Robin McKinley's Blog, page 147

A Little Shameless Self Promotion. And Some Whining.

 

So.  Out of the blue a few weeks ago I got a phone call.  From my ex-UK publisher, who sends me account pages full of zeroes and minus signs* twice a year.  Hi, they said.  We're reissuing BEAUTY.  Thought you'd like to know.  We'll send you the cover art so you can tell us how much you like it.  It's got foil.

            Gah? I said.  Gleep.  Blah.  Ung.  Oh?  That's nice.  Thanks.

            They did send me the art, but without the foil it just kind of lay there.  Then the books arrived.  They certainly do have foil, which makes it almost impossible to get an accurate photo of one.  Right.  Now, how many of you out there on this side of the pond are frantically trying to think of last-minute Christmas presents?  Here is the answer to all your worries.**

Sadly this is only the effect of the flash. But it's way cool.

More glittery flashy flash.

And this is almost what it looks like, except the rose is red, as it is in the flashy pics.

 

And then yesterday my Berkley editor sent me a pdf*** of 'Nancy Pearl Presents:  Books That Make Great Gifts.'  It's a wonderful, quirky list—with, for example, Gail Carriger's SOULLESS and Justin Cronin's THE PASSAGE followed by THE HARE WITH AMBER EYES by Edmund de Waal and CROOKED LETTER CROOKED LETTER by Tom Franklin—and I've been a fan of the sainted Nancy Pearl since before I knew her as a dedicated promoter of SUNSHINE.  I like the way she reads all over the map and takes genre books seriously.†  And, speaking of SUNSHINE, this is the final title on Pearl's list:

Sunshine, Robin McKinley

This is, quite simply, the best vampire book for older teens, ever. I've never met a high school junior or senior who didn't love this novel.†† Set in a world quite similar to ours in the time just after the Voodoo Wars, Rae Seddon, who's nicknamed Sunshine, is driving home from a baking stint at her stepfather's café when she's kidnapped by a group of vampires and locked in the ballroom of an old house. It soon becomes clear that she's intended to be the main course of a meal for their starving captive, another vampire—the powerful, handsome, and enigmatic Constantine. But Constantine, going against everything Sunshine thought she knew about vampires, resists his powerful urge to drink her blood, and the two form an uneasy alliance against their joint captors. . . .

I know it's going to look like I'm shooting myself in the foot here.  And yes, that first line of description is a killer.†††  And yes, being on an excellent and intriguing list like this‡ and as the climax, the coup de grace, by someone with the clout of Nancy Pearl makes me shiver all over with egotistical delight‡‡. 

            But . . . Con isn't handsome.  This is important.  It's important enough to me anyway that I'm risking shooting myself in the foot about it.  Even almost-ten years ago when I was writing SUNSHINE, which was before the colossal burst of vampirature, before urban fantasy turned into its own dare I say monster genre, I was pulled by this particular story partly because the undeniable draw between Con and Sunshine is not based on the standard sexy powerful-male tropes.  He's powerful and enigmatic all right, but the kind that makes you want to throw up.  That's the point.  As soon as you say 'powerful, handsome and enigmatic' you've turned it into some other story, with Con as Mr Rochester or Colin Firth.‡‡‡  He's a VAMPIRE.  Vampires are monsters.  Vampires are undead monsters, as in ewwww.  In the McKinley version anyway, vampires are very, very, very icky.  'I didn't realise till it raised its head with a liquid, inhuman motion that it was another vampire. . . . Overall he looked . . . spidery.  Predatory.  Alien.  Nothing human except that he was more or less the right shape. . . .  Vampire skin looks like hell in sunlight, by the way.  Maybe bursting into flames is to be preferred. . . . I waited a moment longer before I turned to look at him.  Vampire.  Dangerous.  Unknowable.  Seriously creepy. . . .'  Part of the strength of the connection between Sunshine and Con is that everything about each of them except their connection is trying to drag them away from each other.

            Con is not handsome.   If you met him, you'd burst into tears and wet yourself.

           * * *

* Siiiiiiiigh.  I'm used to being an almost total professional failure in the country I live in.  I don't like it.  BEAUTY even got good reviews, as evidenced on the first inside page:  'A love story . . . that marries realism and fantasy with satisfying imagination, elegance of prose and thoughtful characterisation.  McKinley's Beauty is more than skin deep.'  Sunday Times.  'Robin McKinley has treated the tale with respect and care, and she tells is straight. . . . Anyone who appreciates prose that's poetic^ without being cloying will relish the language in which the story is written.'  Guardian 

            It still sold about twelve copies.  Well, to be fair, it's sold twelve copies several times.  The original British edition from twenty-plus years ago is one of my Most Hated.  But the earlier Random House editions, hard and paper, from 2003 and 2004, are really pretty.  They still sold about twelve copies.  Did I say that already?  Maybe it was twelve copies each.  Maybe this one will sell twenty four.  An elderly hag with dependent hellhounds can hope. 

^ Poetic?  Beauty would laugh. 

** Fourteen/forty years old, male, loves cars, beer and football?  Thirty, female, Oxbridge first [degree], maths tutor at a posh public school, reads The Economist for the laughs?  Never mind.  Stretch their horizons.  Clearly they need stretching. 

*** If anyone finds it on the web, please send me a link and I'll post it here.    http://plablog.org/2010/11/nancy-pearl-presents-books-that-make-great-gifts-pla-webinar-december-13.html says it's going to be a downloadable pdf, but maybe only for people who paid their fees?

† Arrgh etc.   

