The bookshop of dust and dreams

Mindy Thompson

Book - 2021

This moving story about a magical bookstore explores the way war can shape a family and is perfect for book lovers everywhere, especially fans of Pages & Co., Pax, and Wolf Hollow. It's 1944 Sutton, NY, and Poppy's family owns and runs, Rhyme and Reason, a magical bookshop that caters to people from all different places and time periods. Though her world is ravaged by World War II, customers hail from the past and the future, infusing the shop with a delightful mix of ideas and experiences. Poppy dreams of someday becoming shopkeeper like her father, though her older brother, Al, is technically next in line for the job. She knows all of the rules handed down from one generation of Bookseller to the next, especially their most... important one: shopkeepers must never use the magic for themselves. But then Al's best friend is killed in the war and her brother wants to use the magic of the shop to save him. With her father in the hospital suffering from a mysterious illness, the only one standing between Al and the bookstore is Poppy. Caught between her love for her brother and loyalty to her family, she knows her brother's actions could have devastating consequences that reach far beyond the bookshop as an insidious, growing Darkness looms. This decision is bigger than Poppy ever dreamed, and the fate of the bookshops hangs in the balance.

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Subjects
Genres
Historical fiction
Fantasy fiction
Published
New York : Viking 2021.
Language
English
Main Author
Mindy Thompson (author)
Physical Description
330 pages ; 22 cm
ISBN
9780593110379
Contents unavailable.
Review by Booklist Review

While WWII rages overseas, Poppy spends much of her life in her family's magical New York City bookstore, and it's no wonder: the front door acts as a sort of portal, miraculously pulling in people in need of hope from different decades and locations. The extraordinary shop, prone to emotional outbursts, is one of a string of similar stores scattered about, all part of a long tradition of magical bookshop keeping. Each shop abides by strict guidelines--the most crucial rule stating that no personnel can use the time magic for themselves--though when tragedy strikes, Poppy's older brother desperately plots to skirt the regulations and set their world right again. This excruciating test of Poppy's loyalty takes all of her kindness and creativity to keep her family, bookstore, and larger world safe. It's a splendid setup, and the story takes the time to establish the cozy bookshop world while adding enough twists to keep things interesting, with details to delight in, and emotional avenues to explore. Stop by this bookshop for a magical, moving tale.

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Set in 1944 in Sutton, N.Y., against the backdrop of WWII, this moving examination of pain and power stars bookish, white 13-year-old Poppy Fulbright, who must navigate the painful death of a friend, her brother's all-consuming grief, and their father's sudden illness while managing the family's magical, moody bookshop, which appears to individuals throughout time who need books and community. Despite the promise that she and her brothers, nine-year-old James and 18-year-old Allan, would adhere to the shop's generations-old rules--including never using its magic for their own gain--Poppy begins to suspect something is amiss when the store begins acting out of character. Worried that Allan is at fault and determined to set things right, Poppy enlists the help of Theo Devlin, a young white shopkeeper at another magical store who understands Poppy's heartache; 14-year-old Ollie Bell, the energetic, light brown--skinned courier who delivers to the shop; and regulars at the shop whom Poppy has come to consider family. Just as the sentient, time-traveling bookstore functions as a comforting haven, Thompson's poignant debut offers an opportunity for readers to gently explore the ways in which people respond to and accept loss. Ages 8--12. Agent: Sarah Landis, Sterling Lord Literistic. (Oct.)

