By Kim Fay
2013 Edgar Award Finalist for top First Novel by means of an American Author
Praise for The Map of misplaced Memories
"In The Map of misplaced thoughts, Kim Fay attracts us right into a universe as unique, severe, and traditionally particular because the old artifacts her unforgettable heroine seeks. it is a deliciously unforeseen trip: Indiana Jones meets Somerset Maugham meets Marguerite Duras."--Jennifer Cody Epstein, writer of The Painter from Shanghai
"A exciting mixture of experience and private discovery . . . [Kim] Fay crafts an elaborate page-turner that might hold readers breathless and guessing."--Publishers Weekly
"A ripping reliable story . . . mysterious Asian destinations . . . a pushed younger American heroine . . . an period not remembered yet light to romantic mind's eye . . . The Map of misplaced Memories pulls the elements jointly in a narrative that intrigues and rewards."--Lincoln magazine Star
"Fay's notable novel has every thing nice historical-adventure fiction should--a strikingly unique atmosphere, exhilarating plot twists, and a near-impossible quest."--Booklist (starred review)
Read Online or Download The Map of Lost Memories: A Novel PDF
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Extra resources for The Map of Lost Memories: A Novel
Facet through facet they might draw, the honeycomb trend of an ornamental collar, the teardrop form of an eye fixed, the willowy, outstretched palms of an apsara captured mid-dance for the excitement of a king. Then her mom died, and every evening her father opened up a mattress of quilts underneath the apsaras’ passive gaze. It used to be greater than a decade on the grounds that Irene had slept at the museum’s ground, yet she may well nonetheless see the statues above her, swaying within the low caramel gentle that glazed the air from an oil lamp within the nook. She remembered the longing she had felt as she waited in the course of these days and weeks and months after the funeral for her mom to come back. what number instances had she closed her eyes, wanting to pay attention mon petit chou, “my little cabbage,” whispered into her ear as she fell asleep? the one factor from these days that Irene had forgotten used to be the futility of her longing, the inevitable recognition that she may by no means pay attention these phrases back. yet she famous a similar hopeless feeling because it washed over her now, as she stood amid the dancing goddesses in an international she had suggestion may at some point belong to her. Irene walked slowly clear of the museum, her impractical, thin-soled sneakers not able to discover traction at the frozen slopes of the campus paths. Her face tingled within the icy air, and she or he pulled the lapels of her father’s peacoat over her mouth. sessions have been performed for the day, and winter’s somber darkish encased the early night hour. together with her eyes bloodshot from crying so demanding, she didn't want to run into a person she knew, and she or he used to be grateful for the piercing chilly, which had driven every person interior, the place wooden fires burned, freeing a smoldering promise of convenience into the evening. As she handed the structures at the a long way north facet of the campus, a row of white houses—half a dozen tiny two-bedroom cottages supplied for the university’s watchmen and their families—came into view. Irene’s condo used to be within the heart, and she or he had nearly gotten used to it being the one one within the row and not using a porch mild on or symptoms of existence stirring from its chimney. as soon as played via her father to welcome her domestic from paintings prior to he left for the museum, those small rituals, like such a lot of others she had taken with no consideration, had perished with him. yet this night, from the gap, she observed a glow within the entrance window and, as she bought nearer, a haze of smoke above the roof. A membrane of frost slicked the steel doorknob, and he or she needed to wrap her hand in her sleeve to show the deal with. establishing the door, she used to be now not shocked to work out Henry Simms, her father’s oldest and closest good friend, status on the hearth. He didn’t say whatever as she got here in and took off her coat. Irene observed that his hair have been trimmed and smoothed into position, and she or he guessed that he had spent the afternoon together with his barber on the resort Washington. He should have come to rejoice what that they had either assumed will be excellent news, and he or she felt queasy on the considered what she needed to inform him, in particular after he had long gone to such attempt. How deceptively fit he had made himself seem, even if, at sixty-eight, he have been warring with melanoma for nearly a 12 months.