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Zusatztext “Explores lost family histories and expat life, with a taste of Singaporean myth and folk tradition.” -- Kirkus Reviews "[Freja's] quest to solve the mystery of this unquiet spirit takes the pair into the thrilling territory of Chinese folklore and feng shui." -- Financial Times "A gripping, moving, perfectly crafted story... one of my books of the year." -- Sinéad O'Hart, author of The Eye of the North Informationen zum Autor H. S. Norup is the author of The Hungry Ghost and The Missing Barbegazi —a Sunday Times Book of the Year in 2018. Originally from Denmark, she has lived in six different countries and now resides in Switzerland with her husband and two teenage sons. She has a Master’s degree in Economics and Business Administration and sixteen years’ experience in corporate marketing strategy and communications. When she’s not writing or reading, she spends her time outdoors either skiing, hiking, walking, golfing or taking photos. Klappentext Freja arrives in Singapore during the month of the hungry ghost, when old spirits are said to roam the streets. She's struggling to settle into her dad's new 'happy' family, and dreams only of escaping home and leaving this hot, unfamiliar city. Then one night, a mysterious girl in a white dress appears in the garden. Freja follows this figure to lush, secretive corners of the city, seeking to understand the girl's identity. Her search will lead her to an old family mystery -- on that must be unravelled before the month is over, to allow both girls to be freed from the secrets of the past. Leseprobe You can’t see the stars here in Singapore. Ghostly, dimmed spots fade in and out on a sky that’s not black but a murky, yellowy grey. “I can’t see the stars today, Freja.” That’s what Mum always says when she’s sad. Even if it’s the middle of the day. Are the stars invisible here, or is it just me? I give up on finding a star, and slump back into the cushions on the deep window seat. The only sound in the silent house is the low hum of the air-con unit. It blasts cool air down on my shoulders. Flyaway strands of hair blow into my eyes. I think about retying my ponytail. It’s midnight, but I’m wide awake. My watch still shows the time in Denmark. Six o’clock. I don’t want to set it to Singapore time yet. Perhaps I have jet lag, because it feels like my whole body is confused. I’m not sure when yesterday ended and today began. The two have blended into one endless day, where too many things happened. I remember looking at my watch exactly twenty-four hours ago, at six o’clock. That was when Aunt Astrid, Mum’s sister, handed me over to Dad in Copenhagen airport, like I was a parcel being passed on. Outside the window, tips of twigs scratch against the glass. The tree’s so close I think I could jump to the nearest thick branch, if I had to escape. But where would I go? Singapore is 10,071 kilometres away from home. The distance is almost impossible to understand. Once, with my scouting troop, we hiked thirty kilometres in one day, to get the activity badge. Even if I walked that far every single day, it would take more than eleven months to get back to Mum. In the light from the yellowy sky, I can make out shapes in the room. My suitcase lies open on the floor, spilling a jumble of stuff I had to take out to find my pyjamas. The only other things I’ve unpacked are my compass and the Swiss Army knife Dad gave me last summer for my eleventh birthday. A beanbag leans against an empty bookcase. Two framed posters hang above the bed. One is of Mount Everest and the other of a jungle waterfall. Dad might have chosen them. And only them. Everything else in the room is pink and girly. Chosen by Her. My stepmother. Clementine. I open the window to take ...