†† Author's note:  They are out there, however, I'm sorry to say.  I've had mail from a few.

††† . . . so to speak

‡ Several of which have just gone on my Book Depository list

‡‡ And the wistful hope of material gain.  Yes, I know I go on about money kind of a lot, but most writers have to.  I retweeted a quote from JD Salinger last night: ' There is a marvelous peace in not publishing.'  To which I added: Oh please. Not if you need to earn a living.  . . . To which here, unhampered by a 140 character limit I will further add:  Turkey.  

‡‡‡ Although you might want to know that I'm the only (mostly) het woman on the planet who did not find the diving-into-the-lake scene particularly interesting.  I was also underwhelmed by Clark Gable carrying Vivian Leigh up those stairs.^  So I am obviously sick and twisted, and therefore a perfect candidate for writing about icky vampires.  But I keep thinking . . . what's the scare, the thrill, the awfulness, the anything, of being seduced against your will by someone who looks like a teenage pin-up?  Like, so?  Sunshine asks Con if, at the end, a vampire's victim wants it.  There's a long pause, and Con finally says:  No. 

            EWWWWWWW.  But that's the point, okay?  I don't do graphic bleagh, but SUNSHINE is still supposed to squick you out a little. 

^ And I have yet to see a Mr Rochester that lives up to the book.

Remind us why we have dogs?

 

I'm numb with cold* and exhausted.  I tweeted earlier that our once-a-month tower practise at Old Eden was tonight and in this weather it was going to be a big ugly plague-ridden rat-king sort of ratbag, and I was not wrong.  Furthermore there were only eight of us for six bells, and three of the eight were beginners, which meant that the five of us who more or less knew what we were doing (the other four more, me less) were ringing nonstop on these frelling bells which had to be yanked by main force back up with every stroke.  I have told you about Old Eden's five—the fifth bell—before, that it's the nastiest of the six, and that I have decided I'm going to learn to cope with it.  We were ringing mere plain hunt, which is the pre-learning-real-methods pattern that slightly-beyond-beginners ring lots of, which is completely simple-minded once you're past that stage and you can do it in your sleep.**  But it does involve dragging your bell down to the front*** and then heaving it out to the back again and after about three minutes of this on the five I was feeling both rubbery and light-headed and thinking, I'm going to have to ask to stop.  Fortunately our current beginner was being a twit so Niall called us to stand before I had to do anything so ignominious.†  But the entire evening was like this—to the extent that about a quarter-hour before the end Vicky sat down and said okay, that's as much ringing as I want to do.  Vicky.  This is like the Statue of Liberty saying sorry, my arm's tired, I'm going to put the lamp down for a minute.

            But I think all systems are ungo at the moment.  I overslept.††  I decided we were going to have a proper country hurtle anyway, so we did.  This morning Hampshire was a fogbank.  We got to the field on this particular walk that hellhounds are usually allowed off lead for serious hurtling action.  Naturally they instantly disappeared in the fog.  I assumed they would re-emerge before I got totally hysterical, and they did.  But I suspect evil deeds out of hellgoddess' sight and shout.  Because Chaos threw up—twice—on the way back to the car.  You frelling dog.

            We were thawing out††† at the mews when I heard the awful sound . . . and made a dive for the dog bed‡, snatching up the nearest newspaper‡‡ and frantically stuffing it under Darkness' nose just in time . . . for him to throw up all over my hand.  Okay, it's not terminal, and the newspaper and I did keep it off the bedding.  Insert somewhat hollow cheering here.  I can't get the smell off my skin.  I've used up most of a bar of soap and am contemplating a baking-soda poultice.  However, I received this from Southdowner this morning (reprinted by permission of the author):

Fell asleep last night (this morning actually) with laptop on knees, comfortably ensconced among 4 bull terriers on sofa, rest of dogs in dog beds on floor; wake suddenly with start as I'm first hot & damp, then cold & soaked. Nameless bull (I have my suspicions derived from forensic assessment of projectile flow) has vomited copious watery fluid over me, sofa, floor, blanket covering sofa, and of course my laptop. Dogs all want to stay on sofa as warm and comfortable. All are sleepy (bar one who pretends to be sleepy) and they look at me with little squinty eyes. I am NOT sleepy any more. I am now nasty dragon lady who is squelching as she hoicks, cajoles and expedites their exit from room. I take all nine dogs in garden (4am, cold, dark) – they are not impressed. Neither am I. They know, and I know they know – how do I know they know? Because it's very quiet out here, no gallivanting so beloved by bulls, they say "it's the middle of the night, I was seriously comfy, I NEED my sleep". Such dedicated couch potatoes!

No more vomiting, no evidence of sickness or disease – I suspect that the culprit is now feeling fine and having a hard time restraining themselves from catapulting off the walls – only the dire necessity of not being turned into a steering wheel cover restrains them.‡‡‡ More beady-eyed looks and hunched shoulders – how could you do this to us in the middle of the night? We all troop back in. The dissembler hides in full view; if they truly are healthy and well enough I may just kill them… aaarrrgghh! I mop up, I change, I mop up some more. I avoid eye contact with a kitchen full of dogs who just want to go back to bed except that this cruel evil person is preventing them.

Finally I have a clean floor, clean but slightly damp sofa, pile of washing for the morning. I find splashes on chair legs and wipe away. The smell of regurgitated food begins to fade. I think about reintroducing dogs to sofa… and I see the laptop, dripping with gunge that  Lovecraft must have described at some point. Deep breath. And another… I realise I am breathing stertorously like a bull§ about to charge.

