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Summary
Summary
Henry's final battle has arrived in the third book of the bestselling 100 Cupboard series, about 100 cupboard doors leading to 100 worlds of adventure
Hidden cupboards behind Henry's bedroom wall unlocked portals to other worlds that Henry and his cousin Henrietta couldn't resist exploring. But they made one terrible mistake-- they released the undying witch Nimiane. Her goal? To drain all life from every world connected to the cupboards. Henry must seek out the Chestnut King to defeat her, but doing so comes at a price--one that will force Henry to make a terrible, irreversible choice. With the fate of the worlds and everyone Henry loves hanging in the balance, will he have the courage to do what is needed to destroy the witch once and for all?
Want to know where the cupboards came from? Don't miss the latest book in the series, The Door Before
Praise for the 100 Cupboards series:
"A must-read series " -- The Washington Post
"This is my favorite kind of fantasy." --Tamora Pierce, #1 New York Times bestselling author
Reviews (1)
School Library Journal Review
Gr 5-8-Book three of this powerfully written, coming-of-age trilogy is not a stand-alone novel. In the beginning, baseball-loving Henry York, 12, of Kansas, is not a hero. Then, he uncovers another life. It reaches out to him from the other side of a cupboard door. In this installment, Nimiane, an undying witch embodied with unparalleled evil, challenges Henry's very existence. Warrior minions of the queen, known as fingerlings, hunt Henry across worlds. They are puppets connected to her through a finger at the back of their heads. Lives of family members, faeren, wizards, friends, worlds, and the people surrounding them hang by a thread. Henry must solicit the help of the Chestnut King, a person not easily found or easily convinced. The story line is intricate and compelling, although a few minor segments will leave readers with questions. It follows the standard good versus evil in fantasy, but the element that makes this fantasy stand above the rest is Wilson's knowledge of the classics. He brings a masterful eye to the story's heart and soul through his voice. The writing style is impressive. Fans of the series will be excited to turn the pages to enter this believable world full of rich characters.-Robyn Gioia, Bolles School, Ponte Vedra, FL (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Chapter One Every year, Kansas watches the world die. Civilizations of wheat grow tall and green; they grow old and golden, and then men shaped from the same earth as the crop cut those lives down. And when the grain is threshed, and the dances and festivals have come and gone, then the fields are given over to fire, and the wheat stubble ascends into the Kansas sky, and the moon swells to bursting above a blackened earth. The fields around Henry, Kansas, had given up their gold and were charred. Some had already been tilled under, waiting for the promised life of new seed. Waiting for winter, and for spring, and another black death. The harvest had been good. Men and women, boys and girls had found work, and Henry Days had been all hot dogs and laughter, even without Frank Willis's old brown truck in the parade. The truck was over on the edge of town, by a lonely barn decorated with new No Trespassing signs and a hole in the ground where the Willis house had been in the spring and the early summer. Late summer had now faded into fall, and the pale blue farmhouse was gone. Kansas would never forget it. Dry grass rustled against the barn doors and stretched up the sides of the mud-colored truck. Behind the barn, in the tall rattling grass, Henry York was crouching beside the irrigation ditch. Sweat eased down his forehead from beneath the bill of his baseball hat. A long piece of grass dangled between his teeth, and a worn glove hung on his right hand. The field across the ditch was as black as any parking lot, and the sky above him held only the smoky haze that had so recently been wheat and the late-afternoon sun, proud to have baked the world. Henry slapped a fist into his glove, shifted in his crouch, and flashed two fingers down between his legs. "Again?" Zeke Johnson asked. Henry smiled and nodded. It was his favorite pitch to catch. He watched the tall boy wind up, arms tight, leg high, and then Zeke uncoiled, striding forward, arm extending, and the ball--string wrapped tight around a rubber core, all stitched up in leather--came spinning toward him. Zeke was throwing hard, and Henry, crouched with his left arm behind him and his right arm stretched out, tracing the ball, had no mask, no shin guards, no chest protector, no catcher's mitt. He didn't care. He didn't even notice. People who had known Henry in Boston would have had trouble recognizing him, even though his looks hadn't changed that drastically. To Kansas, he was the same boy who'd once been plucked crying out of an attic cupboard by an old man, who had returned twelve years later, fragile and afraid. But to Kansas, a tadpole is the same thing as a frog. Henry was a little taller, his shoulders were a little wider, and his jaw was scarred, but it was the boy inside the body that had really changed. And his eyes. His eyes would go the color of midnight when they really wanted to see. When he let them. When he couldn't stop them. They were black now, following Zeke's curve ball as it carved through the air. To Henry's eyes, strings of force trailed the ball, connecting with Zeke's hand and fingers, straggling into his shoulder and back and hips. The air bent around the spinning ball, and pushed. In an instant, the ball shifted, as Henry knew it would. High and inside on any right-handed batter, it broke down and across the imaginary plate. With a snap, it stopped in the old leather web of Henry's glove. The forces, the threads, the crackling trails all tattered and faded, sliced and destroyed by the grass, swallowed by the world. Henry called the strike and jumped to his feet, cocking his arm. Zeke waved him off. "I'm done. You wear me out." Henry laughed. "It's not been that long." He looked at his watch, the watch on his right wrist. Excerpted from The Chestnut King by N. D. Wilson All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.