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313 pages, Hardcover
First published April 16, 2013
Two sisters sit, side by side, in the backseat of an old car. Amity and Sorrow. Their hands are hot and close together. A strip of white fabric loops between them, tying them together, wrist to wrist.
"When they reach the house, the three females fear it. Not for the look of the place, a gap-toothed, rough-hewn, clapboard two-story, painted white a long, long time ago. Not for the four windows, up and down, dark and empty as sockets. Not for the porch that sags beneath it or the old, scabby tree that grows to the side of it, branches arching over to smother the roof. They would fear any house. When the man pulls open a screen door it groans on its hinges. When he pushes in the front door, so that all of them can see inside the dark mouth of his house, they shiver. They are forbidden to go in. It is a rule."
"All great journeys are made in faith. The pilgrim over dark seas, the immigrant to new lands, the pioneer to a salt-baked lake. Faith calls the native to the spirit walk, the vision quest, but Amaranth can only hope, in retrospect, that hers is a great journey.
Six days since she left her husband, nearly one week since she ran, and she cannot help but feel that God Himself has crashed her here. He certainly seems less than keen on showing her a way out, as if He is holding her until her husband can catch up."
"The woman withdraws it, sticky, and leans down to her. "You need something, sweetie?"
"The house of the Grapes of Wrath" she says. And when the lady tries to leave, she sings out, "Library! Library!" remembering the old man's name for it.
When she gets to the door, she knows it is the best of temples—dark and lit by small windows, where motes spin in shafts of light like tiny angels and the quiet hush of pages turning, soft as cloth on boards. A woman stands at its center instead of an oracle, with long purple hair and a silver star on her chest.
Amity walks to her and speaks in her bravest voice, loud and clear. "I have come for your Grapes of Wrath"