The dragonets struggle to fulfill the prophecy and — somehow — end the war in this thrilling new installment of the bestselling WINGS OF FIRE series!
It all comes down to this: The Dragonets of Destiny must finally bring the epic war to an end, reconcile the seven tribes, and choose the next queen of Pyrrhia... and make it out alive.
This Barnes & Noble edition contains an exclusive scroll that introduces a new dragon and includes dragon instructions on how to care for humans.
The dragonets struggle to fulfill the prophecy and — somehow — end the war in this thrilling new installment of the bestselling WINGS OF FIRE series!
It all comes down to this: The Dragonets of Destiny must finally bring the epic war to an end, reconcile the seven tribes, and choose the next queen of Pyrrhia... and make it out alive.
This Barnes & Noble edition contains an exclusive scroll that introduces a new dragon and includes dragon instructions on how to care for humans.
The Brightest Night (B&N Exclusive Edition) (Wings of Fire Series #5)
336
The Brightest Night (B&N Exclusive Edition) (Wings of Fire Series #5)
336Hardcover(B&N Exclusive Edition)
-
SHIP THIS ITEMShips in 3-5 daysPICK UP IN STORE
Your local store may have stock of this item.
Available within 2 business hours
Related collections and offers
Overview
The dragonets struggle to fulfill the prophecy and — somehow — end the war in this thrilling new installment of the bestselling WINGS OF FIRE series!
It all comes down to this: The Dragonets of Destiny must finally bring the epic war to an end, reconcile the seven tribes, and choose the next queen of Pyrrhia... and make it out alive.
This Barnes & Noble edition contains an exclusive scroll that introduces a new dragon and includes dragon instructions on how to care for humans.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780545349222 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Scholastic, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 03/25/2014 |
| Series: | Wings of Fire Series |
| Edition description: | B&N Exclusive Edition |
| Pages: | 336 |
| Sales rank: | 152,784 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.70(w) x 8.40(h) x 1.40(d) |
| Lexile: | 790L (what's this?) |
| Age Range: | 8 - 12 Years |
About the Author
Tui T. Sutherland is the author of several books for young readers, including the Menagerie trilogy, the Pet Trouble series, and three books in the bestselling Seekers series (as part of the Erin Hunter team). In 2009, she was a two-day champion on Jeopardy! She lives in Massachusetts with her wonderful husband, two adorable sons, and one very patient dog. To learn more about Tui's books, visit her online at www.tuibooks.com.
Read an Excerpt
One Day We'll Dance Again
A Family's Journey Through Illness and Grief
By Angela Brown Ware
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2013 Angela Brown WareAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4759-5307-7
CHAPTER 1
In Another Time
In another time our family was whole. In another time we had the usual issues that most families have, which now in retrospect seem so insignificant, so petty, so unimportant. In another time we lived in a three-bedroom townhouse in Mitchellville, Maryland, a few miles outside of Washington, DC, and a hard walk to the Washington Redskins football stadium.
My husband, Byron (Jeff) and I lived close to our families. Jeff's dad (Popi), a retired pharmacist, and his mom (Grammy), a retired teacher, lived less than 15 minutes from our home. His sister, Tanya, and brother, Stephen, also lived in the area.
My mom and dad each had their own homes; Dad (Pop-Pop) in Northeast Washington, DC, and Mom (Grandma) in Capitol Heights, Maryland, each less than 30 minutes away in opposite directions. My dad is retired and works part-time to keep himself busy. Mom is also retired and mostly homebound due to a myriad of complications from diabetes. My sister, Lisa (known to the boys as Aunt Nee-Nee), brother Steven (Uncle Fuzzy) and I coordinated our schedules to run errands and care for her. This was our life before we realized the fluidity and unpredictability of happiness.
There were five of us. I worked in downtown Washington, DC as a legal secretary for a large law firm. Jeff worked closer to home as a television producer for Prince George's County Public Schools. Bryce, age 8, was our eldest son. He was an outgoing, friendly child with my fair complexion and a shock of dark brown, curly hair. While not much taller than the twins, he took his position as oldest brother seriously. Eric and Aaron were 6 year old identical twins with features and darker skin similar to their father with stocky builds and endless energy.
Five can make a circle. A circle is strong and unbreakable. Five can make a pentagon. A pentagon is regal and distinctive. Now there are four of us. Four is so foreign to us. Four makes a square. A square is plain and predictable. Once Eric was here; now he's not.
