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Spirit's key /

by Cohn, Edith.
Material type: materialTypeLabelBookPublisher: New York : Farrar Straus Giroux, 2014Edition: First edition.Description: 312 pages : illustration ; 22 cm.ISBN: 9780374300111 :; 0374300119 :.Subject(s): Psychic ability -- Fiction | Dogs -- Fiction | Animal ghosts -- Fiction | Ghosts -- Fiction | Single-parent families -- Fiction | Fathers and daughters -- Fiction | Islands -- Fiction | Mystery and detective stories | JUVENILE FICTION / Mysteries & Detective Stories | JUVENILE FICTION / Horror & Ghost Stories | JUVENILE FICTION / Animals / DogsOnline resources: Cover image Summary: Having finally developed the psychic ability her father has used to provide for them, twelve-year-old Spirit Holden, aided by the ghost of her beloved dog Sky, investigates the mystery of why wild dogs are dying on their remote island.
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Children's Collection Children's Fiction J COH E. Checked out 11/30/2019 39270004165464

Enhanced descriptions from Syndetics:

<p>By now, twelve-year-old Spirit Holden should have inherited the family gift: the ability to see the future. But when she holds a house key in her hand like her dad does to read its owner's destiny, she can't see anything. Maybe it's because she can't get over the loss of her beloved dog, Sky, who died mysteriously. Sky was Spirit's loyal companion, one of the wild dogs that the local islanders believe possess dangerous spirits. As more dogs start dying and people become sick, too, almost everyone is convinced that these dogs and their spirits are to blame--except for Spirit. Then Sky's ghost appears, and Spirit is shaken. But his help may be the key to unlocking her new power and finding the cause of the mysterious illness before it's too late. Spirit's Key is Edith Cohn's debut novel.</p>

Having finally developed the psychic ability her father has used to provide for them, twelve-year-old Spirit Holden, aided by the ghost of her beloved dog Sky, investigates the mystery of why wild dogs are dying on their remote island.

