NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER - Alan Bradley, author of the most award-winning series debut of any year, returns with another irresistible Flavia de Luce novel.   In the hamlet of Bishop’s Lacey, the insidiously clever and unflappable eleven-year-old sleuth Flavia de Luce had asked a Gypsy woman to tell her fortune—never expecting to later stumble across the poor soul, bludgeoned almost to death in the wee hours in her own caravan. Was this an act of retribution by those convinced that the soothsayer abducted a local child years ago? Certainly Flavia understands the bliss of settling scores; revenge is a delightful pastime when one has two odious older sisters. But how could this crime be connected to the missing baby? As the red herrings pile up, Flavia must sort through clues fishy and foul to untangle dark deeds and dangerous secrets. “Irresistibly appealing.”— The New York Times Book Review “This idiosyncratic young heroine continues to charm.”— The Wall Street Journal   “Full of pithy dialogue and colorful characters, this series would appeal strongly to fans of Dorothy Sayers, Gladys Mitchell, and Leo Bruce as well as readers who like clever humor mixed in with their mysteries.”— Library Journal (starred review)   “Think preteen Nancy Drew, only savvier . . . and you have Flavia de Luce.”— Entertainment Weekly   “Outstanding . . . [a] marvelous blend of whimsy and mystery.”— Publishers Weekly (starred review)   “Delightful . . . a treasure.”— The Seattle Times Alan Bradley  is the  New York Times  bestselling author of many short stories, children’s stories, newspaper columns, and the memoir  The Shoebox Bible . His first Flavia de Luce novel,  The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie,  received the Crime Writers’ Association Debut Dagger Award, the Dilys Award, the Arthur Ellis Award, the Agatha Award, the Macavity Award, and the Barry Award, and was nominated for the Anthony Award. His other Flavia de Luce novels are  The Weed That Strings the Hangman’s Bag, A Red Herring Without Mustard ,  I Am Half-Sick of Shadows ,  Speaking from Among the Bones, The Dead in Their Vaulted Arches, As Chimney Sweepers Come to Dust, Thrice the Brinded Cat Hath Mew’d, and The Grave’s a Fine and Private Place, as well as the ebook short story “The Curious Case of the Copper Corpse.” ONE "You frighten me," the Gypsy said. "Never have I seen my crystal ball so filled with darkness." She cupped her hands around the thing, as if to shield my eyes from the horrors that were swimming in its murky depths. As her fingers gripped the glass, I thought I could feel ice water trickling down inside my gullet. At the edge of the table, a thin candle flickered, its sickly light glancing off the dangling brass hoops of the Gypsy's earrings, then flying off to die somewhere in the darkened corners of the tent. Black hair, black eyes, black dress, red-painted cheeks, red mouth, and a voice that could only have come from smoking half a million cigarettes. As if to confirm my suspicions, the old woman was suddenly gripped by a fit of violent coughing that rattled her crooked frame and left her gasping horribly for air. It sounded as though a large bird had somehow become entangled in her lungs and was flapping to escape. "Are you all right?" I asked. "I'll go for help." I thought I had seen Dr. Darby in the churchyard not ten minutes earlier, pausing to have a word or two at each stall of the church fête. But before I could make a move, the Gypsy's dusky hand had covered mine on the black velvet of the tabletop. "No," she said. "No . . . don't do that. It happens all the time." And she began to cough again. I waited it out patiently, almost afraid to move. "How old are you?" she said at last. "Ten? Twelve?" "Eleven," I said, and she nodded her head wearily as though she'd known it all along. "I see--a mountain," she went on, almost strangling on the words, "and the face--of the woman you will become." In spite of the stifling heat of the darkened tent, my blood ran cold. She was seeing Harriet, of course! Harriet was my mother, who had died in a climbing accident when I was a baby. The Gypsy turned my hand over and dug her thumb painfully into the very center of my palm. My fingers spread--and then curled in upon themselves like the toes of a chicken's severed foot. She took up my left hand. "This is the hand you were born with," she said, barely glancing at the palm, then letting it fall and picking up the other. ". . . and this is the hand you've grown." She stared at it distastefully as the candle flickered. "This broken star on your Mount of Luna shows a brilliant mind turned in upon itself--a mind that wanders the roads of darkness." This was not what I wanted to hear. "Tell me about the woman you saw on the mountain," I said. "The one I shall become." She coughed again, clutching her colored shawl tightly about her shoulders, as though wrapping herself against some ancient and invisible winter wind.