By Isobelle Carmody
Are Alyzon’s new talents a blessing . . . or a curse?Alyzon Whitestarr does not take after her musically gifted father or her nocturnal, inventive mom. in reality, she’s the main basic member of a really eccentric kinfolk . . . till the day that an coincidence leaves her extra targeted than she ever may have dreamed. all of sudden colours are extra shiny to Alyzon; her reminiscence is faultless; yet strangest of all is Alyzon’s feel of odor. Her ally smells of a comforting sea breeze. She registers her father’s contentment because the candy odor of caramelized sugar. yet why does the cutest man at school odor so rancid? With Alyzon’s extrasensory conception comes intrigue and probability, as she turns into conscious of the darkish secrets and techniques and hidden objectives that threaten her kinfolk. in any case, being various should be much less of a blessing than a curse. . . .
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Extra resources for Alyzon Whitestarr
Hi, Rhona,” I said, blinking a bit at her skintight pink dress and turban, thinking that if I had been a buyer, I wouldn’t have listened to a word she said about art. The only good thing about Rhona was her continued faith in Mum, which Mum treated as if it were a sort of slow wasting illness that she would probably die from someday. “That’s a stunning ensemble,” Rhona told Mirandah, who entered wearing purple boots, purple tights, and a violet tie-dyed petticoat with ragged lace. She looked at me.
I’m a bit ashamed to admit that, although I never minded having no talent, I did mind being plain and untalented. But who could I blame? Mum and Da can’t help the way their genes worked together to make me. I guess even genes have their off days. * * * That was how I thought of us all before the accident. I had everybody all worked out and filed away. Mum was full of impractical romantic visions that made her inattentive to the real world; Jesse was lazy and absentminded; Mirandah was bossy and superior and tactless; Sybl-Serenity was moody and getting moodier.
Journalists were too silly to know any better. He grinned when he said that, to show he was joking, but you could see it was what he really thought. He took us to a tiny room where there was a typewriter-like machine called a teleprinter. He said it used to spit out news from agencies all over the world, but now they had the Internet. He left us with a girl called Riley—I don’t know if that was her first or last name. Her job, she told us, was to sift through the mass of stuff on the Internet for backfill.