So. It's nearly 3 hours later. By the time I cleared up it was 5.30am, that limbo when you haven't had enough sleep but if you go to bed you won't get to sleep for ages and then the morning will be over by waking up time.§§ I stayed up. I watched my laptop blinking "USB is not recognised/not working/needs removing" signals for an empty port which had only been touched by fumes if that.

The computer seems fine now. The dog(s) seem fine. I won't wake them up to check as they are all sleeping so soundly if the snores are anything to go by. Remind me, why do we have dogs???!!

Indeed.  Or ring bells. 

 * * *

* Peter, muttering to himself, has just taken off two layers of jumpers and gone to sit at the far end of the sitting-room-kitchen space.  The end next to the garden door where there's always a draught, despite curtains and a rolled-up towel against the sill.  At my end the oven's been on to roast a chicken and I'm still crouched over the electric fire turned up HIGH.

** And frequently do, on Sunday mornings.

*** Of the row of bells.  Remember that you can only move one place in a row, and that all methods are based on the bells moving around as the rows are rung, and in all the early methods you bong twice at the front and the back.   So for plain hunt the order of the bells is:  1, 2, 3, 4, 5, then 2, 1, 4, 3, 5, then 2, 4, 1, 5, 3, then 4, 2, 5, 1, 3, then 4, 5, 2, 3, 1, then 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 . . . and then you turn around and go out to the back again.  Here:  http://www.merrix.eu/BellRinging/methods/plain_hunt_5.htm

The point is that when you're moving down to the front you have to pull in, and make the bell strike a little sooner, and when you're moving out to the back you have to pull harder, to get the bell UP, and to strike a little slower.  Moving your frelling bell around like that is MORE WORK.

† Whereupon Colin, whom I may therefore forgive for other transgressions, firmly took the five away from me.  He's been ringing for fifty years, he can ring anything.  Including Old Eden's bloody-minded five.

†† Like, duh.

††† I decided it wasn't quite cold enough for the hellhounds' new serious winter coats this morning.  But by the time the sun went down^ it was cold enough, however, and SINCE WE'RE SUPPOSED TO HAVE SLEET TOMORROW AND SNOW ON WEDNESDAY I should have lots of dranglefabbing photo opportunities.  ARRRRRRRGH I AM SICK OF THIS WEATHER.  And have I mentioned that hellhounds like to eat snow, which then gives them the runs—?

^ At about half past noon

‡ And anyone who tells me smugly that a dog won't soil its bedding will be instantly killed.  Lots of dogs prefer to lose it, whatever it is, in their bed because they feel safe and comfortable there.

‡‡ Which fortunately did not have Peter's crossword in it, or I might be a divorcee tonight.

‡‡‡ Very nice image.  I have always favoured the hearth-rug threat.  In Hazel's case—who was our show-dog runt-of-the-litter whippet—I said it was going to be a collar.

§ . . . terrier? 

§§ Oh gods.  I know this one so well.  I get most of my reading done around dawn.

Too much too much

 

Okay.  Enough is enough IS ENOUGH IS ENOUGH.  I want thirty hours in a day and I want them NOW.*   Yesterday morning I had my osteopath appointment, during which I was beaten mercilessly and then made to pay for it.**  I then lurched and stumbled down to the mews (having thoughtfully hurtled hellhounds beforehand) and collapsed in a heap at the kitchen table where I attempted a little work and thereafter was BRIEFLY if dreadfully distracted by a book that had recently arrived in the post** and I was keeping an eye on the time I REALLY WAS but, see, I thought I remembered when the opera started.  It's a good thing I finally decided to check.  You'd be surprised how much difference half an hour makes†. . . . 

            . . . Especially if you're trying to park in the major local shopping town on a Saturday evening a fortnight before Christmas.  AAAAAUGH.  Since I do 90% of my gift-buying on-line any more, and because I am by now chiefly preoccupied with how much of the stuff I've already ordered will actually arrive††, I hadn't engaged with the likelihood of date-specific parking mayhem. 

            Our usual car park was full to the eyeballs.  So was our second.  So were the residential streets near the theatre.  I didn't want to park somewhere I wasn't sure about closing time, since some of the town-centre multi-storeys aren't open much past business hours—and you need to have Scott Summers' laser-gaze and a suspicious nature to penetrate all the rules on the average car park signboard.  I was at this point losing hope†††—we took another pass through the back streets and lo and behold there was a parking space, except I couldn't get into it because one of Hampshire's notorious flint walls is where the opposite shoulder of the road should be, and parallel parking—which when I'm not hysterical I'm generally not too bad at—requires that your nose swing out when your butt swings in.  Maybe all those other parked cars are British made and there's a secret bend switch under the dashboard, for the Parallel Park Wriggle in walled-in roads that are one and a half lanes wide??  Geez. 

            So we took one last despairing swing a little farther out through the back streets around the cinema and . . . yes.  Except we were now about a mile and a half from the theatre and we'd been late before we started. 

            By some pinching and yanking of the time stream by some goddess who, as soon as I learn her name, I will make a significant sacrifice to . . . we gasped our way to our seats as the ' . . . minutes till DON CARLO' on the screen clicked over to '1'.  I just had time to yank my pillows out of the tote bag and jam them against the back and bottom of my seat so I could lounge in comfort for the next five hours.

