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By Paula Morris
Welcome to York, England.Mist lingers within the streets.Narrow constructions solid lengthy shadows. this can be the main haunted urban on the earth. . . .Miranda Tennant arrives in York with a poor, tragic mystery. She is raring to lose herself amid the old fashioned cobblestones, hoping she won’t run into the numerous ghosts who supposedly roam the town. . . .Then she meets Nick, an severe, dark-eyed boy who understands all of York’s hidden locations and histories. Miranda wonders if Nick is falling for her, yet she is distracted by way of one other boy -- one much more good-looking and mysterious than Nick. He lives in the home throughout from Miranda and turns out eager to ship her a few type of message. may well this boy be one in every of York’s haunted souls? quickly, Miranda realizes that anything risky -- and lethal -- is being deliberate. and she or he can have to stand the darkest a part of herself that allows you to get to the bottom of the secret -- and locate redemption.
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Sample text
He gave a formal little bow and took a step back. “I mean, I really have no idea. I’ve never seen one myself. At least, I don’t think I’ve seen one. ” He looked at Miranda and smiled, but she didn’t smile back. She was thinking about how many ghosts she might have seen without realizing it. The farmer at the crossroads had looked completely alive. It was only his wound that gave him away — that and the fact that Jeff obviously couldn’t see him at all. Maybe half the people walking down the Shambles right now were ghosts.
Not yet, anyway, until ghosts started showing up. This much she’d learned in the months since the accident: Ghosts were everywhere, whether Miranda wanted to see them or not. ” Someone was calling her name, and Miranda wanted whoever it was to be quiet. She didn’t want to be shaken, stirred, or moved in any way from the soft nest of her bed. ” The voice belonged to Rob. The hand that had just turned on the brightest light in the room probably belonged to Rob as well. “You’ve been asleep for three hours, and Mom says if you don’t get up you won’t —” “Sleep tonight — I know,” croaked Miranda.
Not that Miranda had ever visited a shrine before. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to see. It was just a quiet space, dimly lit, with a plain altar and paneled walls. They all sat along a creaky bench in the back row while Lord Poole — whispering, though nobody else was there — told them the story of St. Margaret Clitherow. “She was the wife of a butcher here in the Shambles,” he said, “during the reign of Elizabeth I. ” Miranda grimaced at the thought of getting married that young. She couldn’t imagine anyone she knew at school doing something so adult.