The right book will not only teach new words, but take children on a journey to new and exciting places. Children who read improve their concentration, expand their language skills, and develop empathy. Younger readers may be intimidated by the challenge of starting a new book, so encourage your child to become a daily reader by introducing stories at the right reading level.

Junior High. Ages 11 to Research shows that reading leads to academic success, so encourage your child to explore new genres and try new authors. The goal should be to make reading a part of daily life. Young Adult. Ages 14 and up.

The average person reads only five books each year. In my years of teaching, I cannot recall ever issuing a single failing grade to one of those book lovers.

Latest Reviews. Read the Review. AR Test. Jada Jones Sky Watcher. AR Test, LGBTQ. The Novel Blurb When trust is betrayed by those closest to you, can love still find its way? Preorder Now. Get Your Paperback Copy Now.

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Sneak Peek Paperback Jaci, Bradley, Shelley Burton ; Quantity. 1 available ; Item Number. ; Publication Name. Samhain Publishing, LTD ; ISBN The right book will not only teach new words, but take children on a journey to new and exciting places. Children who read improve their concentration, expand Helena Halme Books: Books about love, family, and friendship. Paperback Now In Stock. The paperback copy of the new book, To Melt A Frozen

Paperback book sneak peeks - The Official Sneak Peek: Book Release Catalog Preview Chapters include. Baltimore by Aisha Hall. Urban Isis by Willie Gross. Lust Now, Cry Later by Tahanee Sneak Peek Paperback Jaci, Bradley, Shelley Burton ; Quantity. 1 available ; Item Number. ; Publication Name. Samhain Publishing, LTD ; ISBN The right book will not only teach new words, but take children on a journey to new and exciting places. Children who read improve their concentration, expand Helena Halme Books: Books about love, family, and friendship. Paperback Now In Stock. The paperback copy of the new book, To Melt A Frozen

Ages 8 to The right book will not only teach new words, but take children on a journey to new and exciting places. Children who read improve their concentration, expand their language skills, and develop empathy.

Younger readers may be intimidated by the challenge of starting a new book, so encourage your child to become a daily reader by introducing stories at the right reading level.

Junior High. Ages 11 to Research shows that reading leads to academic success, so encourage your child to explore new genres and try new authors.

The goal should be to make reading a part of daily life. Young Adult. Ages 14 and up. The average person reads only five books each year. In my years of teaching, I cannot recall ever issuing a single failing grade to one of those book lovers. Latest Reviews. Read the Review. AR Test. Jada Jones Sky Watcher.

Miss Marriott huffed. Surely you realised that? Now do come along. Dee glanced at Sylvia, a young woman in her early twenties, dressed in a housecoat over slacks and a blouse. Her hair was scraped back severely in a ponytail that hung over her left shoulder.

Dee introduced herself. Shall we…? They hurried after the old woman who was moving faster than Dee had so far seen her move, albeit aided by her walking stick. The other people from the meeting were also headed that way, though many of them were already inside the walled expanse of the churchyard.

By the time they reached the area where the séance was supposedly happening, Dee had already seen two people stumble over half-hidden gravestones in the dark and sprain their ankles, and one person had fallen headlong and now had a suspected concussion.

Little knots of people offered assistance to the injured parties, but in general, the mood amongst the villagers had turned from mere curiosity to that of an angry mob.

She had serious misgivings. Sylvia on the other hand, was still trying to urge them forward more quickly, impatient with them for holding her back when she clearly wanted to run. She rummaged in her coat pocket and held out a key.

With an inward groan, Dee gave in. Thirty or forty yards ahead, she could see a bonfire burning in a brazier, whilst around it figures in silhouette were standing in a circle, chanting softly, their hands joined.

Even in the darkening twilight, Dee could see that their robes were saffron, or white, or purple, and of a floating light fabric that reached to the ground. There were, she thought, perhaps eight or ten of them, men and women, all dressed alike in these robes, some in white ones, two men in purple, and nearer to where she was now, an older woman and two men in saffron-coloured robes, then there was one person, already crouching down onto the ground in an emerald robe.

They wore flowers and strings of beads about their necks, and in their hair, and they sang a song without words, one that Dee instinctively felt she knew somehow.

They touched no one, called out to no one, but were gathered by their brazier, arms raised now to rattle tambourines, or to beat a rhythm on a tabor or to chime cymbals together. A saffron-clad man with hair reaching almost to his waist began to speak, and his cohorts stepped back and bent to sit on the ground, cross-legged and silent.

They cry out to you for your pity. Do not turn away from their plea. A couple of the men at the head of the rabble of villagers rushed forward to break through the circle of seated chanters, grabbing a couple of them by their arms or legs and dragging them away from the group.

Someone kicked the fire brazier over, and predictably instead of going out, the flames caught at the tall grasses and set them alight.

People began to yell, the flames spread, someone threw a punch and within seconds there was a brawl. The flowing white robe of a young woman caught alight. Galvanised into action, Dee rushed forward to throw the girl onto the ground, tearing off her own jacket to quickly smother the flames.