            Fortunately . . . it was fabulous.  I was about to say that it's one of Verdi's great ones, but for a besotted Verdi fan, among whose august number I would count myself, there are so many great ones.  There are also about six different versions of this particular opera—not just the Italian and the French but the early and the late, and the spaghetti carbonara and seven dwarves version, and the outtakes involving the lesser noctule and the superfluous soprano which some enterprising conductor has decided to drag out of the shadows and record, and the result for someone like me, with a vague fuzzy addiction to opera rather than a vicelike grip of the details, is that every time I see or hear a fresh DON CARLO(S) I think, uh, that's not how I remember it . . . and it isn't.  The vagaries of individual translations of the text don't help a whole lot either.

            I was originally going to give you the inimitable McKinley version of the plot but I still have to get some work done tonight so here's the official account:  http://www.metoperafamily.org/uploadedFiles/MetOpera/watch_and_listen/hd_events/DonCarlo_HD_synopsis.pdf and I'll just mention some highlights.  First, Elisabeth.  When Marina Poplavskaya first gallops on stage as the careless young flirtatious virgin you think, oh, yawn.  But her love-at-first-sight duet with Don Carlo, Roberto Alagna, wins you over:  it's one of those occasions when you forget that the soprano is not a lissom young virgin and the tenor is short, fat and bandy-legged, which all tenors are, it's in the contract.‡  And I've seen Elizabeth played as a dopey little-woman type, buffeted by the winds of cruel fate, for the entire course of the opera—but not here.  Elisabeth is the strong one, the one who stands up to her duty and claims it, and makes Carlo look like a whimpering boy.

            Second, Rodrigo.  Rodrigo is Carlo's best friend, and the homoeroticism of their relationship knocks me out every time.  I keep wondering, am I missing that these guys are Italian, culture gap and all that?  (It's just as bad in the French version, but Verdi was Italian.)  Can Verdi push it because part of the set up is that Carlo is helplessly in love with his stepmother?  Er—where does that leave Rodrigo?  Who, as Peter says, is a weirdly Iago figure, except he's a good guy.  But all that slightly-too-close-in and of dubious and opaque motivation is very Iago-ish.  Also the two of them have another of the most famous guy duets in opera‡‡—and Alagna and Simon Keenlyside really nail it. 

            Third, the princess Eboli.  Hers is a pretty thankless role—the rejected seductress who is used to having it her own way, and turns nasty—and Anna Smirnova isn't perhaps quite up to making her character plausible, if her character can be made plausible.  But her final aria, when first she confesses to Elisabeth what she's done—and then after Elisabeth says, you what? and storms out of the room, leaving her alone with her despair—is thrillingly convincing. 

            Fourth, King Philip.  That dog turd.  In the beginning of the fourth act (well, the fourth act in this version) he has another of those Most Famous Arias where he whinges about how his wife doesn't love him.  Well what do you think, you total jerk.  The plot hinges on the fact that Elisabeth and Carlo were engaged—er, have I mentioned that Carlo is Philip's son?—and then she gets given to Philip hey-presto instead.  Cue distraughtness and hair-tearing.  (This may also be the translation, or the context of Verdi's time and culture, but Elisabeth keeps getting referred to as Carlo's mother, to make the shock of their forbidden love more awful, but really.  She's not his mother, for pity's sake, she's his stepmother.  They met when they were both grown-ups.  And engaged to be married.  To each other.)  Philip is maniacally jealous of her . . . oh, and is also a corrupt tyrant, a short-tempered bully—and a whinger.  He does this whole poor-little-me-a-king-just-can't-trust-anybody-whiiiiiine to Rodrigo early on, right after he's sentenced another army to another bloodbath.  Hate Philip.  Hate Philip.  But lots of commentators go on about his secret tragedy blah blah blah loneliness and insecurity blah blah blah blah blah.  HATE PHILIP.  Ferruccio Furlanetto does a prime job, but it doesn't make me like him.‡‡‡

            But it's a great opera, full of goosebumpy, throat-catching moments.  The ending does kind of go off the rails—what?  He what? He what how?—but the parting duet between Carlo and Elisabeth is gloriously soppy.  And I personally felt it was totally worth five hours of a numb bum.  But then I did have my pillows this time.§

            . . . And then we had to race home and have supper at eleven o'clock at night and I had to go to bed pretty much while I was still chewing, and I don't know about you, but sleeping on a full stomach gives me very strange dreams.  And then not only did I have to ring bells at an ungodly hour this morning but there were only six of us and we were all method ringers so we had to ring methods, none of this going to sleep during some nice relaxing call changes for some how-glad-I-am-to-see-you beginner.  I survived a touch of Stedman doubles—on a Sunday morning!  On a Sunday morning on too little sleep with too many strange dreams!!—or rather, I survived it till somebody else went wrong which is good enough.§§

            And then there was Octopus and Chandelier rehearsal this afternoon.  And then I had to pelt home and phone down through my long list of possibles for our monthly practise at Old Eden tomorrow, and then . . .

            Thirty hours a day.  Now.            

* * *

* I also want the ME to go. away. forever.   Oh, and while I'm at it, I'd like PEGASUS to sell 70 million copies so I can buy a large field and put a deer-, rabbit- and hellhound-proof fence around it, grow a zillion roses along the edges and have room for hellhounds to hurtle their scariest without worrying about Evil Monster Dog from Arkham^ hoving round the hedgerow at us at an inconvenient moment.

^ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arkham , for you (astonishing) non-Lovecraft people out there.

** At least he didn't go on and on about the Ageing Body this time.  Gah.

*** This keeps happening to me.  Very sad.

† Okay, a lot of you have lives like mine.  Maybe you wouldn't be surprised. 

