By Isobelle Carmody
Are Alyzon’s new skills a blessing . . . or a curse?Alyzon Whitestarr does not take after her musically gifted father or her nocturnal, inventive mom. actually, she’s the main general member of a really eccentric relations . . . until eventually the day that an twist of fate leaves her extra particular than she ever can have dreamed. unexpectedly colours are extra shiny to Alyzon; her reminiscence is ideal; yet strangest of all is Alyzon’s experience of odor. Her ally smells of a comforting sea breeze. She registers her father’s contentment because the candy smell of caramelized sugar. yet why does the cutest man at school scent so rancid? With Alyzon’s extrasensory notion comes intrigue and risk, as she turns into conscious of the darkish secrets and techniques and hidden goals that threaten her family members. in any case, being diverse can be much less of a blessing than a curse. . . .
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The smell of cloves grew stronger, but there was also a peppermint smell. “You have been here a month,” Dr. Reed said. I was so shocked I didn’t know what to say. “It’s somewhat unusual for a blackout caused by concussion to last so long, but not unheard of; in any case you are awake now,” Dr. Reed said briskly. She stood up. “Well, I’d better let your father know the good news. ” At the door, she hesitated. ” After she had closed the door behind her, I felt limp with exhaustion. ” Da’s voice groped for me, and I let it lift me gently to wakefulness.
It wasn’t just that my family had cooked a feast of all my favorite things, or that they had filled the place with flowers. It was like the house itself gave off one of those not-real fragrances my senses had got into the habit of conjuring up in response to people. The sweetness of it seemed wonderfully familiar, and I tried to figure out what it was as Da ushered me gently along the hall. They were all sitting around the kitchen table smiling, even Serenity, and I had to work really hard to keep the smile on my own face, because for a second I nearly staggered back under the force of their attention.
I was on the verge of sleep, too, when I heard a door slam. I guessed that Mum was going for a walk. Or maybe she was going to the all-night supermarket. I pictured her walking along the street, hands pushed deep in Da’s big coat, her hair a wild reddish tangle in the streetlights, spangled with little spits of rain. I wished I had the energy to get up and go after her, because I loved those surreal night trips where nothing was required of you but to wander along in Mum’s dreamy wake. * * * I woke, this time to daylight flooding into the room and to Jesse playing his guitar in the shower.
Alyzon Whitestarr by Isobelle Carmody