The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag (Flavia de Luce, #2)

by Alan Bradley

Cynthia had seized me, upended me, and spanked me on the spot, making what I thought to be unfair use of a nearby copy of Hymns Ancient and Modern (Standard Edition).

I could see his eyebrows pucker as he weighed his options, which were few: Either concede gracefully or risk coming face-to-face with the Wreck of the Hesperus.

“You are unreliable, Flavia,” he said. “Utterly unreliable.” Of course I was! It was one of the things I loved most about myself.

“Cheese!” I exclaimed. It was a secret prayer, whose meaning was known only to God and to me.