Excerpt from The Emperor of Any Place by Tim Wynne-Jones, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Kokoro-Jima, the Heart-Shaped Island

The title is embossed in gold on leather that is pebbly, like sun-smacked sand. The man who phoned this morning had described it that way: sand colored.

Evan wishes he hadn't taken the call.

He should have let it go to his father's cheery message, a message Evan can't erase or change because he doesn't know the drill, because the house phone was his father's territory—and, anyway, what would he change the message to: "Sorry, we're not in. Actually, Evan might be in, but if you're Evan's friend, you'd call him on his cell phone. Clifford is dead, so don't leave a message."

Fifteen days and counting . . .

Most of the time he lets the calls go to voice mail. But sometimes he can't stand the ringing—the jangling of it. "Just fucking go away!" he shouts to the empty house. But then sometimes he answers, just for something to do. And sometimes he doesn't tell the caller the news, just pretends his father is out. Not that it is comforting to delude himself, but because it is so uncomfortable to tell the truth. Embarrassing, as if you have somehow fallen down in your responsibilities. "What? You didn't know the walls of his heart were hardening? What kind of a son are you?"

Anyway. Anyway.

When he told the truth, it felt as if he were playing this cruel game on the caller—the kind of smart-ass retort you save for telemarketers. "Sorry, the owner of the house is dead. Have a nice day."

But this morning he had just said, "He's not in. Can I take a message?"

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

"Sorry, I wish I could tell you."

"Is your mother around?"

"No. She's not."

"But she —"

"Left."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Like when I was three. So . . ."

"Oh . . ."

There was the pause where the guy tried to think of something appropriate to say. Evan waited, sharing the discomfort, almost enjoying it. If you're going to shove a knife into an unsuspecting stranger's gut, the least you can do is hang around and watch him writhe a bit.

"So you're Clifford's son?"

"Yeah, Evan."

"Evan. Hi. My name's Leo . . . Leo Kraft?" He waited in case the name rang a bell. "I've been leaving messages. I don't mean to be impatient, but I really just wanted to know whether the book arrived?"

"The book?"

"Yeah. It's called Kokoro-Jima. Have you seen it? It's yellow, hand-bound — kind of sand colored."

And immediately Evan saw it in his mind's eye. "Yeah," he said. "It's here."

"Oh, good. Great." He could hear the relief in Kraft's voice. "Thanks. Listen, could you ask your father to get back to me when he gets a chance?"

"I'll—" Evan stopped. There was only so long you could carry on the charade. "I'll do what I can," he said. An odd thing to say, come to think of it.

And now here he is in the Dockyard, staring at the book, his father's last resting place, this hard pillow. He half expects to see an impression on the cover, a stain of drool. The thought makes him woozy. He leans hard against the edge of the desk. Gets his breath back. He picks up the book, feels the warmth of it from the sun streaming through the window, through the dry spines of the dead plants. He opens it, and there's a letter. He sinks into his father's chair, unfolds the letter, and reads.

Leonardo Kraft

4586 Santa Cruz Road

Menlo Park, California 94025

June 21, 2014

Dear Clifford: Thanks so much for getting back to me. Here's the book. As you will see, my father lavished attention on it. I believe it was one of the most exciting projects he ever undertook in a lifetime of many accomplishments. I only wish he had lived long enough to complete the goal he refers to in the prologue. And I wish he'd lived long enough to dispel the shadow that hangs over the story's ambiguous and disturbing conclusion. As I might have mentioned, he held off bringing the book out, hoping for answers, but when your father proved to be so obstinate, he went ahead. Leaving us with a mystery.

The Emperor of Any Place. Copyright © 2015 by Tim Wynne-Jones. Reproduced by permission of the publisher, Candlewick Press, Somerville, MA.