Our family's ordeal began the Thursday before Palm Sunday of 2003. My mind relives the days and there I see the signs much earlier: the bruises, the stumbling, and the odd, pigeon-toed walk. We – me, my husband, and our family - just didn't put everything together until it didn't matter anymore. It seemed to begin with something so simple, yet so complex. Our lives changed completely the night that Eric fell down the stairs.
Everyone was sound asleep, except Eric. Maybe he decided that he needed a drink of water. He did what he had done a hundred times before; he walked down the hallway to the stairs to get to the kitchen. Instead of his usual quiet trip to the kitchen and back, I heard him cry out as he fell down the stairs. Jeff and I both heard him, and we leapt up out of our bed and scrambled to the bottom of the stairs where Eric lay, shaken and confused. We checked him for visible injuries, comforted him, got him some water, and sent him back to bed. He probably tripped on the many toys that were often scattered throughout the hallway and, at times – despite our admonishments - on the stairs. He looked okay - it was no big deal, right? Kids fall down the stairs every day.
Then, on Friday afternoon, Eric fell down the stairs.
On Friday night, Eric fell down the stairs.
On Saturday morning, Eric fell down the stairs.
Eric had walked those seventeen steps since he was eleven months old. Walking them at night was nothing to him; sometimes he didn't even bother to turn on the light. A little warning nerve in the back of my head began to thump. Was he just going through a clumsy phase? Were his feet, like a puppy's, too big for his body? Something wasn't right.
Thump, thump, thump. I felt it in the back of my head. Shake it off, I thought. Don't be a panicky mommy; he's just going through a clumsy phase.
On Saturday afternoon I took the boys to the store. Eric stumbled and fell as we crossed the street. I helped him up and held his hand for a moment so that he could get his bearings. He seemed okay, so I let go of his hand. As we entered the store he ran into a metal shoplifting sensor so hard that the impact knocked him down. I scooped him up, brushed him off, took his hand again, and looked him in the eyes.
"Eric," I asked, "What's wrong with you? Are you goofing with me?"
"Mom," he said, "I say, 'Go,' but my legs don't want to."
Thump, thump, thump. The thumping was harder in my head, more insistent now. Mental note: Call doctor on Monday. Talk to her about Eric's clumsiness.
You may think, "Good grief, lady! What's it going to take to get him to a hospital - a telegram?" Yes, a telegram would have helped immensely. During the everyday running around to get things done, we block out the things that threaten to snatch us from our routine:
Milk
Eggs
Detergent
Fix glasses
Get gas
Return videos
Pick up birthday present for party
Get kids to party
Et cetera, et cetera.
The signs seem obvious when you put them together, but try to piece together a puzzle without knowing what the puzzle is supposed to look like, or not even knowing that it is a puzzle at all. Someone casually hands you the pieces one at a time while the buzz of everyday life goes on – work, school, errands, homework, and chores. And oh - they neglect to mention - it is absolutely critical that this puzzle be completed now.
Thump, thump, thump.
Whenever I got close to Eric, he didn't smell quite right. Every child has their scent, and his was way off. Eric didn't smell like Eric. I am his mother, and I love him dearly. I know every aspect of my children because it is my job. I know their scent, their personality, their behavior, and moods. I know who won't eat cheese, and who will eat anything smothered in gravy. I know their bowel schedules – I make it my business to know everything about them. I couldn't identify what I smelled; it wasn't a stink, it was just that Eric's scent was not quite right. Since I had no basis upon which to compare, that knowledge made me curious and a little uncomfortable, but did not cause any alarm.
On Palm Sunday we cooked in the backyard on the grill after attending church. Eric's clumsiness was momentarily forgotten as we enjoyed the day. Jeff manned the grill, and I set the table and handed out the food. Eric's hands shook as he held his dinner plate. His hot dog rolled precariously toward one edge of the plate, then the other.
"Eric," I asked, "Are you goofing? Are you playing with me?"
"No, Mom," he said, "I'm not goofing - I'm really not."
Thump, thump, thump. I felt instinctive, gut-twisting, God-given awareness that I believe we all possess, but I was afraid to trust it. You know what you know for a reason, and I knew that something was not right – dangerously so. This awareness is what has protected our babies for thousands of years, and I was terrified to act on it.