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Kirkus Book Review

All bookshops feel magical, but even so, Rhyme and Reason is special. Thirteen-year-old Poppy Fulbright is lucky enough to work in and live above one of the most magical bookshops of all time. In fact, time is precisely why it is unique. Sutton, New York, in 1944 isn't the only time and place in which Rhyme and Reason exists: Poppy's family's magical bookshop appears to patrons whenever they need it most, regardless of the year or where they are located. The magic that exists within the shop comes with its own set of rules, and they're strictly enforced by the Council. When Carl, the best friend of Poppy's older brother, Al, dies while fighting in World War II, Al wants to break the rules and use the time-traveling magic of the bookshop to save his life. This historical fantasy is whimsical yet bittersweet given the subject matter. While the premise is engaging, the lackluster plot would have benefited from deeper character development and more expansive worldbuilding. Despite this, the book could appeal to readers who understand the magic that a dusty old bookshop can contain and who appreciate the power of the perfect book. Most characters are cued as White; the shop courier and the Council Leader have brown skin. A simple tale of family, friendship, and the magic of reading. (Fantasy. 8-12) Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Chapter One November 3, 1944 Sutton, New York The bookshop is feeling blue today. I sense it the moment my brother James and I arrive home from school. The lights are low, the ever-­shifting wallpaper is a cheerless dark gray, with somber books on display--­ Wuthering Heights , Old Yeller , A Little Princess . The gloom sinks into my bones. "Papa?" I call. He should be at the emerald-­green front counter, but he isn't. "We're home!" James shouts. The soft sound of customers chatting trickles toward us through the fiction section, but Papa's booming voice, often too loud for the small, cramped space, is absent. "What's gotten the shop into a mood this time?" James asks, as the heavy atmosphere settles in around us. Rhyme and Reason does tend to be moody, but it's all part of the bookshop's charm. I pull the strap of my schoolbag over my head and hang it on the coat rack. "There, there. Everything is going to be all right," I tell the shop as I gently press my palm to the wall. The floral paper shifts from gray to a soft cream beneath my touch as it's soothed. A quote written on the chalkboard behind the front counter disappears, and new words emerge as the shop attempts to communicate its feelings. "The little bird, always energetic and bright, felt like no one saw her for her beauty or her strength. They only saw her flaws." --­The Tale of Little Bluebird, Ramona Woolridge "I remember that picture book, Mama used to read it to us at bedtime." James nods toward the board, as he hangs his schoolbag beside mine. I remember it too and understanding rushes over me. That picture book tells the story of a boastful little bird who gets knocked down a peg by her friends and must prove her self-­worth in the end. Whenever a customer makes a suggestion to improve the shop, it deals a similar blow to Rhyme and Reason's self-­confidence. "Will you tell Mama and Papa I'm going to Arthur's house? We're all meeting there to listen to The Adventures of Superman ." James tilts his head, and his fine brown hair falls over his eyes. Nine to my thirteen, he and I could not be more opposite. He loves going to school, where he's friends with everyone in his grade, and he spends most of his free time outside with them, as if he doesn't want to be tied down by the shop. I glance at my watch. The radio program starts in five minutes. "You better hurry, or you'll miss the beginning." "I'll be home for dinner!" he calls as he rushes out the back door. I turn my attention to the shop, a shiver running through me. The usual warmth has disappeared. The hanging bulbs are off, and pale light pours in through the front windows, illuminating the tall bookcases in a soft glow. Even the wisteria and climbing hydrangea, which drip from every shelf and surface, seem to droop. "Someone has hurt your feelings, again," I say as I unbutton my wool coat. The shop had a similar episode just last week. A customer didn't like the orange wallpaper Rhyme and Reason had decided on that day, and suggested we pick something more tasteful. Rhyme and Reason went into a spiral for hours before Papa could calm it down. I check on the potted lemon tree by the front door, to see how it's fairing in these conditions. The focal point of the shop, its tall branches almost touch the ceiling. The leaves are a deep rich green that match the color of the front door and the growing fruit are a luminous, crisp yellow. As I reach for the water pitcher that sits in the window, one of the branches brushes my shoulder in hello. "Hello to you too," I say. Mama often