Exploring the power of stories and storytelling, Sarah Beth Durst presents the mesmerizing adventure of a girl made of living stone who braves unforeseen dangers and magical consequences on a crucial quest to save her family.  Mayka and her stone family were brought to life by the stories etched into their bodies. Now time is eroding these vital marks, and Mayka must find a stonemason to recarve them. But the search is more complex than she had imagined, and Mayka uncovers a scheme endangering all stone creatures. Only someone who casts stories into stone can help—but whom can Mayka trust? Where is the stonemason who will save them? Action and insight combine in this magical coming-of-age novel as the young heroine realizes the savior she’s been searching for is herself.    "Mayka's kindness and steady loyalty, her friends' animated and varied personalities, and some downright brilliant problem-solving will carve themselves into readers' memories." - Kirkus Reviews (starred review) "Mayka is a strong, believable heroine that readers will root for. ­..This exciting adventure has moments reminiscent of The Wizard of Oz , in which the protagonist must rely on herself and her friends to find inner courage and her way to safety." - School Library Journal "With a deft balance between the thrilling journey and the artfully built world of magic, this is as beautiful and adventurous as the graceful stone birds accompanying Mayka on her journey." - Booklist "Featuring a richly diverse cast, vividly imagined worldbuilding, and passionate storytelling, Durst’s middle grade fantasy is a feast for the senses." - Publishers Weekly (starred review)  "Mayka’s thoughtful explorations of how the stories told about us shape our lives will especially appeal to young readers beginning to tell their own stories." - Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books Sarah Beth Durst is the author of the New York Times bestseller The Spellshop , as well as over twenty-five fantasy books for adults, teens, and kids, including the Queens of Renthia series,  Drink Slay Love , and  Spark . She has won an American Library Association Alex Award and a Mythopoeic Fantasy Award and has been a finalist for the Andre Norton Nebula Award three times. She lives in Stony Brook, New York, with her husband, her children, and her ill-mannered cat. Chapter One Turtle had stopped moving last week. He’d warned Mayka and the others a year ago, when he first began to slow—but he moved so slowly anyway that she hadn’t believed him. Not really. She’d always thought they’d have one more afternoon. On the mountain, there was always another afternoon. Another sunset. Another sunrise. Until there wasn’t. She still visited him every day and talked to him as if he could hear her. He had moss growing on him over the faded markings on his shell, the way he liked it, but this morning, Mayka had had the idea he’d also like flowers. Yellow ones, like tiny suns. She decided to plant them in a circle around him, even though she knew he couldn’t see them. Kneeling next to him, she plunged her hands into the dirt, fingers first, using them like spades to dig a hole. She then picked up a flower, cupped its roots in her palms, and gently placed it in the hole. As she scooped dirt around the plant, she wondered what it would feel like to cry, like Father used to. When he was sad, tears would drip down his soft cheeks, curving through his wrinkles. She remembered she used to reach out and catch a tear on her finger. He’d tell her they tasted like the sea, which seemed miraculous to her. Mayka would never cry. Like Turtle, she was made of stone, carved by Father long ago, and she couldn’t cry, even when she very much wanted to. “You picked a pretty spot to stop,” she told Turtle, as she planted a second flower. He had chosen to stop on her favorite overlook, the one with the pine trees. I could stay here for hours, she thought. Even days. From here, she could see the sun spread across the valley, brightening the low-hanging morning mist until the mist shredded itself into strips of clouds. Far below, a river cut through the forests and fields. Reflecting the sky, it looked like a curling line of blue paint, with the forests as blots of dark green and the fields like smears of yellow and the quarries as patches of gray. It was so peaceful that she— The pine trees rustled. Immediately, Mayka held one hand up over her head. Thwack. A stone ball hit her palm. She closed her fingers around it. “Throw me hard, Mayka!” the ball squeaked. Well, it was peaceful, she thought. Sorry, Turtle. Standing, she wound her arm back and threw the stone as hard as she could. It sailed over the edge of the cliff. “Woo-hoo!” the ball cried as it unfurled its wings. Feathers extended, the ball-that-was-really-a-bird swooped up and then looped in a figure eight before flying back to the cliff. He landed on a branch near Mayka and cocked his head so he was