By Keith Donohue
"A magical story of affection and redemption that's as splendidly written because it is appealing . . . Angels earns its wings."
Margaret Quinn lives by myself, quietly mourning the disappearance of her purely baby, who fled ten years prior to hitch an intensive pupil team often called the Angels of Destruction.
On a chilly winter’s evening, a nine-year-old woman arrives on Margaret’s doorstep, claiming to be an orphan with out position to head. This baby beguiles Margaret, and jointly they hatch a plan to go her off as her newly stumbled on granddaughter, Norah Quinn.
Their conspiracy is made susceptible by way of Norah’s magical revelations to the youngsters of town, and via a lone determine shadowing the lady, who threatens to bare the child’s precise id and function. who're those strangers fairly? and what's their connection to the previous, the Angels, and Margaret’s long-missing daughter?
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Additional info for Angels of Destruction: A Novel
Solitude had emptied him, and the quietus of three in the morning filled his mind with winter. Nothing more than the substance of prayer, the fear to complement hope, he tested the limits of his new form, shifting his weight from one leg to the other and cracking the stiffness in his muscles and bones to break the icehold. From next door, a tiny dog began yapping and bouncing to see through the window, its small head popping into view, steady as a metronome. He stared down the beast with one withering glance.
Mrs. ” Joyce lowered her pencil and pad. The man at the table looked kind and respectable, a bit like her grandfather. “I thought so,” he said. ” “I was surprised to see her myself. We go way back, her and me. ” He fingered the brim of his hat resting near the sugar dispenser. ” “You remember,” she said. “They thought that boy Wiley kidnapped her, but I say they ran off together. ” The icy blueness of his eyes transfixed her, and she imagined how handsome he must have been as a young man. He kept his gaze fixed on her, and in her womb, the fetus kicked and fluttered.
Her muscles stiffened and she felt short of breath but managed to bundle all of Norah's clothes into a neat package, impossibly small, like a doll's outfits, the edges and hems frayed with wear and soft with age. She smoothed the pile and laid the girl's things against the bedroom door, as her mother had long ago when Margaret and Diane were children. Two stacks for two girls, but she inevitably mixed the sisters’ clothes, and they would unjumble the socks and underwear while complaining to each other how poorly their mother knew her own daughters.