Jeff and I conferred after dinner. "I'm calling the doctor first thing in the morning," I told Jeff. "This just isn't right. Do you think that it's bad enough to take him to the emergency room tonight?"
"I don't think so," Jeff said. "What if it's nothing?"
What if it was actually nothing? What if we took Eric to the emergency room and it was nothing? Were we panicking over "nothing"? Should we bundle him up and take him to the emergency room, where we might wait hours to be seen by a doctor, only to be told that it truly was nothing? If it was nothing, we faced a $50 insurance co-payment. For "nothing." We would frighten Eric for "nothing." It was nothing, we decided. We would wait until Monday morning and I would make an appointment with his pediatrician. Jeff rolled up a few spare blankets and padded the bottom step just in case Eric took another tumble down the stairs.
Lisa and Steven, both police officers, had busy schedules, but we were very close. We spoke on the telephone several times a day. We telephone conference-called each other, exchanged news, teased each other, and conferenced Mom to give her a daily laugh. I did not share my concerns with them, and I do not know why I did not. Maybe I did not want to cause them undue concern. Maybe I was afraid that the anxiety I felt was justified in a way that I could not explain.
On Monday morning I called the pediatrician's office to make an appointment for Eric. The receptionist asked about my concerns, and I told her that Eric kept falling down. She transferred me directly to the doctor. Drs. Frederick and Marilyn Corder, a husband and wife team, knew us well. They had cared for the children since they were born. I repeated to Dr. Frederick why I felt that something was wrong with Eric. I knew that the office was busy on Mondays, I told him, and I didn't expect to be seen today; I just wanted to make an appointment.
"Mrs. Ware," he said, "You're not a panicky mother. If you say that something is wrong, bring him right in."
Pleased at the quick appointment, I packed up Eric and drove to the doctor's office in Bowie, Maryland.
We arrived 20 minutes later at the doctors' office, and after a surprisingly short wait the doctor greeted us and escorted us to the examination room. He asked me a few details about my concerns, and he asked Eric to walk down the hall. A once sure-footed Eric walked awkwardly and stumbled. Dr. Corder scribbled notes on Eric's chart.
"I want you to see a neurologist right away," he said to me. "Right now. Don't go home; go straight there."
He made a telephone call and then handed me a piece of paper with a name and an address of the neurologist. I asked no questions, and I have no idea why I did not. Maybe it was the fear of hearing something I did not want to hear. Eric and I returned to the car, and we silently drove across town to the neurologist.
A neurologist? Thump, thump, thump.
By the time we arrived at the neurologist in Laurel, Maryland, Eric was drooling. The doctor watched him walk and asked him a few questions. Was he slurring his words, or was I just imagining things? Was he having a stroke? Can six-year-olds have strokes? I wanted to ask the doctor, but I was too afraid. After observing Eric, the doctor made a quick telephone call. His voice was low; I could not hear his words.
The doctor finished his call and turned to me.
"Tomorrow morning," he said, "I want you at Children's (Children's National Medical Center, Washington, DC)." He gestured toward Eric. "I want him to have a CT scan."
I had a vague idea of what a CT scan was, and I asked him what he thought was the problem with Eric. He hesitated before answering.
"I'd rather not say," he said. "I would rather see the films before I say anything."
I thanked him for seeing us on such short notice, and we left with a handful of paperwork for the morning.
Thump, thump, thump.
On the way home we stopped at a restaurant for a late lunch and for me to get a grip on myself. It had been a long morning, and Eric was starving. I ordered him a bowl of mac and cheese. While we waited for lunch to arrive, I called Jeff to give him an update. He was as confused and rattled as I.
"What's going on?" he asked me.
I had no idea. It couldn't be anything serious. Our boys were healthy and strong. They'd never had any serious medical problems. Serious things just didn't happen to our children; up to this point, they'd never had so much as a broken bone between the three of them. They'd had nothing worse than ear infections, colds, and stitches.
The next morning Jeff drove Bryce and Aaron to school, and I took Eric to the hospital. We arrived early and checked in. Eric patiently endured the quick and painless procedure. After the procedure I took his hand and we started down the hall to go home. Since I'd not been given any further instructions, going home seemed the reasonable thing to do. A doctor suddenly rushed up to us and blocked our path.
"Did you come here alone?" he asked me.
