Eva Ibbotson - The Star of Kazan

Eva Ibbotson was born in Vienna, but spent her early childhood travelling backwards and forwards across Europe between the homes of her father, a scientist, and her mother, a novelist and playwright, who separated when she was three. When the Nazis came to power, her family fed to England and she was sent to boarding school. She planned to become a physiologist, but hated doing experiments on animals, and was rescued from some fierce rabbits by her husband-to-be. She became a writer while bringing up her four children, and her bestselling novels for both adults and children have been published around the world. She lives in Newcastle.

The Star of Kazan won the Nestlé Silver Award and was shortlisted for the Carnegie Medal.

Journey to the River Sea won the Nestlé Gold Award, was runner-up for the Whitbread Children’s Book of the Year and the Guardian Children’s Fiction Award, and was shortlisted for the Carnegie Medal. Anne Fine, then Children’s Laureate, said of it: ‘Any reader presented with this book will be enriched for life.’

For more information about Eva Ibbotson and her books visit: www.bebo.com/evaibbotson

The Dragonfly Pool

The Star of Kazan

Journey to the River Sea

The Beasts of Clawstone Castle

The Great Ghost Rescue

Which Witch?

The Haunting of Hiram

Not Just a Witch

The Secret of Platform 13

Dial a Ghost

Monster Mission

For older readers

A Song for Summer

The Secret Countess

The Morning Gift

‘Every bit as compelling as… Journey to the River Sea . An ingeniously plotted story, with a compelling sense of character and place’

‘Eva Ibbotson creates a marvellous world of rich and poor, kind and unkind, young and old against a background of Viennese convention. The Star of Kazan is a heartwarming, old-fashioned adventure… as absorbing as Ibbotson’s prize-winning Journey to the River Sea ’

‘Eva Ibbotson is one of our most enjoyable writers for the young. She tells stories with humour, warmth and perfect clarity in a way that children follow completely… Ibbotson builds her story with cliffhanging chapter endings… on the way we fall, not only for the heroine and her friends but for the real city of Vienna and its Lipizzaner horses, big wheel and irresistible pastries. The book, too, is delicious’

‘This is a great big fat engrossing read. It draws you in and won’t let you go until the last page is turned and the last sigh is sighed’

‘Eva Ibbotson is writing better than ever… The Star of Kazan … should pick up more prizes’

‘Fans of Eva’s last novel, Journey to the River Sea , will be glad to know she’s back and on top form… An amazing adventure that will launch you into a Viennese whirl!’

‘[ The Star of Kazan ] eschews magic… Ibbotson excels at describing not only the world of the senses but that of the heart… Ibbotson’s genius is for creating people (and animals) whom you instantly recognize and love’

‘The bookshops are crammed with children’s titles, but where is the quality in all that quantity? Amid the flurries of new titles, what do you choose? This summer the problem is solved. Ibbotson has written a new novel, The Star of Kazan ’

‘A fabulously satisfying read’

‘This is a solidly traditional piece of story-telling… There is more to the book than a good story, expertly told’

‘This is a beautiful, simply written and enchanting story that will keep you in suspense until the very end. An excellent read’

‘ The Star of Kazan weighs in at an impressive 380 pages, and that is important because when you are presented with story-telling of this calibre, you simply never want it to end’

Ellie had gone into the church because of her feet. This is not the best reason for entering a church, but Ellie was plump and middle-aged and her feet were hurting her. They were hurting her badly.

It was a beautiful sunny day in June and Ellie and her friend Sigrid (who was as thin as Ellie was portly) had set out early from Vienna in the little train which took them to the mountains, so that they could climb up to the top of a peak called the Dorfelspitze.

They went to the mountains on the last Sunday of every month, which was their day off, changing their aprons for dirndls and filling their rucksacks with salami sandwiches and slices of plum cake, so that when they got to the top they could admire the view without getting hungry. It was how they refreshed their souls after the hard work they did all week, cleaning and cooking and shopping and scrubbing for the professors who employed them, and who were fussy about how things were done. Ellie was the cook and Sigrid was the housemaid and they had been friends for many years.

But on this particular Sunday, Ellie was wearing new boots, which is a silly thing to do when you are going on a long excursion. They were about halfway up the mountain when they came to a flower-filled meadow and on the far side of it, standing quite by itself, a small white church with an onion dome.

Ellie stopped.

‘You know, Sigrid, I think I’d like to say a prayer for my mother. I had a dream about her last night. Why don’t you go on and I’ll catch you up.’

Sigrid snorted.

‘I told you not to wear new boots.’

But she agreed to go ahead slowly, and Ellie crossed the wooden bridge over a little stream, and went into the church.

It was a lovely church — one of those places which look as though God might be about to give a marvellous party. There was a painted ceiling full of angels and golden stars and a picture of St Ursula holding out her arms, which made Ellie’s feet feel better straight away. The holy relic wasn’t something worrying like a toe bone or a withered hand but a lock of the saint’s hair in a glass dome decorated with pearls, and though the church stood all by itself away from the village, someone had put a bunch of fresh alpenroses in a vase at the Virgin’s feet.

Ellie slipped into a pew and loosened her shoelaces. She said a prayer for her mother, who had passed on many years ago… and closed her eyes.

She only slept for a few minutes. When she awoke the church was still empty, but she thought she had been woken by a noise of some sort. She looked round carefully, but she could find nothing. Then, peering over the edge of the pew, she saw, lying on the crimson carpet at the foot of the altar steps — a parcel.

It was about the size of a vegetable marrow — quite a large one — and Ellie’s first thought was that someone had left it there as a harvest offering. But harvest festivals happen in September not in June. And now, to Ellie’s amazement, the marrow made a noise. A small, mewing noise…