conversations.from: human
conversations.value: a description for a book titled The Wolf Hour about Martin, Little, Red with the genre: Children's Books, Animals. Start with the sentence 'Gr 58A metafictional retelling of "Little Red Riding Hood'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Gr 58A metafictional retelling of "Little Red Riding Hood." In the Puszcza, an ancient forest with magical roots, fairy tales are realmagicked and crafted into being by a sly Witch. But two characters, Magia, a brave woodcutter's daughter in a red cap; and Martin, a wolf who loves to read and is curious about humans, don't fit their prescribed roles. When Magia's family is threatened, she sets out for the dark forest. Martin does the same after his beloved mother goes missing. The two are on a collision course, but will their stories follow the same old path readers have come to expect? In a heady mix of folklore and fantasy, the author offers a meditation on fate, expectations, and the ability of people to determine their own futures. It is also an exploration of stories and the ways story can be used to harm, misinform, and alienatea timely topic indeed. Flowery syntax and a sprinkling of Polish terms make this a sophisticated read best suited to fantasy and fairy tale lovers with an appreciation for language. VERDICT Unique and challenging, this retelling will be welcomed by fans of Gregory Maguire's Egg and Spoon and Kelly Barnhill's The Girl Who Drank the Moon.Kiera Parrott, School Library Journal
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for this book
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Wolf Hour
  Matt sat forward; he was looking at the ordinance map. 'We might find your sister,' he said. 'But then how do we get out? Have you thought about that?'
  Stephen felt his jaw harden. 'Calm down,' he said. 'If you start to freak out, it feeds on itself. We stay in control, right?'
  The next morning they pushed deeper into the forest, trekking in silence. They scaled a ridge to a high point, where Stephen watched for some time, focusing on what he thought was a plume of blue smoke. Reba said they should head further west, where the understorey was thickest, but Stephen insisted it would be quicker if they went in a direct line.
  As they made their way down into the valley, the air became heavy. They continued, cutting aside the vegetation that blocked their way and pushing through where there were no paths except for the occasional crisscrossing of animal tracks. After some time, they reached a small clearing with the remains of a camp and rising, as if from the ground itself, the scent of burnt meat. The whole site was deserted except for a speckled jackal that was making a snuffling sound as it clawed at something in the campfire. As they came upon it, the jackal looked up then slunk away into the grass, although it didn't go very far before it turned back to watch them.
  The campfire was still smouldering and insects, or perhaps it was a bird, started up in the tree above them, making a rapid clicking noise. Stephen glanced up and the noise stopped. In the stillness, he moved closer to the campfire, walking to within a few feet of it before he realised that what lay among the coals was the badly charred body of a man. Swollen and split, with pieces of clothing melted into flesh, the skull cracked open like a broken cup. The stench released the memory of a burning corpse he had once seen on a funeral pyre in Bali—the stink of scorched hair, a flaming boat being towed out to sea. But here there was no ceremony, no distance, only the immediate proximity to violence. Was this what the park ranger had tried to warn them about? Stephen's stomach roiled. All right, so he'd underrated what he was up against and Reba's fear was clearly justified, but it wasn't as though he hadn't thought about the risks, only that he hadn't really imagined what he was dealing with. He figured a quick exchange was necessary and he would be able to pull that off, but now he saw that this was a closed world, and that Dominic Oculi was right: for more than twenty years these people had adapted to a merciless civil war and there was probably little else that mattered to them beyond their need to survive.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: She watched Tessa nod her head as if to make some private pact with herself. Tessa's lips were bloodless and when she spoke her voice sounded hollow. 'Stephen's staying in Gulu,' Tessa said. 'You need to speak to him before he leaves.'
  Leigh took Tessa's hand, and Tessa squeezed it in response, then softened her grip before saying, 'You need to ask him.'
  The Acholi Inn had high ceilings and cool corridors. It had been built by the British as a luxury guesthouse in the 1930s and was the only three-storeyed building in the area. Usually frequented by government officials and NGO workers because of its well-stocked bar and spacious dining room, it required armed security guards and a manned gatehouse. An established garden surrounded the pool. Otherwise the rooms were small and run-down.
  At the reception desk, Neil signed his name and handed over their passports together with his credit card. The receptionist, an impassive man with a resigned manner, gave him the room keys and pointed them in the direction they should go.
  As they were gathering their luggage in the lobby they saw Matt Reba, who appeared to be waiting for them. Blond-haired, thick-necked and robust, Reba greeted them awkwardly then drove his hands into his pockets and lifted his chin in the direction of the open door. 'Stephen's out there by the pool,' he said.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last four paragraphs. Start with the sentence 'Her father may have hoped to break the circuit, and she may have told herself she understood that, but deeper knowledge can come in an instant and illuminate everything'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Her father may have hoped to break the circuit, and she may have told herself she understood that, but deeper knowledge can come in an instant and illuminate everything.
  Special thanks to Melanie Ostell, whose honest eye and inspiring support has been instrumental. To Jane Palfreyman, for opening the door. To Rebecca Starford, Ali Lavau and the team at Allen & Unwin for their insight and editorial care.
  To Andrea Goldsmith, for her enduring mentorship, and Doreen Baingana, who brought Uganda into focus for me.
  Deepest gratitude also to my early readers, those colleagues and friends who gave this story reason to grow.