no mourners. no funerals.

hiatus

thisisteen:

Day 9 of the Twelve Days of YA!

Today’s featured book is Book 3 of The Raven Cycle: Blue Lily, Lily Blueby Maggie Stiefvater, and she’s written something incredibly special for us to share!

Giveaway:
Click here to enter the giveaway for a chance to win TWO copies of Blue Lily, Lily Blue — one as a gift from us to you, and one for you to give to a fellow book lover!

Bonus Content:
We asked Maggie Stiefvater to give us a peek into the scene at 300 Fox Way during the holidays, and what we got back was nothing less than amazing! “Read More” to read the full bonus Raven Cycle scene!

December at 300 Fox Way was a battleground of seasonal celebration. There were too many people from too many backgrounds to present a unified holiday front to the clients who came to pick up gift certificates (Give the perfect holiday gift to your loved one: clarity for the New Year!), so the citizens of Henrietta had to satisfy themselves with a riot of traditional cheer. Outside the little blue house, colored Christmas lights surrounded the windows, partially obscured by a black, red, and green flag pointing east. Inside, angels with glowing skirts lined the front hallway, their luminescence challenged by the drippy candles grouped in threes and sevens in the living room. Armfuls of hay shored up a small Christmas tree; hay that would over the next several days make the intrepid journey into the reading room, up the stairs, and ultimately into everyone’s sock drawers. In the kitchen, spiced cider simmered fragrantly on the stove as fruit cakes cooled on the counter. The scent of salted ham warred with that of blood pudding and mountains of okra.

            Gifts. There were gifts, but never under the tree. Over the course of December, much of the hay would evacuate the real estate under the tree, but never enough to make room for packages. So presents were left in stockings hung on chair backs or on bedroom doorknobs. The beech tree in the backyard got gifts as well: On the night of the twentieth, Maura crouched to pour a half-gallon of milk into a smooth bowl formed of exposed roots while Calla and Persephone giggled and drank bourbon behind her.

            Then, the night of the twenty-first — the longest night of the year — Maura, Calla, and Persephone insisted that all food be left on the table. As the last light went out of the sky, the three of them retired outside to spend the entire icy night beneath the beech tree. Blue had always been certain it was a time of secret revelry and begged to be allowed to sit with them. When Blue was eleven, Maura had granted permission. Blue had had found herself sitting through eight hours of perfect, chilly silence, bored to distraction as the three older women wordlessly gazed up through the naked branches at the stars.

            The morning after, gathered in the kitchen with the still-waiting food, an exasperated Blue had asked Persephone, “What were you looking at?” She was shivering, hungry, ready for bed even as the sun glinted newly at her through the glass door to the backyard.

            “Everything,” Persephone answered, selecting a very cold and withered piece of okra to take with her. “And letting it look at us.”

            Blue hadn’t asked to sit with them again. Everything wasn’t something she was ever going to see.

            Now she spent the night of the twenty-first in her room clipping exotic destinations out of the library’s reject magazines. The glow of the stars was hidden by the string of chili-pepper lights she had hung around her bedroom window. What do you want for Christmas, Blue? Something more.

            Usually she got gloves. Maura nearly always gave everyone gloves for Christmas. That was all right, Blue supposed. It wasn’t the entire world, but it was something. She could always use another set of gloves.