Guided by a tattered map, accompanied by Thomas the Pig Boy, and inspired by the storyteller's blood that thrums through her veins, eleven-year-old Trinket searches for the seven stories she needs to become a bard like her father, who disappeared years before. She befriends a fortune-telling gypsy girl; returns a child stolen by the selkies to his true mother; confronts a banshee and receives a message from a ghost; helps a village girl outwit―and out-dance―the Faerie Queen; travels beyond the grave to battle a dastardly undead Highwayman; and meets a hound so loyal he fights a wolf to the death to protect the baby prince left in his charge. All fine material for six tales, but it is the seventh tale, in which Trinket learns her father's true fate, that changes her life forever. The Seven Tales of Trinket is a Kirkus Reviews Best Children's Book of 2012 “All storytellers have special powers, as Trinket learns on this incantational Irish odyssey to find her fate and her father.” ― Richard Peck, Newbery Medal winner “ Trinket is a riveting middle-grade debut--a seamless blend of story and song that tells a thrilling tale of a bard-in-training's quest to find her father. Utterly enchanting!” ― Diane Zahler, author of The Thirteenth Princess “* Thomas offers an impressive debut novel in which she weaves seven compelling stories together with narrative power and considerable grace.” ― Booklist, starred review “* Thomas spins tales worthy of her heroine's aspirations in this nimbly structured collection of seven magical adventures that build into a highly rewarding story.” ― Publishers Weekly, starred review “* What stands out most is Trinket's clear voice and loving heart, both of which will endear her to readers.” ― Kirkus Reviews, starred review Shelley Moore Thomas is the author of the Good Knight series of picture books and easy readers, including Good Night, Good Knight. In addition to writing books, she works as an elementary teacher and as a professional storyteller. The Seven Tales of Trinket is her first middle-grade novel. Ms. Thomas lives in Oceanside, California. THE BARD’S MAP The night was cold and the wind whispered softly, rustling leaves and occasionally rattling the shutters of our small cottage. But the sky was so clear I could see every star, even the tiny ones. Despite the chill, I spent a lot of time outside looking at the sky. It was better than being inside our cottage, which held nothing but memories of happier times, and looking at my mother, sick with the wasting. Once she had been pretty, and even as she faced death, her eyes still held a twinkle. “’Twas what your father first noticed about me: my eyes,” she had told me many times. “Lovely Mairi-Blue-Eyes, he called me.” Large they were, like sapphires, except that I had never seen a real sapphire, so I had to take her word. I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Thomas, the Pig Boy. “Old Mrs. Pinkett says to come in. She says…” He did not finish the sentence. Somehow, we both knew this night would be my mother’s last. There was so little left of her. Thomas squeezed my shoulder as I rose to go inside. I entered as quietly as I could, though the door creaked as a light wind rushed in beside me. Old Mrs. Pinkett nodded over at the bed where my mother lay. Her once soft arms now felt of brittle bone. But her eyes were more alive than ever. “Sing for me, Trinket,” she whispered. So I sang for her the songs that we had made up in the years since my father left. They were not as beautiful as his, but we tried our best. For my mother always said that a house without music would be a lonely house indeed. When I finished, she raised a frail hand to my cheek. “I’ve much to tell you, Trinket, and so little time,” she said. “First, tell me, once more, tell me the beginning,” I said. She drew a breath and began. “Once, a handsome storyteller whisked a fair maiden off her feet with his silvery words and amazing tales. He promised her a story each night and during the whole of their time together, he was true to his word. He carried her off with his words to places far away. And when she finally agreed to marry him, he took her to a little cottage by the sea where they were most joyfully happy. “Their happiness was complete upon the birth of their babe. Our precious child , they called her, our delightful trinket , and that became her name. Your name: Trinket. The bard’s daughter.” I smiled when she said my name. Then she coughed. I turned to pour her some water, but there was Thomas, cup already in hand. I wanted to thank him but he disappeared as quickly as he’d come. My mother coughed again, this time even more harshly. I gave her water, but she had trouble swallowing. She tried to speak, but her voice rasped, sounding small and choked. I took over the telling, willing my own voice to be strong. “The traveling bard left one day when the girl was six, off on one of his storytelling, story-collecting adventures, for that was