The Amaranth Enchantment (27 page)

But I would trade it all for Beryl, if she could come back and stay.

I bent low to scratch Dog's ears. "At least you're here with me, Doggy Goat,"

I told him. "You and I will remember her, won't we?"

As if in answer, he turned and trotted toward the wreckage once more, clambering over it until he reached the back of the house. Here he nosed through metal and rubbish more diligently. At last he maaahed to us. I hurried around the periphery to reach him.

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Dog stood by a large earthenware butter crock, cracked and upended. I pulled at it with all my might until the debris pinning it yielded with a snap.

There, looking dejected in its pot, but certainly alive, was an amaranth flower.

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Acknowledgments

First of all, everything is Phil's fault. If he hadn't been so encouraging, so enthusiastic, so eager to parent our boys while I wrote, none of this would have happened.

While it was happening, many talented writers carried me on their shoulders.

I've been blessed by their good humor and encouragement. Cynthia Leitich Smith, Brent Hartinger, Tim Wynne-Jones, Carol Lynch Williams, Erik Talkin, Allyson Valentine Schrier, Kate Messner, and Ginger Johnson, I thank you and adore you.

I'm grateful to Michelle Nagler, whose inspired editing spared Lucinda and me many embarrassments; to Caroline Abbey, who made the way smooth; to Melissa Kavonic and Melanie Cecka, for shepherding the project along; to Jill Santopolo and Jandy Nelson, for wise and practical advice; and to Alyssa Eisner Henkin, a better ally than I deserve.

My flawless mother, Shirley Gardner, filled her home 308

with books and let me noodle my childhood away with them. Bless you, Mom, for that. Mary Vosler, my sterling sixth-grade teacher, insisted that writing be approached with great care. She shines in my memory. My sister Sally told me, after reading one of Mrs. Vosler's assignments, that I could be a writer someday. I believed her.

Joseph, Daniel, Adam, and David, my brilliant sons, are the reasons I write.

But first and last, my loving husband, Phil, who continually clamors for more pages to read, deserves all the blame.

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JULIE BERRY grew up in western New York. She holds a BS from Rensselaer in
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communications and an MFA from Vermont College in writing for children and young adults. She now lives in eastern Massachusetts with her husband and four young sons and works as a director of software sales and marketing for a technology startup. This is her first book.

www.julieberrybooks.com

Jacket art © 2009 by Larry Rostant

Jacket design by John Candell

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[Back cover]

I looked up to see the prince--the--prince!--peering down over the counter's edge at me. "You don't need to do that," he said. "Do what?"

"Get down on your knees. Unless you are proposing marriage."

I scrambled to my feet. "As you wish." I dusted off my skirt. "You know best."

Stupid response! Could I mortify myself any more?

He turned and doffed his hat to Uncle, who'd only just barely gotten back on his feet.

"I fear I must be going, sir," he said. "I haven't time for a special order. I need something sooner." His eyes glanced my way. "Your shop assistant shows great promise."

He was mocking me. I was ridiculous to him.

Then he bowed to me. "A pleasure. Might I ask your name?"

As God is my witness, I swear this is true: I couldn't think what it was.

ISBN 978-1-59990-334-7

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