By Emma Newman
Cat has been pressured into an prepared marriage with William - a state of affairs that includes way more strings than even she can have expected, specifically while she learns of his family's intentions for them either.
Meanwhile, Max and the gargoyle examine The service provider - a mysterious business enterprise that looks to play via its personal ideas - and none of them beneficial to Society.
Over in Mundanus, Sam has came across whatever very odd approximately his wife's organisation - whatever that can bring in a metamorphosis for everybody in each side of the break up Worlds.
Read or Download Any Other Name (The Split Worlds, Book 2) PDF
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Name me infantile, yet i admire all of the nonsense – the snow, the timber, the tinsel, the turkey. i like offers. i admire carols and tacky songs. I simply love Christmas™. it might be a dream come actual in order to rejoice Christmas correctly: to get up to a Stocking™, stopover at Santa™ and open Presents™ round the Christmas Tree™.
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Additional info for Any Other Name (The Split Worlds, Book 2)
But why? ” I looked at him in confusion. “The Silence,” Duncan said, and a shiver, a resonance, passed through me. The Silence and the gray caps. More than two hundred years before, twenty-five thousand people had disappeared from the city, almost the entire population, while many thousands had been away, sailing down the River Moth to join in the annual hunt for fish and freshwater squid. The fishermen, including the city’s ruler, had returned to find Ambergris deserted. To this day, no one knows what happened to those twenty-five thousand souls, but for any inhabitant of Ambergris, the rumor soon seeps through—in the mottling of fungi on a window, in the dripping of green water, in the little red flags they use as their calling cards—that the gray caps were responsible.
It was Duncan who took the letter from Dad’s hand and, after the doctor had gone and the mortician had removed the body, sat down at the kitchen table to read it. First, he read it to himself. Then, he read it to us, Mom staring vacant-eyed from the living room couch, not hearing a word of it. The letter confused Duncan in ways that did not occur to my mother, to me. It bent the surface of his world and let in a black vein of the irrational, the illogical, the nonsensical. To me, my father was dead, and it didn’t matter how or why, because he was dead regardless.
As I fed him toast and marmalade at the kitchen table, I tried to get some sense of what he might have endured in the six months since I had last seen him. Although I had swept away the remains of the mushrooms, their presence haunted us. Elusiveness, vagueness, as if a counterpoint to the terrible precision of his writing, had apparently become Duncan’s watchwords. I had never known him to be talkative, but after that morning, his terseness began to take on the inventiveness of an art form. I had to pull information out of him.