Mercifully, the girl was unharmed, Dee thought. She shuddered to think what might have happened had her jacket not been to hand. Dee helped her to her feet. The young woman hurried away, no doubt to rejoin her friends.

Dee looked about her for Miss Marriott, worried yet again that the old woman was too frail to be out amongst this chaos. There was no sign of Miss Marriott and Dee began to panic. The shouting of the people, the billowing flames, and the orange-black smoke already hanging seemingly all about her made it near impossible to see what was going on.

She became aware that she was breathing shallowly due to the smoke, her eyes stinging, her hands shaking. She had to fight down a sense of panic and force herself take her time to look about her properly.

She stood for a minute or two in the midst of all this noise, looking about her. There, she thought, there she was. The old woman clutched at Dee with relief. I tripped, and then somehow, I lost my bearings in all this smoke.

They needed to leave. Dee put an arm around the old woman and tried to guide her away. The bishop and the woman from the local history group were standing together by the gate and watching the scene with horror. The bishop attempted to call for peace but he was shouted down.

Dee once again tried to persuade Miss Marriott to return home. Sylvia was nowhere to be seen; it seemed likely that by this time she was much farther ahead.

A scream rang out—and finally people began to realise the scale of the problem, and at last began to back away to the safety of the lane. The fire had taken a firm hold and was snatching with greedy licks at the dry grasses, weeds and fallen branches. With lightning speed, it was conquering the churchyard.

Behind them, at the village end of the churchyard, police officers began to appear, running forward, waving truncheons haphazardly, and Dee grabbed Miss Marriott firmly by the arm.

In this scene my heroine and amateur detective Dee Gascoigne is trying to teach a few words of French to a rather well-to-do lady, Meredith Prescott so that she can greet her guests in their own language. You know, get things off to a good start. Dee said nothing. But after a moment, Meredith said,.

Go on, try me. Just think of it as a way of saying hello. Meredith was immediately sulkier than a whole class of fourteen-year-olds. Yet it had been her idea, after all. Watch my lips as I say it and try to copy the sound. The J is a softer j than we usually use in English. Think of the sound of the second g in garage, or the g in the word menage, also a French word.

More of a Bonjour. It was too ridiculous that Meredith already looked cross and bored. Bon soir. Think of how you say the word Soirée, another French word.

It was all Dee could do not to roll her eyes. She decided to make one last sally before giving up entirely. I will not be badgered in this way. I thought you knew how to teach? Why was everyone so interested in her love-life? Perhaps she had nagged him the way she nagged her guests.

Dee thought she may as well admit it. It seemed likely, certain even, that there would be further questions later. But now, with the room packed and a number of people standing at the sides and at the back, the woman at the front stood neatly to attention at the table and rapped on the wooden surface with a teaspoon from the cup and saucer in front of her.

Welcome to this open meeting to discuss the proposal to move the graves from the existing burial site to a new position at the north end of the village.

I am Cynthia Miles-Hudson, head of planning at Northeast Essex council. A Wreath of Lilies eBook version pre-order. It will be called A Wreath Of Lilies — you may well have seen me banging on about it already. This will be the second book of my new-ish s series featuring Dee Gascoigne as a private detective.

A message from beyond the grave seems to indicate that a grave has been forgotten. Dee Gascoigne was the only person in the train carriage. She had a newspaper in case she got bored, as it was a long, slow journey to Hartwell Priory, a village close to the North Essex coast. Next to the brand new copy of A Caribbean Mystery was the envelope Monty had given her.

She had better not lose it. She used the word in her mind, and it thrilled her to the core — she was actually on a case. In addition to these she had a letter of introduction and a handful of business cards so that she could be confident in the face of any challenge to her — call it what it was — nosy questioning.

It had been practically six months since she had left — or been asked to leave — her job as a modern languages teacher at a very nice school for very nice young ladies. Since then she had found herself at a loss over what to do with her life.

Then, in the Spring, she had been sent off to the seaside to convalesce after an illness and had stumbled into a murder mystery exactly like those she so dearly loved to read. Here she glanced with fond anticipation at the little bit of the cover of A Caribbean Mystery that she could see nestling in the top of her open bag.

She had helped her dratted sort-of cousin, Inspector Bill Hardy, to clear up the mystery, risking her own life and limb to do so, but was the man grateful? Not at all. He had a bloody cheek, Dee fumed to herself. Anyway… Where was she? She had lost herself in the midst of feeling angry with Bill.

She had been out of work for some months now. Yet what else could a recently separated woman do? People were so sniffy about the idea of a woman leaving her husband. It was this scandalous action on her part that had cost her the job in the first place.

And then, seemingly from nowhere, when all hope was lost and the money she had borrowed from her parents was dwindling to a pitifully tiny amount, dear, dear Monty had asked her brother Rob to get her to come and see him. She had been all ears. Could he really be serious? She held her breath waiting to see what he said.

Not that she could type, not really. Her pride — that thing that goeth before a fall — was now in tatters. To carry out research, or to go to speak to people, that sort of thing. But the fellow I have been using for the last two or three years has — er — shall we say — found it advantageous to his health to quickly move to South America.