reminds us that lemon trees are a symbol of healing and travel, both of which Rhyme and Reason specializes in. The flip calendar that hangs just to the right of the entryway begins to shuffle through months, dates, and years. A customer is approaching! Our shop isn't a normal bookshop. Rhyme and Reason finds people from out of time and brings them to our door. It searches a hundred years into the future and the past to find customers who need the light and hope it can offer through books and community. Papa says bookshops are good for broken souls and wounded hearts. The calendar stops shifting. November 18, 1989. A customer visiting from the future. The bell above the door rings out as it pops open. Mr. Makuto, one of our regulars with a bright smile and loud laughter, steps inside. "Hey there, Poppy, how ya been?" "Just fine, Mr. Makuto," I greet him, feeling like I need to shield my eyes from the bright green jacket he's wearing. "How are you?" "Great. I finished the first book in the murder mystery series you recommended. I'm back for book two! Do you happen to have it?" "Let's find out." I lead him into the fiction section. He was here a few days ago, and I remember exactly where to find the book he wants. I pull it off the shelf and hand it to him. "That's the one." He smiles. I start to respond, when I hear a shuffling sound behind me. The books on the endcap display shift, and one entitled Tales of Woe is brought front and center. "Oh goodness." I suppose finding Papa cannot wait. The bookshop is growing more forlorn by the second. "There are four books in that particular series, but the author wrote a spin-­off that has eight. They're all here, I'll give you some time to browse." Mr. Makuto nods, and I move around him. After a quick scan of the area, I see that Papa is not in the fiction stacks. I cut through the fantasy aisle and emerge in front of the lilac hedge. It runs along the right side of the shop, all the way from the front to the back, concealing the children's section from the main floor. The lush green vines and bursting purple blooms morph into a doorway as I approach. I slip through and the gap seals behind me. The children's area, made up of short white shelves, is lacking its usual color and life today. The mural on the wall, a vast painting of an enchanted forest full of glittering colors and ever-­changing characters, shows a bleak, stormy landscape. The kites and airplanes, which usually circle the ceiling, lie lifeless on the floor. I move around the corner, and see Bibine Zabala and her twin grandchildren, Kosma and Prosper. Bibine stands on the raised Storytime platform, acting out a fairy tale, the way she always does. "--­let me tell you, dear reader, of the terror that struck their hearts at the sight of the seven-­headed serpent." Bibine holds a well-­worn copy of Basque Mythology . She wears a costume from the dress-­up box we keep beneath the mural. A paper crown adorns her head, and a red velvet cape cascades from her shoulders. Her grandchildren wear crowns too, and Prosper clutches a wooden sword. "The great serpent came out to eat only once every three months, and it was a terror to behold." Kosma and Prosper sit, captivated by their grandmother, their cheeks red with excitement. They're nearly identical, with glossy dark curls and big brown eyes. The Zabalas visit us from 1937. Kosma and Prosper are refugees from the Basque Country. They were sent to live with their grandmother and grandfather in the United States after their parents were killed. Bibine spends hours inside the shop with them, telling stories and acting out plays. Shy when they first started visiting, the twins are starting to come out of their shell. Bibine notices me watching and calls out the Basque word for hello. "Kaixo!" "Kaixo." Heat rushes into my cheeks. I hope I have the pronunciation right. A smile tilts the corners of her lips. "Very good, you've been practicing. Care to join us? We are just about to get to the best part of the story." "I would love to, but I'm actually looking for my father. The shop is in a mood." As if in response, a flock of paper birds flies from the shelf above the picture books and swoop inches in front of my nose as they head off over the lilac hedge. "You haven't seen him, by chance?" Bibine shakes her head. "Your brother was at the counter when we came in." Al was at the counter? That must mean Papa isn't here. "Thank you." "What happens next, Amona?" Kosma leans in toward her grandmother. "Well, the great creature opened its mouth and let out a roar. It--­" I move through the lilac hedge and into the small reading area at the back of the shop. Made up of a mismatched assortment of tables and chairs, the space is lit by the large brick fireplace that stretches across the far wall. It's full of customers today; some talk in whispers amongst each other, and some read independently. I recognize a few regulars, but many of them I don't know. "Poppy! Hi! I was hoping I