Excerpt provided by Syndetics

<opt> <anon I1="BLANK" I2="BLANK">1 MR. SELNICK'S FUTURE When I get home from school, every cabinet in the kitchen has been thrown open. There's a mess in the living room, too. "Looking for something?" I ask Dad. He runs his hands through his normally neat hair, which at the moment sticks frantic in every direction. "Have you seen the candles?" "I think they're in my room. I'll check. Is the power going to go out?" Dad shakes his head. "Someone's coming for a reading." My heart flip-flops with excitement. "Eder Mint?" Eder used to be Dad's best client. But not even Eder has been in for a reading lately. It's been two months, the longest stretch without business since we moved to this island. That was six years ago, before people came to trust that what Dad sees, happens. "No, Mr. Selnick. He's coming any minute," Dad says, "and I need those candles." I dash to my room. Most everything we own is hidden in boxes. Dad likes to order supplies in large quantities. His stockpiling has created mountains of cardboard that rise up every wall. Each room in our house is painted a different color, and mine is purple. These days, though, I have to lean my head waaay back to see the color, because Dad's mountains go waaay up. I dig fast, cutting the packing tape off box after box. "Found them!" I yell. Dad doesn't mess around. There are enough candles here to light the whole island. I grab two, along with a burgundy bedsheet. "What's that?" Dad eyes the bedsheet with suspicion. "I thought it might look nice draped on the table." I shake out the sheet and cover the dinky card table with it. "See?" I stand back to admire it. "Now you have a little atmosphere." Dad frowns and mutters something about mumbo jumbo. Candles, atmosphere, and crystal balls are what Dad calls mumbo jumbo. That stuff is for hacks, and Dad is not a hack. He asks to hold a person's house key, the kind you use to open your front door, and as soon as the key is in his hand, bam! He knows. It used to be that simple. It used to be Dad didn't need mumbo jumbo. "You're tapping into your power, is all," I insist. "And it might help to dress things up a bit." I place the candles inside two holders and arrange them in the center of the table. "Nice, right?" "I'm tired just looking at it," Dad says. I snap my fingers. "Coffee. You need coffee." I rush to the kitchen to make him a pot. Dad also didn't use to need coffee in the afternoon. But lately nothing's like usual. Dad is tired. He has trouble concentrating, and usually this soon after school I wouldn't be home to help him. I'd be out with my dog, Sky, running up and down the sand dunes. Or swimming in the ocean. Or bicycling, with Sky running alongside, or ... Well, the point is I'd be with Sky. And Dad would be breezing through his readings instead of scrunching up his face, worrying he won't get it right. When the coffee is finished, I bring Dad a cup, but he doesn't drink it. He catches a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror. He tucks in his shirt and presses down his hair. He restacks some boxes to make them tall and orderly. Finally, he sits down and takes a deep breath, but his foot doesn't stop tapping. There's sweat inside the wrinkles on his forehead, and when Mr. Selnick bangs on the door, Dad knocks over a chair standing up to answer. When Mr. Selnick comes inside, I set the chair back upright. The big man takes off his hat and plops down like he's relieved to have the weight of the world off his feet. "Thanks, honey," he says. My name isn't Honey. It's Spirit. Spirit Holden. But Mr. Selnick calls everyone honey. Mr. Selnick is our neighbor three houses down and one across. I wonder what's up. Dad has regulars, and then there are people who come only if something's wrong. Mr. Selnick hands Dad his house key, which is my cue to skedaddle. But my foot lands on one of Sky's squeak toys. It makes the worst kind of noise in the silence and brings back the pain of Sky's death like a crashing wave. Dad doesn't notice. He's busy lighting the candles. The light reflects off the bedsheet and casts a strange red color on Mr. Selnick's face. I pick up the squeak toy, a stuffed pheasant. Sky's things are still the way they were when he was alive. The pheasant seems to look at me sternly with its yellow-stitched eyes, like it would disapprove if I threw it away. It was Sky's favorite toy. I set it on the bookcase. I'm about to leave, but I pause when I hear Dad say something about a baldie. "I don't think this dead baldie in your yard means a negative future for you personally." Dad scratches his head. "But I'm not sure." I shouldn't eavesdrop. Dad caught me once when I was little, and he said listening to his private readings was like peeking at someone's diary. Holding a person's key, he said, I see everything they lock up. People trust me with their most private secrets. Even though I wouldn't tell anyone, it isn't fair for me to know Mr. Selnick's inner secrets. But another dead baldie? Baldies are what people call the wild island dogs. We have bald eagles, too, which is how Bald Island got its name. But people call eagles sacred creatures. The dogs are the baldies, because they're unique to our island. No one else in the world has dogs like ours. Sky was a baldie. And anything to do with Sky has to do with me, so I don't leave. I press up against the wall next to the bookcase with Sky's pheasant. "Not sure?" Mr. Selnick asks. "Is there something wrong with my key? This one's a copy. Victor made it for me. Did Hatterask mess up my key?" "No, no, your key's fine. Don't worry." But Dad pushes Mr. Selnick's folded money back across the table. "This reading is on the house." Dad never does readings on the house. His readings pay for our house and every box in it. I get that same sweaty feeling I got the day Sky wasn't waiting for me after school. Like something's bad wrong and I need to stick my head in the freezer to cool off and think clear. Mr. Selnick is about twice as big as Dad. His gut sticks out under his folded arms like a shelf, and his large shoulders square back like he means not to leave until Dad spits out something more specific. "Whatever it is, you best lay it to me straight." Dad takes a sip of coffee, then picks up Mr. Selnick's key again. He closes his eyes and begins to rock. Back and forth. Back and forth. Then he shakes like he's cold, shivering until he jumps up and drops the key on the table like it burned him. "There's danger ahead." "Dag-nab-it! I knew that baldie paws up in my yard was an omen." Mr. Selnick shakes his finger at the air. "I told my wife: The devil's after us. " "Get Jolie and the kids. Pack your bags." "What?" Mr. Selnick looks dumbfounded. Dad walks to the door. "You have to leave the island." He stares hard at Mr. Selnick. "Tonight." Text copyright © 2014 by Edith Cohn Excerpted from Spirit's Key by Edith Cohn All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.</anon> </opt>

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