starts again.
A forever time later, the man pulls away and tosses the needle on the side.
“Done,” he ses.
I’m hot all over. Swear Øden I never been so hot. Even breathin hurts.
“Þokka,” I say, although it seems hek foolin to thank him, given how he’s done nothin but stab me with a needle for the last however long.
My mother is waitin for me outside. Soon as I step out, the man slams the shack door shut without sayin goodbye or nothin.
“Well,” ses my mother, “let’s see it.” She grabs my head to steady herself and leans in for a better look. Her face is too close to mine. Bits of sweaty hair are stuck to her forehead, and her eyes are faraway and wild. “Ha!” is all she ses.
“What?” I say. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothin,” ses my mother, but she’s smilin wicked. She could at least pretend it looks all right. It was her what convinced me this was a good idea, after all. I was far too keen, but who wouldn’t want their first ink early? This wasn’t how I imagined it happenin, though. All of my mother’s ideas are bad ones; you’d of thought I would’ve learnt that by now.
“Did it hurt?”
“Yes,” I say. No point in lyin.
“It’ll heal soon,” she ses, pretendin she cares.
The walk back to our shack is a blur of throbbin. The ground’s sodden from where it’s been spewin all afternoon, and the wet finds my toes through the holes in my shoes. I tried fixin the shoes yesterday, but I guess I didn’t do a very good job. I’ll try again tonight, do them better.
Soon as we’re back, my mother crashes on her sleepin mat and asks for water. There’s a mirror by the water bucket, so while I’m fillin up the horn I see my new ink for the first time. The mirror’s cracked, which doesn’t help none. Has been ever since I knew it. Probly my mother did it before I was born, or maybe it was my pa before . . . Well, before what happened to him happened. One of the mirror cracks goes right through my reflection. My face is diffrunt now. I keep starin at it, but I can’t find the person I was before. First inkin is sposed to make you look brave. On me, the way that sickweasel done it, it doesn’t look nothin but ugly. There’s no other word for it. It’s swollen red and crusty with blood. Mamma thinks he was lyin about used to bein a tatovmaðr. I coulda told her that. He woulda told her anythin to get his greedy hams on our money.
The ink’s sposed to be a raven. Mamma let me choose, probly cuz she couldn’t be bothered thinkin of somethin herself. It don’t look nothin like what I was hopin, though. It clings to my neck with its head stretchin over my jaw like it’s tryin to peck out my cheek. It looks dead, like someone clean snapped its neck. It looks like it’s cryin on my cheek but it’s not got no tears. Oh well, isn’t nothin I can do about it now. We just gotta hope it’s good enough to fool whoever my mother’s plannin on showin it to. Now I’m inked I should be able to get work on one of the larger farms, diggin up crops or somethin. It’ll be hard grind, but I don’t mind that none. Anythin’s better than spendin all day bein pushed around by Mamma.