Excerpt from Stories from Suffragette City by M.J. Rose, Fiona Davis, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"I'll bet they're hungry," Ash muses. "Maybe they might like some apples."

"Smart girl. I believe that is a fine idea," the reverend agrees. "A very fine idea. But you children stay near. If you hear a whistle or see engines being cranked, hurry back to the Lizzie."

Slipping from the Model T, Ash, Dab, Clarey, and Blue hurry among the crowds, distributing the crimson and yellow Dabinettes, the Blue Pearmains good for eating or baking. The lemony, sweet, golden Ashmeads are passed from hand to hand, the bounty of the orchard Grandmother started and Ma tended to the last of her days, high on the mountain. The moment is joyous in some new way. Ash can't help thinking that her mother would be filled with happiness at seeing them here, in this strange place that feels like something from a dream.

In return for the apples, other paraders offer sweets and pocket pies and breads and tiny jars of jam from their baskets. The children return with so much that they feast in the Model T together as the moon rises higher overhead, pushing its glow into the sharp, square canyons between buildings.

And then, finally, the time arrives. A group of men marching in support of women's suffrage troops through the intersection ahead. They carry banners and sing in loud, raucous voices.

When the end of their procession passes, the whistles blow, and the autos follow, taking to the parade route in formation, line after line, until finally the very last turns onto Fifth Avenue.

Ash gapes at the rows of spectators flanking the street, men and women of all shapes and sizes. Children propped on their fathers' shoulders, wrapped in scarves and hats and blankets. Thousands upon thousands of people, braving the cold October night to witness the last of the parade.

"Sit tall and wave, children," the reverend Octavia Rose commands, as she unwraps her mud-spattered scarf and hands it to Ash. "Now is the time to go forth and show the powers that be that until women's voices are heard, we will persist in making of ourselves a fine and proper nuisance!"

Scrambling onto her knees, Ash leans over the door to hold up the square of silk, yellow-gold like autumn leaves on the mountain, like the apples for which Ash was named. Laughing, she watches as the fabric unfurls, straining against its tethers as it rises into the night sky and takes flight.

Excerpted from Stories from Suffragette City by M.J. Rose and Fiona Davis. Copyright © 2020 by M.J. Rose and Fiona Davis. Excerpted by permission of Henry Holt and Company. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.