would see you today!" Anna Rose Alperstein, with bouncy brown curls, pale skin, and eyes that always seem to glitter, is nineteen and visits us from 1956. She looks up from the book she's reading. "I landed an audition for a musical that's actually going to be on Broadway. It's only a part in the chorus, and, well, all right, it's not directly on Broadway, but it's near Broadway." The hanging lightbulbs turn on above us, then flick off again. "What's going on with your electric?" a customer browsing the westerns calls out to me. "It's been like this for an hour." "It has been awfully dark in here." Anna Rose frowns, her face lit by the glow of the fire. "I'm so sorry about that, we'll get it fixed as soon as possible," I tell the customer. To Anna Rose I say, "I'll be right back." She nods and settles into her seat. I finally reach the wrought-­iron staircase that leads to the nonfiction on the second floor, then start up the steps. "You're being a bit dramatic," I tell Rhyme and Reason as I go. The vines that grow around the railing shrivel away from my touch, the shop stung by my words. "I know you're sensitive, but you can't just shut down every time someone says something you don't like. If I did that, I wouldn't go to school ever again." I reach the top step and hear Al right away. "I'm sorry, like I said, we don't have any books by Henrietta Davis in stock. At least, not today." My older brother emerges from the nonfiction shelves dressed in tweed pants and a sweater vest; he looks so much like Papa I almost rub my eyes. A woman I've never seen before follows tight on his heels. "What kind of a bookshop is this without Henrietta Davis? She was the greatest writer of the twentieth century, my dear. You haven't read a mystery until you've read Henrietta Davis." The woman has a tight pinched face and gray hair swept into a bun. It's worse than I suspected. Not just a customer offering a suggestion for the shop, but a customer who is insulting the shop. Al sees me standing on the stairs and his eyes widen behind the lenses of his glasses in a help me sort of look. "Henrietta Davis happens to be a distant relative of my grandmother's. If this shop were a good shop, it would have some of her work," the woman snaps. Al adjusts the knot of his tie in discomfort. "Let me show you to our mystery section. I can give you some fantastic alternatives." The customer peers up at him. "I've glanced at that sorry excuse for a mystery section. Nothing caught my interest. Not to mention, I can't find anything with your filing system, books shoved every which way. It's a complete mess." The soft white wisteria cascading down the nearest bookshelf shrinks as Rhyme and Reason hears her comments and sinks further into despair. The air grows cold around us, the chill settling into my stomach as the lights go out completely. She's really done it now. "And what is wrong with your lighting?" she snaps. "You should really get someone in here to fix it!" Anger surges through me. She can't talk to the shop like that. I curl my hands into fists, seizing any bravery I have. "I think Rhyme and Reason is beautiful. The green paint on the front door might be chipped, and our books might seem disorganized to you, but we like it that way. If you don't like it, then you can leave." Her bushy caterpillar eyebrows shoot up, and she stares at me in horror. "Excuse me? Who is this child ?" She puts extra emphasis on the last word, and I wither, the sudden courage leaving me. My knees shake and I lean back against the railing for support. Al holds out a hand, as if to calm her down. "That's my sister, I'm so sorry for her tone. She--­" "I don't know what kind of establishment this is, being run by children! It's a joke!" She huffs and then storms past us, muttering more about Henrietta Davis. When she's gone, the fireflies emerge, rushing up to greet me. Tiny glowing bugs made out of yellowed book pages and magic, they've long followed me wherever I go inside the shop. "Hello," I greet them, holding out my palms for them to land. They brush against my skin, and instantly I'm filled with a soft sense of comfort. Al wipes a sheen of sweat off his forehead. "You all right, Rhyme?" The bulb above us flickers twice in response. Yes. "I couldn't get her to leave. I tried to show her other books. When she didn't want those, I pretended I was busy, hoping that would shake her, but she followed me all the way up here." "Where's Papa?" He's the one who usually handles tough customers. Al adjusts his glasses and starts for the stairs. "That scrap drive was today. The one at Hazel Park. He and Mama volunteered." Posters advertising the drive have hung around town for weeks. you can help with the war effort! donate paper, metal, rubber, and rags! "Save scrap." I begin the slogan. "For victory," Al finishes unenthusiastically. "For victory!" I shout. "C'mon, it's how we do our part to help beat the Nazis." Al shakes his head as he moves to the first floor. I follow