I nodded my head. He looked around; he appeared nervous.
"You didn't bring anyone with you?" he insisted.
Again, I responded no.
Why would I bring anyone with me? It's just a CT scan. Tests take time; we have plenty of time, don't we?
"Son," he said to Eric, "Why don't you go over to the toy rack and find something interesting?" He pointed to the toys in a corner. "I need to talk to Mommy." Eric nodded absently and stumbled toward the toys. The doctor gripped my elbow and guided me to a nearby corner. The hospital was undergoing renovations, and he apologized that there was nowhere private nearby for us to talk. The doctor used peculiar words - "tumor," "biopsy," "surgery," and "malignancy".
Whose child were we talking about? As he spoke I turned away for quiet, pulled out my cell phone, and called Jeff at work. Tears rolled down my face as I used the same words the doctor used. He did not appreciate what he perceived as my practical joke.
"Don't ever play on the phone like that!" He yelled at me, incredulous. "What are you talking about?"
I shakily handed the telephone to the doctor. "You tell him," I said. The words choked in my throat. The doctor briefly spoke to him and then handed me the phone. I shut the phone, disconnecting us. There was nothing else I could say to him.
Just get here, Honey. Hurry. Please. Please.
The next few hours were a blur as strangers placed Eric on a gurney and rushed him upstairs to be prepped for a procedure to relieve the pressure in his brain. He had pressure on his brain? Should I have known this? I followed quickly, not knowing what else to do. People rushed in and out of the room, and someone began shaving hair from Eric's head. No one seemed to notice that I was still in the room.
"Mommy?"
"I'm here, Sweetie."
"Mommy?" I struggled to get close enough to him to hold his hand as I tried to process what was going on. I once prided myself on my calm in the face of chaos. Now I looked around and stammered to no one in particular, "You can't do this until my husband gets here."
"We can't wait for your husband," the doctor insisted. "We have to move now."
He gently guided me out of the area, closed the curtain, and returned to his work. I stood there, frozen.
It seemed like hours before Jeff rushed into the room in a panic. I don't know how he located us in the immense hospital, because when we spoke on the phone I didn't tell him where we were. We embraced and I tried to explain to him what I could not understand.
The doctor soon reappeared and repeated to Jeff what he had tried to explain to me. We shook our heads in disbelief. This could not be happening! He told us that Eric could not see clearly. More doctors entered the room. They briefly told us what they planned to do and the risks involved. They needed signed permission to operate. We could not believe that they were operating on our child. How do you digest a sentence beginning with the name of your child and ending with the words "brain tumor"?
Jeff and I stood in the hallway near Intensive Care. The doctor guided us to a nearby waiting room marked "Parent Waiting Area – Private". We sat in a room with bare walls. There were four chairs in the room, along with a small table and a telephone. A stack of old magazines and a small vase filled with artificial flowers were an ineffective attempt at cheerfulness. The doctor showed us scans of Eric's brain and pointed at abnormalities. He spoke of closed ventricles, intracranial pressure, and secondary tumors. We understood little, but we would soon understand more than we cared to know.
After surgery Eric was taken to Recovery. We were told that he would be asleep for hours, and we should get something to eat and rest awhile. Neither of us felt like eating or resting, but the nurses insisted. We wandered to the cafeteria, purchased soft drinks, and sat a small table across from each other silent, holding hands. This was all a nightmarish mistake. Our boys are healthy and strong; I kept telling myself, things like this don't happen to us.
"What's going on? How did this happen?" Jeff wondered aloud.
"I have no idea," I told him. "I feel terrible. Should we have seen this?"
We had no answers, and there was no one to ask. We would have to wait for answers.
We soon returned to Recovery, and a nurse escorted us to Eric. He was awake, but did not speak. As he strained to see us, we sat on either side of his bed, saying nothing. Eventually I found my voice.
"Baby," I gently asked him, "Why didn't you tell me that you couldn't see?"
"Well," he answered, "You've just been so busy; I didn't want to bother you."
"Eric," I explained, "Some things are important. 'Bryce is teasing me' – not important. 'I can't find my Gameboy' – not important. 'I can't see' – very important!"
"Okay, Mom," he smiled and gave me a thumbs-up. "I understand."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from One Day We'll Dance Again by Angela Brown Ware. Copyright © 2013 Angela Brown Ware. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.