The Little Country
Charles de Lint
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When folk musician Janey Little finds a mysterious manuscript in an old trunk in her grandfather's cottage, she is swept into a dangerous realm both strange and familiar. But true magic lurks within the pages of The Little Country, drawing genuine danger from across the oceans into Janey's life, impelling her--armed only with her music--toward a terrifying confrontation.
Come walk the mist-draped hills of Cornwall, come walk the ancient standing stones. Listen to the fiddles, and the wind, and the sea. Come step with Janey Little into the pages of...The Little Country.
little confusion in reaching Lena, for she didn’t answer her door when they knocked, but a request to the desk had their call transferred to where she was, and soon they had joined her in Jim Gazo’s room. Madden settled into one of the chairs by the window, Grant in the other. Lena perched on the edge of the bed after giving her father a welcoming hug. Gazo stood by the door. “Do you want me to go for a walk, Mr. Grant?” he asked. Grant glanced at Madden who shook his head. As Gazo started to
was only inches—by a normal-sized person’s reckoning—from Jodi. He made a contented throaty sound when Jodi scratched his muzzle. “Now what?” Edern asked, still keeping his distance. “Now we make our escape.” “But the dogs—” “Are here to help us. Did you never hear of good fortune where you came from?” Edern sighed. “To be sure. But I’ve also heard of hungry dogs and I don’t much care to—” This time he was interrupted by the sudden change in pitch and volume of Kitey’s barking. “Evil
only thing that kept him sane. . . . He was no more screwed up than anybody. He just hadn’t learned how to deal with it properly. Other people’s problems? He was always willing to listen and was all too good at handing out advice that could solve them if they only gave what he offered a try. His own? Don’t think about them seemed to be his motto, and maybe they’ll just go away. But they never did. They just got worse. They got so bad that no matter where you turned, something was screwing up.
twist the ring around, open the secret compartment, and spill its contents into a drink. The powder in each was completely tasteless. The one in the right was a knockout drug. The one in the left was something a little more special. It was based on a variation of thiopentone that had been developed by a member of the Order, and worked not only as a general muscle relaxant and reflex suppressor, but simultaneously broke down the will, leaving the target utterly susceptible to suggestion. Lena
the harbour with impunity, for who would dare harm them? And didn’t they help the fishermen—steering them to pilchard shoals, or guiding their luggers back to harbour in deep fog? There were no tales of selchies in Bodbury—those creatures who were seals in the water and men on the land. Such stories were saved for those who lived farther north. No, here the seals were ancestrally akin to the Good Neighbours, and treated with the same cautious respect as the country-folk extended to the