after him. "It's how we help Carl." I regret the words as soon as I say them. Al stops on the bottom step, his shoulders tense at the mention of Carl Miller. "I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't mean--­" "It's fine." Al waves me away, but behind his glasses I see the worry in his eyes. It was silly of me to say that. Of course, collecting bits of scrap paper for packaging army crates can't help Carl. Not now that he's gone missing in action. Worry eats at me too. I try to push it down as I follow Al through the shop, but I can't. Carl and Al have been best friends since they were born. He's spent so much time here, he's as much a brother to me as my actual brothers. I can't help but miss the way he used to burst into the shop, always pretending to forget my name, calling me Peony or Posey or some other flower as if he didn't know it was Poppy. There's a table in Rhyme and Reason where Mama likes to keep family photos. Al and I move past it, and I stare at one of my favorites. A shot of me, James, Al, and Carl at the beach. Mama and Carl's mother, Victoria, are in the background, lounging on chairs in dark high-­necked bathing dresses, with big sun hats shading their faces. They met in grade school and became lifelong friends who did everything together. It was a coincidence they had children at the same time, but they planned to raise them side by side. They just didn't know this war was coming and that it would change everything. Missing in action, that's what Mr. and Mrs. Miller told Mama and Papa two weeks ago. Papa thinks he's probably been taken prisoner, which means always-­laughing, always-­teasing Carl is still alive out there. And that's something, I suppose. "They're saying the war is going to end by Christmas." I repeat what my history teacher, Mr. Adams, told us at school today. "They've been saying that for months." Al's eyes sweep over the shop, red rimmed in the fear he's trying to hide. I know he feels guilty, too. He was disqualified from service and now his best friend is missing and there is nothing he can do. "I don't want to talk about it anymore." Al takes a breath and moves behind the counter. He pulls out a book from a box full of new finds. "We bought a few new titles today. Had a customer come in with a nice collection they wanted to sell. I got a few saved for you if you're interested." "Really?" I beam at him and dive for the small stack set to one side. A Nancy Drew mystery: The Secret in the Old Attic , which came out earlier this year. A book of fairy tales, and a book about Amelia Earhart and her disappearance, which Mama and I have been studying at night after dinner. Once I've looked through the selection, I peer over at the box Al is inventorying. I'm not allowed to read things from the future until I get older, per Mama and Papa's rules. They say that it will confuse us, but I've secretly been reading the Chronicles of Narnia and have been on the hunt for book two a good long while. It's taking ages to collect them all. "It's not there," Al says as if he can read my mind. "What's not?" I play innocent. " Prince Caspian . I've been trying to find a copy too." My mouth drops open. "How long have you been looking?" "For a few weeks. Don't tell Papa." "Loose lips sink ships." I recite another slogan from the propaganda posters that have hung all over town since the war started. Al laughs, a real genuine laugh, and I'm so proud to have made him happy. He pulls another book out of the box, looks at the title, then copies it in Papa's ledger. "How was school?" He glances at me. I raise one shoulder in a shrug. "School." It's hard to explain to him what it's like. Not feeling like I fit in with the other girls my age. They're different from me. They talk about how to get the perfect curls, take trips to the soda shop after school, and Meryl Clarke is always going on about the boys in our class. But my sandy curls are frizzy no matter how Mama tries to smooth them, and I overheard one of the boys in our class describe me as "heavy for a girl" last week. "You look like someone just ripped the cover off your favorite book," Al says. The lights of Rhyme and Reason flicker in fear, offended by his choice of words. He ignores the shop and rests his arms on the counter as he leans in. There are five years between us, but he never treats me as if I'm some little kid. "Trouble at school again?" I look down at my hands, trying to fight the embarrassment that crawls up my neck. "Meryl Clarke is having a birthday party this weekend, and I'm the only girl in our class who didn't get invited." Al frowns. "Why?" I sniff, trying to pretend it doesn't matter. "I don't know. I guess we're not exactly friends anymore." We haven't been for a while now. "It's on Saturday, anyway, and I always help Papa here on Saturdays. It's not like I even wanted to go," I add for good measure. Al's hand is gentle as it covers mine. I start to pull out of his grasp, but he stops me. "You know, the