Therefore I now have a vacancy. I know your inquiring mind, nosiness, Dee told herself and that you are an intelligent woman. Resourceful too, crafty, Dee amended and I know that I need have no doubts whatsoever about your moral integrity.

She was on the point of speaking, but he held up a hand to halt her. In any case, I need someone right now, and if I may be blunt for a moment, you need the money. Can I persuade you to give it a try? What do you say? She knew it was a tiny place, barely more than a halfway point between the busy port of Harwich and the city of Colchester in the county of Essex.

She was to find her way to a guesthouse and rent herself a room for the week. Monty seemed to think it could take her several days, perhaps a whole week, to find out the things he needed to know.

She had money for her expenses, and the promise of ten pounds in wages, whether she was successful or not. Oh, she prayed she would be. The last thing she wanted was to let Monty down after his kindness.

The guard peered at her through the window of the connecting door to the next carriage. The business cards Monty had so clearly had printed before he even knew what she would say, stated simply: Miss Diana Gascoigne, Associate, Montague Montague of London, legal services.

And the letter of introduction, was exactly that, short, to the point, impossible to quibble with or gainsay:. I confirm that Miss Diana Gascoigne is an associate of this company, Montague Montague of London, legal services, and that she is employed by myself and under my instructions.

The connecting door opened. Dee glanced up. The guard, a young man in his twenties, said,. He blushed and left, and Dee closed her handbag with a snap, got up, grabbed her raincoat and hat, and hefted her case down off the luggage net and began to make her way to the corridor.

The train slowed and the long narrow platform appeared beneath the window. So are you hooked? Book 8 of the Dottie Manderson mysteries: hitting virtual shelves near you in December Sir Nigel always ensured that Lady Matilda Cosgrove — one of his oldest and dearest friends — had the Ormulu Room whenever she came to stay.

Very few of the other guests would feel comfortable surrounded by so much ornate, gilded wood coupled with a rather dark marble. Lady Matilda liked the room. As far as Sir Nigel could tell, she was the only person in existence who did like the room.

It was a quarter to seven on a Saturday evening in June when Lady Matilda sat at the vast gold and dark brown dressing-table and allowed her maid to dress her hair in what they both deemed to be the most becoming fashion for a lady in her late sixties.

They were deep in conversation about which gown Lady Matilda had worn to a certain affair in the Spring of , when there came a tap on the door. The door opened. A timid little red-headed maid stood on the threshold looking extremely nervous. She accompanied this information with a kind of bobbing curtsey, all the while nervously wringing her hands.

Lady Matilda thought she was rather a sweet little thing. Salt, give the child the case. Salt extracted several glittering items of great value.

Good evening. The door closed behind her, and Salt and Lady Matilda resumed their discussion relating to the precise colour and fabric of the gown worn on the evening of the Royal Gala over forty years earlier.

It was not long before the bell rang for dinner, and Lady Matilda descended the grand staircase to meet the other guests for a pre-dinner aperitif.

Sir Nigel greeted her with a beaming smile, taking both her hands in his and kissing first her left cheek then her right in his usual warm manner that Lady Matilda found delightfully Continental.

She lost no time in thanking him again for his invitation to stay for the weekend whilst George was overseas on his usual ambassadorial duties. These robberies are such a worry. He stared at her for a second or two too long, and she immediately divined that something was amiss.

But before she could quiz him about it, the door was flung open and Salt ran in, tears streaming down her face, causing everyone to turn and stare, drinks halted halfway to their mouths. And indeed she had.

She had practically run down the back stairs with the jewellery case in her arms, knowing she had only a minute or two to make her escape. The side door was still ajar, and unseen by anyone, she slipped outside, pulling off her cap and apron and throwing them onto the grass, then she hopped into the waiting car at the end of the drive.

DI Hunter Wilson never has just one problem to solve. Three elderly women he knows have died in mysterious circumstances.

Hunter appears to be the only link. When his team discovers cocaine hidden at the farm where she was living, the search becomes even more urgent.

Why did the women die? And what did the child witness? Hunter must find the answers to these questions to ensure his family and his city are safe. Val Penny has an Llb degree from the University of Edinburgh and her MSc from Napier University.

She has had many jobs including hairdresser, waitress, banker, azalea farmer and lecturer but has not yet achieved either of her childhood dreams of being a ballerina or owning a candy store. Until those dreams come true, she has turned her hand to writing poetry, short stories, nonfiction books, and novels.

Her novels are published by SpellBound Books Ltd. Val is an American author living in SW Scotland. She has two adult daughters of whom she is justly proud and lives with her husband and their cat.

His elderly aunt wanders out of a hospital, she is found suffering from shock and raving, full of odd stories of evil people hurting her on the hospital ward. Meanwhile a group of friends get together for a weekend house party and amid tensions between the different guests, end up searching for a missing five-year-old.

More than one person has a secret, and there is a claustrophobic sense of each of them watching one another. why is the new owner of the company so particular about his vans?

SOCIAL MEDIA LINK — You can find Val Penny on these social media platforms:.

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