As an adult, I prefer this to Behind The Attic Wall; both are lonesome and sad and eerie, but Lucie and her house are somethin' else.
Cassedy is brilliant. Brilliant. The scope and heft of her writing ... I can't articulate it. The children in Lucy's school have names and personalities, sometimes; but again and again they act as a pack, names and differences falling away in a gaggle of speech that runs down the page without any attempt at differentiation. The little differences come out and recede again. Storks and Cranes. Emily and, most strongly, Claire. The adults walk around making noises and being difficult, but the real life goes on below their notice. And Lucie's life goes on below anyone's notice ...
What is real and what is imaginary meld together, as they do, and Cassedy says: It doesn't matter. You can lose your house and your family and your entire life, and still what's in you can rise to the top like a bean sprouting in a cup. If you want. You can return to the dark closet. You can spend your time in the circle of light writing a letter to the world or you can spend it collecting the sun in a jar to use later. You can go mad, if you want. It is all right. It is allowed. It is your choice, yours alone.
I don't know of any other book (much less, a children's book!) which sets up the rules and knocks them down so completely and with so little judgement. Oh, Sylvia Cassedy. What happened to you? Where the fuck did you go?