Hyacinth and the Secrets Beneath($8.99Value)

Description

The hilarious first book in a middle-grade fantasy trilogy about the magical rivers that run through the sewers of London and shape history in ways you'd never learn in school. Magic is real. History is a big, fat lie.   Hyacinth Hayward’s mother has just been kidnapped by lumpy gray monsters in post office uniforms. But why? Well, before Hyacinth moved from Illinois to London, she read up on the city’s history. Too bad for her. Because the books are wrong. The truth is, London was built on magical rivers, and all the major events in its past have been about people trying to control the magic. And her family is somehow tied to it.   In the chase to get her mom back, Hyacinth encounters a giant intelligent pig in a bathing suit, a boy with amnesia, an adorable tosher (whatever that is), a sarcastic old lady, and a very sketchy unicorn. Somehow Hyacinth has to figure out who to trust, so she can save her mom and, oh yeah, not cause a second Great Fire of London. "A wild ride that's fun, freaky, outlandish, and suspenseful." — Booklist "A rollicking adventure with a lulu of an ending. . . . Middle graders will adore clever Hyacinth and enjoy the other humorous characters, the puns . . . and the suspenseful narrative." — Kirkus Reviews "Jacob Sager Weinstein uses plentiful humor to hold together the boisterous plot." — Shelf Awareness   JACOB SAGER WEINSTEIN has written for the New Yorker, McSweeney’s , HBO, and the BBC. He lives in London with his family, close to where the Westbourne flows underground, but his bathroom faucet mixes hot and cold water nonetheless. He apologizes in advance for any Great Fires this may cause. His website is jacobsagerweinstein.com, and he is @jacobsw on Twitter. Chapter 1       In 1848, London smelled awful. I’m not sure why this surprised anybody. If I had been around then and somebody had said, “Hyacinth, if every toilet in town flows directly into the river Thames, will the city smell like a rose garden in a chocolate factory?” I’m pretty sure I would have said, “Um, no.”   But apparently it was a big surprise to the Victorians. They called it the Great Stink, and at first, all the members of Parliament ignored it. Then the stink reached the Parliament building, and when everybody finished running gagging out of the building, they figured maybe they should do something about it.   They dug up half the city and built a massive underground sewer. They spent huge amounts of money, and they ripped up the road and tore down houses, but they did it in the name of good health and breathable air. It was just a big engineering project, and it had absolutely nothing to do with a terrifying magical power that could destroy London and possibly the whole planet if it got into the wrong hands.   At least, that’s what the history books told me. But you know what?   History is a big fat liar.   And you know who else is a liar? My mom.   Okay, that’s not fair. It’s only lying if you’re clued in enough to know you’re not telling the truth. I honestly think Mom believes everything she says, even if it completely contradicts something she said thirty seconds before.   Consider the following Mom Monologue, which I heard as our black cab pulled away from London Heathrow Airport:   “Now, honey, I know you’re scared about moving to a new country, and maybe you’re a little angry at me, but you’re going to fall in love with London, I just know. It’s a wonderful big city full of exciting things. It’ll be totally different from what you’re used to, and that will help you grow! Also, Aunt Polly’s flat is in Hampstead, which is the part of London where she and I and all your aunts grew up, and it’s just beautiful. There are sheep wandering through fields, and springs welling up between the trees. It’ll be like you never left Grandma’s farm back in Illinois, and that will help you feel right at home!”   You see what I mean? I counted four contradictory statements in about ten seconds. You would think that one of them, at least, would turn out to be right, but Mom has a rare knack for missing the truth on all sides.   And when we finally got to Hampstead, I realized she’d done it again. It wasn’t bustling and exciting, but it wasn’t full of sheep and springs, either. It was just an ordinary neighborhood with some trees and some buses. Aunt Polly’s building was on a busy four-lane road, and I’m pretty sure any sheep that tried to wander across it would have ended up as lamb chops. So maybe things had changed since my mom was a little girl . . . except the buildings looked like they were at least a hundred years old, which means that my mom couldn’t have grown up among open fields unless she was much, much older than she looked.   Still, I was excited about seeing Aunt Polly. A long time before I was born, my mom and her eight sisters had left England and moved to a little town in Illinois, where my grandmother had bought a farm. I had grown up surrounded by family, and since Aunt Polly had move