†† In time would be a bonus, but I don't want to appear greedy

††† And was also thinking irritably about the Rossini OTELLO I was missing at home on Radio 3's Saturday night opera.  Which, since all the Met Live HDs are on Saturday evening, is going to be regular problem.  I'm listening with both relief and pleasure to OTELLO on Radio 3's Listen Again right now, but copyright, that pesky little gremlin, means that a lot of stuff isn't available, and I guarantee it will include some frelling opera or other I really really wanted to hear.

‡ Except Juan Diego Flores.  Who can furthermore just about survive the awful things that zoom lenses do to singers.  Most singers are not beautiful when they sing:  their faces go into the most unlikely and unfortunate shapes.  I wonder how many tentative new opera goers are testing the waters with one of these cinema broadcasts, spend the evening turning purple with suppressed laughter and decide to stay home and watch their complete Blackadder DVDs after this.  I have problems with the camera close-ups and I've been going to live opera for getting on half a century.

‡‡ The other one that instantly comes to mind is from Bizet's Pearl Fishers, and is also madly homoerotic, although they're both in love with the same woman.  And, speaking of Italian culture, Bizet is French.

‡‡‡ After the my-wife-doesn't-love-me-boo-hoo aria there's this sick-makingly creepy scene with the Grand Inquisitor where Philip wants the GI to say it's okay that he offs his son for treason, and the GI says, hey, great, I love blood, I mean, I'm terribly religious, you should definitely execute your son, and, by the way, give me Rodrigo, I want to rend him limb from limb, slowly.  And Philip says, no way, you nasty old man!  Thanks for permission to kill my son but I'm going to keep Rodrigo!  —Ewwwwww.  I mean, it's supposed to be sick-making.  But I have never seen any reason to have any pity for Philip whatsoever.  I hope he has a whole regiment of dedicated demons keeping him company in a particularly nasty corner of some particularly nasty underworld. 

§ I'd better remember them for Die Walkurie which is even longer 

§§ And I haven't even told you about ringing a plain course of Cambridge minor without getting yelled at last Friday practise.  Well, actually, I did get yelled at once, but it wasn't me that was going wrong.^  And whoever it was found their line again and we made it through to the end. 

^ I would have given Colin a Wounded Glare only I was too busy

Saturday evening at 11:30 and I'm finally eating supper*

 

What a good thing I have a link for you tonight. 

http://thespectacleblog.wordpress.com/2010/12/10/interview-robin-mckinley-on-pegasus/

This is me at my maunderiest—well, she kept asking me writery questions—so if you need to shampoo the cat tonight, that's okay.  But there's also a drawing to win a copy of PEGASUS so get over there long enough to leave a comment (please).

But it's a good thing I have a link for you tonight because we've been here:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2010/dec/11/opera-cinemas-3d-bizet-carmen**

And it was FIVE HOURS.  Cheez.  And I'll tell you all about it tomorrow.***  So you may want to borrow someone else's cat to shampoo tomorrow night.  Although I promise to be rude, if that helps.  Also there's the story of trying to find a PARKING SPACE on a Saturday evening a fortnight before Christmas.

* * *

* And I have to get up to ring bells tomorrow morning 

** Which makes two links.  —And opera in the cinema better not starting getting so popular that us faithful start having trouble getting tickets.

*** Probably.  You know me, I can never stay on a subject.

Around the World with Pegasus Parties (Black Bear)

 

We all know that Robin's books are loved by readers the world over–but this week, we have concrete proof of same.  The last couple weeks have been host to not one, not two, but three more international gatherings in honor of Pegasus' release!

First, Bonnie (holmes44 on the forum) put together a gathering in Sutton, Quebec the last weekend in November.  Since Sutton's close to the US border with Vermont, she was able to lure in Skating Librarian for a forum meet-up/party as well!  Here are a few photos from the get-together.

Oh man....this looks great.

That's Bonnie on the far right!

I believe this is Skating Librarian holding the poster...

A little closer to home (well, MY home) was our gathering in Toronto, put together by Heather H. last weekend.  Behold!

The gang's all here, Toronto style!

There are a bunch of additional photos of the Toronto attendees in the Brand New Shiny PRC Album I've created on Photobucket. Check them out!  I'll be going back and adding photos from previous weeks to the album over the weekend, and I'll get it up to date.

Last for this update, but certainly not least, was our farthest-flung PRC.  Not Canada, not England, not even Australia–a party for Pegasus was held in Invercargill, New Zealand, one of the southernmost cities in the entire world!  Cool, eh?  Here's our report from Zerlina, our organizer:

As the world's southern-most PRC, and also a summer-time party, I hoped we could hold our meeting in the garden, which is full of peonies, poppies and roses. However, the benevolent weather-gods had something better to do, and we were forced to meet indoors.

We are a speculative fiction writers' group. Four of our five members made it – Paul, Emily, Claire and me. (Shane was sick, but we included him in the draw anyway). Invitations were issued both on the forum and to other local groups,  but no-one else came. Pity, but there was more cake for us. Emily provided the cake – banana with chocolate icing, and blueberry muffins. We carved up the cake, and while they ate, I told them about Pegasus, and why they should all read it, and then read the rest of Robin's works. We then used a cup that my son won to draw the raffle. The posters went to Claire and Shane, and Emily won the book. She was thrilled. I suspect she has read it twice by now.

They are a bashful bunch, and it is difficult to get photos of them.  The dog, Marius, is an honorary member of our group.

