By Tracie Peterson
Driven aside by way of Their earlier, Can the Bonds of Sisterhood live on What Lies Ahead?
From the dramatic culture of such classics as Little ladies and one thousand Acres comes Tracie Peterson's modern novel, A slim Thread. recognized for her Westward Chronicles sequence in addition to her historic sequence with Judith Pella, Peterson now makes use of her agile storytelling talents to take on a kin saga concerning the bonds of sisterhood, which you'll now not are looking to miss.
United for the 1st time in years, 5 sisters go back to their formative years which will bid farewell to a mom they by no means knew, misplaced to the area that had made her a celebrity. realizing her in basic terms in her motion pictures, the sisters think neither an emotional reference to her tragic loss of life nor with one another. merely their deep love for his or her godly grandmother, Mattie, pulls them together.
In the wake of the funeral, the Mitchell sisters realize the effect in their absent mom at the offerings they've made all through their lives. A...
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Additional info for A Slender Thread
Even lies and lewdness,” she echoed. ” As she spoke, Lady Mary led me up three floors to the maids’ dormitory. There several girls slept in beds crowded under the rafters like a flock of sheep curled in the lee of a cliff. It took me but a moment to fall asleep. Awakening some time later to the murmur of voices, I pretended to be still asleep. “I just peeked at her. She’s a plain one,” said someone with a high voice. “No, just a little roughened from her journey,” came Lady Mary’s voice. “She has no fashionable clothes,” said the first voice again, with a note of pity.
The queen had sent a litter for me, a covered chair atop a brown palfrey. A small chest with my few belongings was secured behind. We set out before dawn the next day. I felt like a grand lady riding so high, but I was a little afraid of falling off. The messenger on his horse seemed to be smiling at me, whether in pity or friendliness, I could not tell. All the way to London I thought about my father. I had sat dry-eyed through his funeral, unable to believe he was dead. His visits home had been rare, for he lived at court as a gentleman of the queen’s privy chamber.
In the dimness I glimpsed the tawny hide of a beast straining against an iron collar, the fur around its face like a giant ruff, sharp teeth bared. Feeling my gorge rise with panic, I pushed my way out of the Tower and ran into the courtyard, gasping the damp air. All the way back to Whitehall, everyone talked of the queen’s menagerie. The roaring beast I had glimpsed was called a lion. The catlike wailing came from a leopard, one of four in an iron cage, Emme said. She described their spotted fur and their long, slim tails.