Rereading books you enjoyed as a child can be interesting. Particularly if you do a number and the only conclusion you can come to, instead of "How did I enjoy such rubbish?" or "How did I manage to think this a fluffly little adventure?", is "Whatever was I thinking?" Some are better, some are worse, some have transformed themselves into profundity -- and there's absolutely nothing in your memories to tell you which will be which until you buckle down and reread.
Eleanor Cameron's oeuvre had all those reactions for me. The Court of the Stone Children was the one that had me wondering how it took on that additional meaning when I wasn't looking.
Nina is not much liking life in the Big City, and finding it hard to make friends. After she gets ridiculed for wanting to be "something in a museum" -- by which she means a curator -- she gets directed to the French Museum, which has all the things she loves in a museum. And a girl her own age, Domi, who is waiting for her, and has been for centuries.
Dreams, diaries, paintings, establishing the truth, and friendships ensue.
