by Teri Terry
Gran was wrong about one thing: there was nothing she could do to keep me from lying. It’s in my blood.
The lies I’m living now are many.
Dad still thinks I’m his Piper, his daughter, and I’m neither of those things. Perhaps it would be a kindness to leave those lies in place.
I lived with Dad, went to Piper’s school. Zak finished at Cambridge. We’re living together now while he works and I go to university. And the basis of it all is lies.
Will Zak still love me when he knows the truth about who I am, about how his mother died, and the other things I haven’t told him all these years?
I have to find the courage: so much depends on it.
I start a small fire with the kindling and wood I brought in my pack.
Then I open the Book of Lies and take out the knife and feather. I make myself cut the palm of my hand.
I dip the feather into my blood, open the book, and write. Slowly, letter by letter.
As this book returns to fire and ash, my power, and that of my children and all future generations, will vanish in its smoke as if it never was. And all the trapped souls of Hamleys and Blackwoods will be released from Wistman’s Wood, and they and Aggie Blackwood will rest in peace forever.
My little fire is roaring. It’s time.
I know that after I do this, I’ll be ordinary. I won’t be able to make things happen or know things I shouldn’t.
But it must be done.
I hold out the Book of Lies and drop it into the flames.
For a moment, it threatens to smother the fire. But then it catches and burns bright.
As the book slowly turns to ash, I feel the power drain away from me, bit by bit, until it is gone. I feel light, released.
Free.
“Goodbye, Piper,” I whisper.
I can’t make Zak forgive me. I can’t know if he’ll be there for us when he knows the truth.
I put my hand on my belly. It is too soon to feel a kick, but I fancy that I do—that I can feel another heartbeat through my own skin and blood; a heart, body, and soul that are part of me and part of Zak. Our child. Our daughter, for I know it is a girl, the same way I know many things I shouldn’t.
She is the one who gave me the courage. Without our power and the curse it brings, I can love my daughter, completely and unreservedly—in a way that Isobel and Gran could never love Piper and me.
And I can hope.
Acknowledgments
I’m a little obsessed with the art of lying, something I’m personally not very good at—I seem to have an inbuilt compulsion to tell the truth, even when it would be better to stay silent. Not always a good thing, and a strange trait for someone who makes things up for a living. Book of Lies takes a study of lying to an extreme: two girls, outwardly identical, yet when it begins, one seems to have a compulsion for truth, and the other for lying.
Special thanks to Jo Wyton. Book of Lies began over a few glasses of red with her at a Scooby (SCBWI) writing retreat, and may never have happened without her. And also to Addy Farmer, who said to make it scarier: blame any nightmares on her!
Thanks to my agent Caroline Sheldon, who read the first chapter at lunch and said, “I love the voice. Write this one!”
Thanks also to my editors, Megan Larkin and Emily Sharratt, and everyone at Orchard Books and Hachette Children’s Group for their enthusiasm and hard work.
Two Bridges Hotel and Wistman’s Wood are real places. Wisht Tor and the setting around Gran’s house are not. There is a Dartmoor legend of a landowner who burned out a farm for fox hunting and a wise woman who returns as a black brush fox, as on legendarydartmoor.co.uk. Wisht Hounds are the legendary hounds of the moors, thought by some sources to be kenneled at Wistman’s Wood. The hounds and the wild hunt are known by a number of names and appear in many legends across the UK and Europe.
Thanks to Karen Murray and Lyndsay Stone for coming along on my research trip, and making sure I didn’t get lost on the moors. We stayed at Two Bridges Hotel, and I borrowed their names for fictitious staff members. We had such a wonderful time there, and the food was awesome! There was talk of another trip, so we may be back.
And first, last, and always, thanks to Graham for putting up with all the endless writerly angst and dramas through this one, and holding the home fort.
Finally, to Banrock, Hobie, and muses everywhere: cheers!
About the Author
Photo by Debra Hurford Brown
TERI TERRY has lived in France, Canada, Australia, and England at more addresses than she can count, acquiring four degrees, a selection of passports, and an unusual name along the way. Her past careers have included scientist, lawyer, optometrist, and, in England, various jobs at schools, libraries, and an audiobook charity. Teri’s books have won more than a dozen awards worldwide.
Teri now writes full-time. She hates broccoli, likes cats, and has finally figured out what she wants to do when she grows up.
Learn more at www.teriterry.com
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