fireflies in the shop didn't exist before you were born." I've heard this story a thousand times before, but I stay silent and listen because it's my favorite. "The shop didn't like you when they brought you home, on account of you crying so much. But then, after your first birthday, you decided you wanted to walk. On your first try you had a bad spill, and you were scared to try again. And then suddenly these fireflies appeared out of nowhere, a whole group of them that hovered in the air in front of you. So, you stood up, and took a step to try to reach them. But before you could, the fireflies backed away from you, and you had to follow them." He shakes his head. "We all just stood there watching it, this--­this miracle as you made your way through the fiction section." "So?" I say, not sure what this has to do with school and Meryl Clarke. "So, the shop created a new life-­form, just for you. Three generations of Fulbrights have lived here, but it did that because you are one of a kind." He pushes his glasses up his nose. "Those kids at school, they don't know what they're looking at when they see you. You can out-­argue and out-­quiz all of them." He takes a breath. "And as much as I hate to admit it, you know more about books than any of the rest of us." My eyes widen in surprise. "You tell anyone I said that, and I'll deny it," he teases. "The thing of it is, they don't know what to do with all of that. Not yet anyway. Someday they will." The ache of being left out starts to fade. "You really think I'm one of a kind?" I've never thought of myself that way. I've always felt less than all the other girls. "Don't let it go to your head, firefly." He gives me a wink and then drops my hand. The muscles in my shoulders relax, as warmth spreads through me, the tension melting away. "That's one of my favorite stories." Papa and Mama move in through the back door. I hadn't heard it open. "The shop taught you how to walk." I smile. "How was the scrap drive?" "Well, we collected lots of scrap." Papa laughs, and a cough rises in his chest. He turns and sets his hat on a hook by the door. "It was fine." Mama rolls her eyes at Papa's joke. "Did we miss anything interesting while we were gone?" Papa asks. Al and I exchange a glance, both of us thinking about the customer who hurt Rhyme and Reason's feelings. "I had everything under control," Al says. "With my help," I jump in, not wanting him to one-­up me. "Now, now, everything doesn't have to be a competition between you two. There's plenty of room for both of you to help out around here." Papa moves toward the front counter, just as the calendar above the door begins to shift. It lands on today's date, and we all glance up as Carl's mother, Mrs. Miller moves into the shop. Her eyes are red and splotchy, and my heart sinks. "Victoria?" Mama asks. Mrs. Miller moves her lips to speak, but nothing comes out at first. Finally, she hands Mama a small piece of paper. A telegram. My legs go weak. "No," Al whispers behind me. " 'The secretary of war desires me to express his deepest regret that your son, Sergeant Carl Patrick Miller, was killed in action--­' " Mama can't finish the rest, and Papa takes the telegram from her. The pain is sharp and instant, like a knife in my chest. This can't be happening. Carl promised us he was going to come back from the war. He can't be gone. "They're wrong," Al says. "They're wrong. It's a mess over there, everyone knows that. This has to be a mistake." Mrs. Miller crumbles on the back step, and Mama goes to her, wrapping her up in her arms. Papa finishes reading the telegram, tears in his eyes. "This says he was taken prisoner and was killed attempting to escape." The words slam into me. That sounds like Carl. Never one to accept defeat. "I just--­I can't--­" Al takes fast, shallow breaths and then his knees buckle. He falls to the floor, his head in his hands. And then his shoulders start to shake with silent sobs. The war seems distant from inside the safety of the shop. It's happening miles and miles away. It can't touch us here, not really. Papa hasn't wanted to talk about what's happening, and we've all agreed. But we've been wrong. The war can't be ignored or pushed away, Rhyme and Reason can't protect us from everything. The shop may be magic, but even magic has its limits. Carl had so much life left. He had this big booming laugh Mama said would fill up the world one day. I won't ever hear his laugh again. And neither will Al. Papa stands frozen in shock, his face a sheet of gray. Mama comforts Mrs. Miller. And I drop to the floor at my brother's side. He looks up. "He can't be gone, Poppy," Al says. And then I pull him into me. As Al sobs, I put my hand on his back and pat over and over again, as if I can take this burden from him. Over the top of his head, I see the hanging lightbulbs dim and then go out. Excerpted from The Bookshop of Dust and Dreams by Mindy Thompson All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.