A luminous fantasy debut about a young girl who must choose between staying immersed in a magical past with her deceased mother, or saving those she loves most in the complicated, yet real present.
Since her mama died, thirteen-year-old Lavender has a disastrous memory problem. She forgets her lessons with her papa, an apothecary. She develops elaborate evasions to hide her lack of memory of the herbs and remedies she must learn to attain her dream of being an apothecary apprentice. Worst of all, she forgets memories of her mama.
Despite her papa's disdain for magic, Lavender seeks a memory remedy from a clothing enchantress named Frey. As the two develop a friendship, Frey uses her spinning magic to help Lavender re-experience past moments with her mama. Lavender hears her mama's laughter again, her singing voice, and how it felt to be wrapped in her hugs.
But when Lavender discovers the truth about Frey's magic and it's venegeful purpose she must decide whether to stay immersed in beloved memories with her mama or save the people she loves most in the present. C. M. Cornwell spent her childhood reading, climbing trees, and brewing imaginary potions with her seven siblings in the San Francisco Bay Area. She has a degree in English Literature from Utah Valley University and lives in Pennsylvania with her family. The Memory Spinner is her debut novel. 1
A Non-Magical Hat
Since Mama died, my memories are slippery little things. They weave through my fingers. Snake away in the darkness.
It's created a giant problem. Disastrous, really.
As I stand behind the counter of our family-owned apothecary shop, I know I'm in trouble. Near my elbow sits a crate full of bottled ingredients I haven't labeled and shelved. I can't. Each one is an annoying little mystery.
I frown at the glass bottle in my hand. Inside, a dried herb leans against the glass. An herb I used to know, but I can't remember, no matter how hard I try.
"Lavender, can I order cough medicine?" Greta Anders, the baker's seven-year-old daughter, says to me as she approaches the shop counter. Her wide brown eyes are the color of syrup, and she lifts her chin to peer at me over the tall antique counter. "My mama gave me money for it." Her golden-brown fingers arrange coins in a row between us. Then she turns away to shield a cough.
The hacking sound makes fear strum inside me. Her cough isn't as severe as the one Mama had before she died, but I can't help the worry that sprouts inside me each time I hear a cough.
I swallow my nerves and pocket the mystery bottle. I'll look up the herb later. For now, I need to focus on finding Greta the right medicine. "Yes, let me find something to help."
Greta nods.
Tall shelves lined with apothecary bottles loom from the walls. I scan the labels on the nearest shelf, and I hope a remedy will stand out. Maybe with a conveniently printed label like Cough remedy--for healing little kids who trust you (even when you've forgotten everything).
No such luck. Instead, the labels are marked with unhelpful, single-word clues: rosemary, ginger, feverfew, laudanum.
On my thirteenth birthday a few weeks ago, I officially became the new apothecary apprentice. From the time I was little, Papa has been training me to become his apprentice--the first girl apprentice ever at our family's apothecary shop. Now that I'm old enough, now that I finally have the position I've worked toward for years, I worry it will slip through my fingers along with my memories.
As an apothecary's apprentice, it's my job to know which remedy will calm a cough. I'm supposed to know what will ease pain. It's my job to interpret the labels for our patients.
And more than that, I want to help Greta. If only my brain worked as well as it used to before Mama died.
"Where's your mother?" I ask Greta as I search.
"She's at the cobbler's next door. She told me to get a head s