Mmmmm....cake.....

Could it be.... a whippet? YES!

A shy bunch--but with great taste in books!

PRC UPDATES

Remember the cutoff date for scheduling a PRC and getting a prize pack sent to you from Robin's publisher is DECEMBER 15!  No ifs, ands, or buts.  Robin's e-marketer is going out of town for the holidays, so this is the drop dead date for emailing me!

****Happening THIS WEEKEND and the following WEEK!*****

East-Central Illinois – Saturday, December 11, 1 – 4 pm.  Urbana Free Library, Urbana Illinois.  Cupcakes will be provided!  For more info on the event, you can click here. Organizer: Rhymeswithcarrot

San Francisco Bay area – Saturday, December 11, 3:30 pm at  Crixa Cakes in Berkeley. Organizer: Equus_Pedus

Melbourne, Victoria, Australia —December 11, a picnic in Kamesburgh Gardens at 3 pm. There will be loads of delicious food, blankets, chairs, a card table, and there's a service ring in the nearby bell tower at 5:30. Organizer: B-Twin_1

***NEW!!!*** Santa Cruz, California.  Monday, December 13. This is at a private residence, but they would be happy to have more attendees!  Please email our organizer, Nikira, at nikira.toshiko [at] gmail [dot] com for directions and further information.

Whitmore Lake, Michigan–Wednesday, December 15, Northfield Township Area Library, 6 pm.  Whitmore Lake is west of Detroit, north of Ann Arbor, and south of Brighton. Cake will be provided! Organizer: Xanthe

****Coming Soon!****

Sacramento — Saturday, December 18. 3pm at the Borders Books on Fair Oaks Blvd. in Sacramento. Organizer: Sarahkp

Los Angeles/Orange Co – Tuesday December 21, 11 am at the Borders just off 57 in Brea.  Organizer: Peanut

****Still Nebulous****

Dallas – Proposed in forum for late December, several responses but no firm date/time yet. Organizer: livvispatula

Email me at whiteape [at] whiteape [dot] net with any questions you might have.  Have a great weekend!

Unexpected Handbell Jubilation

 

We rang a quarter peal!  Of bob minor!  (Sitting down!  In my WARM* sitting room!)   And I was on the tenors!  This is my first quarter not on the trebles!

            It was starting off to be a bad evening when Fernanda cancelled at the last minute.**  I have been working hard at my bob major, and I'm getting anxious to find out how all this time on iPhone Mobel and Pooka is going to translate.  I know it will have done me significant good, but I want to know how much and how significant.  And then there it was just Colin and Niall and me . . . BLAAAH.  So we settled down to ring some bob minor, and I was on the tenors, which are what I'm trying to learn this decade.  And Niall started calling bobs and things . . . and about ten minutes in I thought, oh . . . fiddlesticks.  I wonder if he . . . and another ten minutes went by and I thought, oh, dreck, he is.  At which point my hair started tickling my face and my nose began itching like crazy, which is what happens when you're ringing a quarter peal. 

            We did it!  We did it!  We rang a quarter peal in honour of heat and hot water! 

And in similarly frivolous mood, here is a link to a frivolous interview and she's also running a giveaway:  http://iamareadernotawriter.blogspot.com/2010/12/bir2010-book-giveaway-pegasus-chalice.html 

* * *

*WarmwarmwarmwarmwarmWARM!  And there was hot water to wash the tea mugs!!!  YAAAAY!  And I'm looking forward to a HOT BATH tonight!^  . . . Not that this happy outcome was achieved without some struggle.  I dragged myself out of bed this morning in time to be capable of remembering what to do with a ringing phone^^ by 9 am.  When the plumber was supposed to ring me. 

            No one rang me.

            I took everything back out of the bathroom cupboard again, wrapped a few Christmas presents, and was stared at by hellhounds.

            At 10 am I rang the plumber.  Oh I do apologise, said the bloke on the other end in the standard meaningless British phrase.  Your plumber called in sick today and we've had to shift everybody else's schedule . . . give me ten minutes and I'll ring you back.

            At 10:30 I rang them again and got their receptionist who is (of course) the only person you can ever get any sense out of.  I will ring you back, she said, and she did.  I then rang Peter, who toiled back up to this end of town to house sit again while I briefly hurtled some increasingly restless and inclined to be indignant hellhounds.

            Came home to a plumber.  This was plumber #2 from yesterday.^^^  Clearly plumber #1 had called in sick from shame.  Either that or he was light-headed from fever when he was here yesterday.  But plumber #2 seems to have been the business:  because I have HEAT!  I have HOT WATER!~

            Now tell me why everything that has fit beautifully~~ and, forgive me for reminding you, repeatedly, on the utterly unchanged middle shelf in the cupboard, which is where the sixty-three duvet covers and four hundred and ninety-six pillow cases live, suddenly no longer fit, now that I'm putting them back in for the last time.~~~

^ I'm getting behind on my reading. 

^^ AAAAAUGH!  STEP ON IT!

^^^ Who, just by the way, is a member of a multi-dog household. 

~ I have a terrifyingly large hole in my bank imbalance.  The Forbes list is entirely made up of plumbers, right?

