In this haunting companion to Bittersweet in the Hollow, a girl who can smell the lies of others uncovers the incendiary mysteries of her small Appalachian town. Everybody lies. And in knowing their lies, I become the keeper of their secrets. As Caball Hollow slowly recovers from a tumultuous summer, the James family must also come to terms with their own newly revealed secrets. 18-year-old Rowan James has spent her whole life harboring unpleasant truths—that’s what happens when you can smell lies on the teller’s breath—and building walls around herself to block them out. Like her younger sister, Linden, who can taste the feelings of others, Rowan has long struggled with her gift, which has taught her that everyone distorts the truth, and no one is who they seem to be. So when her old rival Hadrian Fitch shows up on her front porch—bloodied and bruised and asking for the kind of help only she can provide—her first instinct is distrust. Except Hadrian’s attack isn’t the only strange occurrence. Now small items are disappearing, but rather than report the losses the owners act as if their missing things never existed. Rumors of a new monster prowling the Hollow begin to swirl. But how can Rowan smoke out the culprit in a town full of secrets? And worse, how can Rowan trust beautiful, solemn Hadrian when every other word he speaks has the distinct burnt smell of a lie? Praise for Lies on the Serpent's Tongue "Pearsall again paints an atmospheric family saga studded with folk magic, intrigue, sisterly bonds, and romance , and Rowan’s compelling character development ties the multifaceted plot together." —Booklist “This gothic Appalachian mystery works as a stand-alone but weaves together complex characters and storylines from 2023’s Bittersweet in the Hollow. The plot is intricately crafted, with key information held back until the novel’s explosive conclusion… Sparkling and darkly atmospheric. ” — Kirkus Reviews “The atmospheric writing captures the impact of the supernatural on real-world events… An engrossing supernatural story with a nice slow burn romance... Strong first buy. ” — School Library Journal “Rowan’s strength as a narrator holds it all together, anchoring the story in her intensity, rage, and utter devotion to her family … Fans of the previous title will not be disappointed, and readers new to the series will happily head back to the first book.” — The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books Kate Pearsall is a creative thinker, an award-winning copywriter, and a storyteller. She has a degree in business and public relations and has written for magazines and newspapers. Bittersweet in the Hollow and Lies on the Serpent's Tongue were inspired in part by a childhood listening to her mom’s stories about growing up in the Appalachian Mountains and visiting family in West Virginia. The smell of a lie is a potent thing , burnt around the edges and foul all the way through. Sometimes it’s so strong I imagine it must singe the mouth of the teller like a hot coal. But not even that would stop them. Everybody lies, and that’s the honest truth. Some are chronic liars, almost like they’ve developed a taste for it, and the stench lingers like smokers’ breath, a pungent reminder they’re not to be trusted. Others dabble in the practice, a few choice fibs they keep around, like bits of charred meat stuck between their teeth. And then there are the ones who lie like they’re doing you a favor. They fill the air with putrescence and expect you to be grateful for the experience. As if the truth could ever be more shameful than their falsehoods. “I can’t believe I let myself get roped into this,” I mutter as Gran parks the old Bronco in front of Caball Hollow’s town hall, a squat brick box built in the 1980s generic corporate style of so many insurance agencies or orthodontic practices dotted throughout Appalachia. “It’ll only be an hour,” Gran says. “Two tops. And you know good and well we woulda been here anyhow. At least this way we get paid for it. Now, quit your caterwauling and get a move on.” “Caterwauling? That was barely whining,” I protest, but she isn’t wrong. The first public meeting of the town council following the sudden death of the mayor last month is likely not the best place for someone with my particular ability. And yet, there’s no way I’d miss it. When we got the call at the diner this morning asking us to cater, I’d agreed despite the late notice. If they’re going to lie about what happened, they can damn well do it to my face. The first of the maples and poplars have already started to drop their leaves, and they crunch beneath my feet as I make my way to the tailgate, where I collect trays filled with lavender shortbread to ease conversation and squares of chess cake for softening hearts. For as long as anyone can remember, we James women have been born with certain talents. Sorrel, my older sister, can charm bees to do her bidding, making honey with s