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The Butterfly Sister

The Butterfly Sister

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Published by WilliamMorrowBooks
In The Butterfly Sister by Amy Gail Hansen—a moving Gothic tale that intertwines mystery, madness, betrayal, love, and literature—a fragile young woman must silence the ghosts of her past.

Ten months after dropping out of all-girl Tarble College, Ruby Rousseau is still haunted by the memories of her senior year, a time marred by an affair with her English professor and a deep depression that caused her to question her sanity.

When a mysterious suitcase arrives bearing Ruby's name and address, she tries to return it to its rightful owner, Beth—a dorm-mate at Tarble—only to learn that Beth disappeared two days earlier.

With clues found in the luggage, including a tattered copy of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One's Own, which Ruby believes instigated her madness, she sets out to uncover the truth.
In The Butterfly Sister by Amy Gail Hansen—a moving Gothic tale that intertwines mystery, madness, betrayal, love, and literature—a fragile young woman must silence the ghosts of her past.

Ten months after dropping out of all-girl Tarble College, Ruby Rousseau is still haunted by the memories of her senior year, a time marred by an affair with her English professor and a deep depression that caused her to question her sanity.

When a mysterious suitcase arrives bearing Ruby's name and address, she tries to return it to its rightful owner, Beth—a dorm-mate at Tarble—only to learn that Beth disappeared two days earlier.

With clues found in the luggage, including a tattered copy of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One's Own, which Ruby believes instigated her madness, she sets out to uncover the truth.

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Published by: WilliamMorrowBooks on Jul 22, 2013
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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09/29/2013

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TheBuTTerfly SiSTer 
Amy Gail Hansen
 An Imprint of 
HarperCollins
Publishers
 
 
Chapter 1
Gwen could not have been more explicit at our rst session:I was to cease reading books by or about women who killedthemselves.An unhealthy obsession, that’s what my therapist called it,and I was inclined to agree with Gwen’s diagnosis. There was,ater all, no other logical explanation or the string o eventsthat brought me to her oce. Ghosts do not exist. I hadn’t donemushrooms. No brain tumor. I resigned mysel to the act thatwhat I’d seen and done was a consequence o a compromisedmental state.Like other women writers beore me, I had simply gone mad.I let Gwen’s oce that late December aternoon with a new-ound interest in my bedroom bookcase.
 A Room of One’s Own
 
 
2
 
a
Amy Gail Hansenby Virginia Wool went rst, then
The Bell Jar 
by Sylvia Plath,ollowed by Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s
The Yellow Wallpaper 
and Kate Chopin’s
The Awakening
. Hemingway took a beat-ing too. In act, any title remotely relating to mental imbalanceound its way into the donation box, even those seemingly in-nocuous stories like
Jane Eyre
.Could I aord to leave the madwoman in the attic lurking onmy bookshel?But it was all in vain—the books, the antidepressants, thetherapy sessions with Gwen. Even time’s wound- healing prop-erties proved ineective. Ten months later, my past was nevermore than one thought, one breath, one heartbeat away.And then, on that particular October evening, it literally ar-rived at my doorstep.Mom ound me on the ront porch swing that night, swayingwith the initiative o a pendulum. Assessing my state o mindin a single glance rom the driveway, she soon approached me,teacup in hand.“How many today, Ruby?” she asked, handing me the mug.I let the steam, the ruity tang o Earl Grey, tingle my nose.Bergamot, o course. A natural antidepressant.“Twelve, but nothing tragic,” I said. “Well, except or thatsweetheart o a librarian Mrs. Talbot, the one who special or-dered my books last summer?”“She died? The one you said smelled like marshmallows?”Mom sat beside me. She was still wearing her nurse’s scrubs,navy blue with periwinkle trim. “Do you want to talk about it?”

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