~~ Well, not beautifully, exactly, but it fit 

~~~ I hope it is the last time.

** Poor Fernanda needs a new plumber.  She's now been without heat and hot water for eleven days.  And after another futile wrangle with her current nest of vipers, she broke, and has gone off to Whortleberry to stay with her son, who has heat and hot water.  The last three days while I've been doing a certain amount of snapping and snarling on the subject of plumbers, I have kept reminding myself that my lot at least perform.  Eleven days in this weather?  Shouldn't this be illegal or something?  I admit I don't see Fernanda, who is rather precise and ladylike, happy at a local homeless hospice, but. . . .

Heat and cold. And water.

 

The story thus far, as told on Twitter.*  With interpolations.  We begin at mmmph o'clock, Monday night/Tuesday morning: 

I HAVE NO HOT WATER

This was written (trembling) under six blankets, a duvet, and two happy hellhounds**, having just had a bath anyway.  

Meanwhile plumber coming TOMORROW. Gah. Isn't it too cold to get dirty, though? Too cold to STICK?  (Note: hot shower at Peter's)

It is certainly too cold for any freezable substance to do anything but go ping as it caroms off your parka/jeans/hellhound and clank against the iron ground—supposing it has successfully frozen.  There is, unfortunately, a time lag problem.  I have also long suspected that a lot of brand-name soft drinks are antifreeze with added food colouring.  Arrrgh.  Don't go walking across school grounds in the dark.

And I FORGOT to have a shower at Peter's last night before I came home. I'm STILL cold. . . .

The problem is that the first kettle of boiling water wastes itself warming up the sink.  And then, having boiled the second (and the third, because there's some kind of unwelcome algorithm about how fast half a sinkful of water cools off again) you still have to disrobe sufficiently to make use of your tiny precious steaming reservoir.   Bathroom sink baths.  No human over the age of eight months should have to do it this way.***  And I still had central heating last night.  Yes, it's on.  It was 56°F/13°C in my bedroom (which faces east with nothing like trees or houses in the way and has the least benefit from the Aga) yesterday morning and I'm a miserable old wuss, I like indoors to stay in the mid 60s.

. . . Although that may have something to do w the plumber TURNING *EVERYTHING* OFF & THEN LEAVING, muttering something about a part . . .

This is when it starts getting surreal.  The plumbers, of course, are getting baying mobs of emergency calls in this weather† and they fit you in when they can.  They told me yesterday that it would be some time this morning.  And I have hellhounds.  And, today, Computer Men.  So Peter came and house-sat for me while I gave hellhounds a shorter than usual sprint.  The plumber came while I was out, of course. 

. . . which it may take SEVERAL DAYS to replace. Helloooooo . . . below freezing temperatures here

What it took me a couple of hours to realise is that he'd turned the central heating off too.  Raphael had been here, bringing good and bad news, as is often the way of archangels††, and I was a little distracted from the fact that my teeth were chattering.  After Raphael left I rang the plumbers to ask if there was a reason the messenger of their gods turned off the heat?   And I got an answering machine. 

            I turned the boiler back on again.  And the immersion heater, which I hadn't known I had, because it wasn't, like, labelled or anything.  There's a big power switch that says BOILER.  Then there's another big power switch that says nothing at all.  With all the big fat padded wires rushing around and in and out of various appliancy looking objects of various geometric-solid shapes enshrouded in much upholstery I thought it was some higher-level instrument of world domination that the mere householder shouldn't touch.  But the Plumber Who Turned Everything Off, before he turned everything off, told Peter that if I needed hot water I could use the immersion heater.  Oh. 

I AM SO NOT HAVING A GOOD DAY. Electricity popped off. Does this have anything to do w plumber turning central heating off??? Back on again

Or possibly to do with my rashly turning the heat on again?  Or the Strange Noises that the immersion heater was making?†††   All the gadgets in the house had to be reset, of course.  Okay, that wasted a little time I could have spent worrying.  The plumbers finally rang me back.  They have no idea why The Plumber Who Turned Everything Off did so, but he has found a new whinklejammer to replace the old bust one so I have to forgive him.  However he's also driving back from St Frumentius and it's a long way, ‡ and there's going to be a fabulous mid-motorway pass, like the baton in a relay race, and some other plumber is going to bring the whinklejammer here and install it.  But . . . today.  He's going to install it today.  It's going to be all done and over with today.  Do you hear the Fates laughing?

Aaaaaand 1 of my impossible-2-buy-4-&-bday-9-days-b4-Christmas husband's bday presents cancelled by bank card screw up . . .

One of the standard reasons given for eschewing Twitter is Twitter Spelling.  I consider 140 characters a creative challenge. 

. . . There was a knock on the door while I was sorting this out on the phone. Of course. And have I mentioned that I'm VERY COLD?

However . . . the non-delivery company driver didn't run away‡‡ when he saw the door opening!  I got my parcel!  . . . Unfortunately it didn't have anything to do with heat. 

Plumber claims to be coming back *2day*, w new hot-water part. Hv turned heating back on but it hs long way 2 to go to get back 2 WARM.

It took hours.  Why was it taking HOURS?  Usually the central heating comes on really fast.  You turn the little dial and there's this satisfying muffled roar of Things Happening.  Unh . . . ooooh. . . .

Aga will prevent hellhounds & me from dying of hypothermia, I assume. & have I mentioned my electric fire is dead?  

I am so glad I have an Aga.  It's actually surprisingly comfortable, sitting on the floor with your back against your Aga, a book, and a framing brace of hellhounds to stop some of the draughts.  Maybe it's just that eye-of-the-storm sensation. 

