Anthology

Sister Emily's Lightship and Other Stories

Sister Emily's Lightship and Other Stories

Jane Yolen

Language: English

Pages: 304

ISBN: 0312875231

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Sister Emily's Lightship and Other Stories is Jane Yolen's first collection of short stories written for adults. It includes the award-winning title story, as well as three new, never-before published, works.

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Nebula Awards Showcase 2010

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The Best American Mystery Stories 2011

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preparing for Passover, Tana’s accusations of blood libel were believed, though it took her a full night of complaining to convince Leon. Who but a Jew, after all, was little and dark—never mind that half of the population both in front of and behind the walls were tall and blonde thanks to the Vikings who had settled their trade center in Kiev generations before. Who but a Jew had an unpronounceable name—never mind that the local goyish names did not have a sufficiency of vowels. Who but a Jew

Ever dutiful, Dusty packed his pipes and a cress sandwich and made for a Lonely Place. Our forest has many such: dells silvered with dew, winding streams bedecked with morning mist, paths twisting between blood-red trilliums—all the accoutrements of Faerie. And when they are not cluttered with bad poets, they are really quite nice. But Dusty preferred human highways and byways, saying that such busy places were, somehow, the loneliest places of all. Dusty always had a touch of the poet himself,

said that he spoke a hundred truths in a single breath. Everyone loved Lark, but none more than the young prince of Elb. Whenever he heard Lark sing, the prince would put his small hand in the musician’s, look up at him, and say: “Oh, Lark, you are the fairest and truest of all the men in my father’s kingdom.” On hearing that, Lark would squat down on his heels so that he could look the boy right in the eye. “Do not confuse the singer with the song, my prince” he would say. The prince did not

have contained black worms and other evil auguries, so dark and lowering was the sky. So I wondered little at the bottle that the sea had deposited before me, certain it contained noxious fumes at best, the legacy of its long cradling in such a salty womb. In my country poets sing the praises of wine and gift its color to the water along the shores of Hellas, and I can think of no finer hymn. But in this land they believe their prophet forbade them strong drink. They are a sober race who reward

nature of the bottle.” “I understand rank,” I said. “On the sea I was between the captain and the rowers. In that house,” and I gestured with my head to the palace behind me, “I am below my master and above the kitchen staff. Where are you?” Her brow furrowed as she thought. “If I work my wonders for centuries, I might at last attain a higher position within the djinn,” she said. It was my turn to smile. “Rank is a game,” I said. “It may be conferred by birth, by accident, or by design. But

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