From We Need Diverse Books, the organization behind Flying Lessons & Other Stories, comes a young adult fantasy short story collection featuring some of the best own-voices children's authors, including New York Times bestselling authors Libba Bray (The Diviners), V. E. Schwab (A Darker Shade of Magic), Natalie C. Parker (Seafire), and many more. Edited by Dhonielle Clayton (The Belles). In the fourth collaboration with We Need Diverse Books, fifteen award-winning and celebrated diverse authors deliver stories about a princess without need of a prince, a monster long misunderstood, memories that vanish with a spell, and voices that refuse to stay silent in the face of injustice. This powerful and inclusive collection contains a universe of wishes for a braver and more beautiful world. AUTHORS INCLUDE: Samira Ahmed, Jenni Balch, Libba Bray, Dhonielle Clayton, Zoraida Córdova, Tessa Gratton, Kwame Mbalia, Anna-Marie McLemore, Tochi Onyebuchi, Mark Oshiro, Natalie C. Parker, Rebecca Roanhorse, V. E. Schwab, Tara Sim, Nic Stone "This anthology resonates in its thorough enrichment of the canon." — Publishers Weekly,   Starred Review "A noteworthy collection brimming with empowering tales that confirm all readers deserve to have their stories told."  — Shelf Awareness,  Starred Review "A refreshing anthology depicting worlds where everyone can belong.” — Kirkus Reviews "The diversity represented in these stories is exceptional, and many readers who may have thus far been unable to find themselves in the pages of speculative fiction will see themselves here.... A strong choice for all collections serving teens." — SLJ Dhonielle Clayton is COO of We Need Diverse Books. She is the co-author of the Tiny Pretty Things series and New York Times bestseller The Belles and its sequel The Everlasting Rose. She grew up in the Washington, DC suburbs on the Maryland side and spent most of her time under her grandmother's table with a stack of books. A former teacher and middle school librarian, Dhonielle is co-founder of CAKE Literary, a creative development company whipping up decidedly diverse books for a wide array of readers. She's got a serious travel bug and loves spending time outside of the USA, but makes her home in New York City, where she can most likely be found hunting for the best slice of pizza. A Universe of Wishes  Tara Sim He had taken to making wishes whenever he could. At the last morning star, on the edges of tarnished coins, along the cracks of bones that split in fires. It was never enough. No matter how often or how aggressively he wished, his words were never heard, his pleas went unanswered. And then one day, he learned why: wishes could not be made on innocent things, innocuous things, like stars and coins and clovers. Because wishes were granted only by the dead.   The city of Rastre was pumping like a heart, people moving through its streets as blood flows through veins. It was the end of the day, and the sun burned copper on the horizon, casting long shadows out of the spires and rooftops around him. Thorn waited in the shadow of a cathedral’s bell tower, crouched on the slanted roof with his arms braced on his knees. The wind blew, and he huddled deeper into his threadbare jacket. He’d have to get a new one soon.  Eventually the door across the street opened, emitting a tall, slender boy who couldn’t be much older than he was. The boy closed the door behind him, locked it, and headed toward the eastern sector.  Thorn waited several minutes to be sure. When the sun had bled fully into the earth, the sky deepening into a two-day bruise, Thorn slid to the edge of the roof. Jade lanterns flickered to life, casting Rastre in a glowing, starry light.  That light didn’t reach the street below. Thorn hopped down into that welcome darkness. Beyond he could hear the sounds of passersby, a child screaming in delight, the tinny first notes of a street musician.  Thorn popped the collar of his jacket and crouched before the door. He tickled the lock with his pick until it gave way and he could slip inside.  His breathing was loud in the silence that greeted him. Thorn swallowed and willed his heart to slow. He usually prowled the cemetery in the western sector, but one too many close calls with the groundskeeper had made him leery enough to try another approach. That, and he was getting tired of constantly washing grave soil out of his clothes and from the beds of his fingernails.  Not like this was much better--but at least it was cleaner.  The building was modest in size, large enough to contain two stories. The ground floor was used for receiving and accommodating customers. Upstairs was a collection of coffins and caskets.  But he knew, after a week of observation and more than his fair share of peeking through the window, that there was actually a third story. It was just underground.  Thorn moved past an open display coffin and a reception desk, around to the back, where a