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The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox |  |
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The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox | |
A Wall Street Journal Bestseller
A Washington Post Book World Best Book of the Year
"I found this actually unputdownable, written with a gripping dramatic insidiousness reminiscent of classic writers like Rebecca West and Daphne Du Maurier." --Ali Smith, author of The Accidental
Esme Lennox is a dreamy child, an odd, bookish young woman, the kind of girl who stares and listens and won’t flirt with boys at dances. And then, in the space of a moment, Esme Lennox is gone.
Years later, a stunning phone call breaks the silence at Iris Lockhart’s vintage clothing shop: Her great-aunt Esme, whom she never knew existed, is being released from Cauldstone Hospital after more than sixty years. Iris’s grandmother Kitty always claimed to be an only child. But Esme’s papers prove she is Kitty’s sister, and Iris can see the shadow of her dead father in Esme’s face. But she's still basically a stranger, a family member never mentioned by the family, sure to bring life-altering secrets when she leaves the ward. If Iris takes her in, what dangerous truths might she inherit?
"Haunting. O'Farrell is a feminist avenging angel who wields the modern Gothic like a gleaming sword." – The Boston Globe
"Think Kate Chopin's The Awakening, Charlotte Gilman's ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’ or Jean Rhys's Wide Sargasso Sea . . . It's a breathtaking, heart-breaking creation . . . In O'Farrell's fierce, engrossing novel, the crimes of the past rear up with surprising vengeance." – The Washington Post Book World
Maggie O'Farrell is the author of three previous novels, including her acclaimed debut, After You'd Gone. Born in Northern Ireland in 1972, Maggie grew up in Wales and Scotland. She now lives in Edinburgh.
Visit www.HarcourtBooks.com/EsmeLennox.
Discussion guide available at www.HarcourtBooks.com.
Let us begin with two girls at a dance.
They are at the edge of the room. One sits on a chair, opening and shutting a dance-card with gloved fingers. The other stands beside her, watching the dance unfold: the circling couples, the clasped hands, the drumming shoes, the whirling skirts, the bounce of the floor. It is the last hour of the year and the windows behind them are blank with night. The seated girl is dressed in something pale, Esme forgets what, the other in a dark red frock that doesn’t suit her. She has lost her gloves. It begins here.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps it begins earlier, before the party, before they dressed in their new finery, before the candles were lit, before the sand was sprinkled on the boards, before the year whose end they are celebrating began. Who knows?
Either way it ends at a grille covering a window with each square exactly two thumbnails wide.
If Esme cares to gaze into the distance – that is to say, at what lies beyond the metal grille – she finds that, after a while, something happens to the focusing mechanism of her eyes. The squares of the grille will blur and, if she concentrates long enough, vanish. There is always a moment before her body reasserts itself, readjusting her eyes to the proper reality of the world, when it is just her and the trees, the road, the beyond. Nothing in between.