I NOW HAVE A DIFFERENT PLUMBER. WHO SAYS, HMMM. THIS IS NOT THE RIGHT FAULT. THIS IS NOT THE RIGHT PART. ‡‡‡

So.  Yeah.  The new plumber with the baton, er, whinklejammer, arrived, took one look at my boiler, another look at the whinklejammer, and stopped smiling.  Yes, he said, the reason the central heating is not coming on the way it should is All Part of the Situation.  Eventually he left again—taking the untouched new whinklejammer with him—and leaving what I assume is the old whinklejammer in a little pile of screws and washers.  Someone will ring me tomorrow morning with further bulletins.   Meanwhile . . . before the first plumber came I at least still had heat.  I wonder if he fritzed my electric fire/space heater while he was at it?  Just for fun?  Just because he could?          

            I'm also getting extremely tired of taking everything out of the cupboard in the bathroom and putting it all back in again.  And taking it out again.   It's the only cupboard in the entire house§, so it's crucial, which is to say full.  And I seem to have kind of a lot of pink pillowcases and rose-entwined duvet covers.  Not to mention all the boring stuff like spare loo rolls and lightbulbs.

            And yes, I could stay overnight at the mews.  But I'm not going to.  I still have an Aga, two hellhounds, and an electric blanket.  Supposing the electricity stays on. 

* * *

* Now that I know a lot of you don't follow me on Twitter . . .

** The hellgoddess' bed, both upstairs and twelve feet tall as it is, means that it's always warmer than the stark, desolate hellhound crate in the kitchen, with its forty-seven blankets inside and its den-effect layers of bedspreads and tablecloths and one plastic garden sheet for protection from the indoor jungle, wrapped comprehensively around the outside.  It's true they have no reading light.  Because I'm an unimaginative cow and don't believe dogs read.  Clifford Simak to the contrary notwithstanding.^

^ Although I don't know that any of his dogs read, do they?

*** Adventure?  No thanks.  I'd rather stay home with my flush toilet, my hot baths and my reading light.  But do send me a postcard.

† Most of whom do not have second and third houses.

†† This beautiful green planet is yours!  And you're going to wreck the sucker, you dumbasses!

††† But I have a strange, old-fashioned liking for washing dishes in hot water. 

‡ It is indeed.

‡‡ Shouting, Hey!  That's cheating! is optional

‡‡‡ This is not your beautiful house.  This is not your beautiful wife. . . .  Letting the days go by, let the water hold me down http://www.lyricsfire.com/viewlyrics/talking-heads/once-in-a-lifetime-lyrics.htm   

§ Old houses don't do cupboards.  Humanity apparently got (a) secretive and (b) materialistic about 150 years ago.

Cold limbo

 

I feel like the world has been cancelled, although I guess it's only Hampshire.*  There were three of us for service ring on Sunday, and Colin cancelled practise last night. 

            Hellhounds are sustained and unremitting however.  And since tomorrow is not merely going to be a day redolent of thrillingness and wonder, involving, as it does, a plumber** and some Computer Men, not to mention the delivery of a package,*** it is going to be a day redolent etc that starts very early†.  So let's have some photos, and then I can go to bed before dawn.††

"And I'm the biggest, meanest SOB in the valley"

devil dogs

"Aieeeee! Shub-Niggurath!"

"Play with me!" "Who is this low person?"

* * * 

* And Scotland.  Had an email last night from a friend up there saying they're so snowed in they're wrapping Christmas presents because they might as well.^  I admit I'm not quite that desperate yet.^^ 

^ Which does mean they already have them to wrap. 

^^ Since you ask, if I wrapped all the gifts-in-waiting already sitting in various corners of my various houses, I would be nearly all done.  Barring my impossible husband.  I'm also playing media-tag with one of my least-favourite delivery companies+.  This particular least-favourite delivery company failed to deliver something only a few weeks ago.  It didn't need to be signed for, and I had filled in one of those useless boxes on the seller's screen++ saying 'please LEAVE behind gate'.  I came home to a nondelivery note through my door.  I was told over the phone that if I would email them an official statement that they could always leave stuff behind the gate, they would put it in my file.  I did this.  Yesterday, which you will remember was not a good day for customer relations, I came home to another note through my door . . . ARRRRGH.  It also clearly states that attempted redelivery must be booked.  I was waiting for the headache to go away, so I didn't bother with this yesterday—I know about the charm and responsiveness of their rebooking system.  Today I came home to another note through my door from the same non-delivery company, saying, we tried to redeliver!  Just because we're so nice!  But we're tired of you wasting our time!  So if you don't ring us up immediately we're going to ship your parcel back to sender!  ARRRRRRGH!  Meanwhile, just in case you're thinking that maybe they never got my email . . . I not only had an actual acknowledgement, apparently from a human being, or at least a programme which had been given a human name for improved client interaction, the day after I sent it, but today in my inbox was a memo from these jokers on the highly relevant-to-me topic of corporate parcel-collection regulations.  ARRRRRRRRRGH.  Maybe Peter would like a Hand-Crushed Non-Delivery Van for a lawn ornament?

+ This is an oxymoron.  In the first place they're all my least favourite.  In the second place, they don't deliver . . . which is why.  

++ Yes, I have written to Large Famous Wild Things Preservation Society about the mysterious disappearance of my tiger.  They have not yet responded.  

** Do most of you blog readers follow me on Twitter?  I have no idea about the overlap of all these on-line social network things.  Anyone who does follow will have seen a terse, all-cap tweet at the inappropriate hour I had been planning to have a bath last night/this morning:  I HAVE NO HOT WATER.   I still have no hot water.  But I do have a plumber coming tomorrow.  I hope.   

*** Grrrrrrrrr  

† As I count such things 

†† Meanwhile the temperature is busy plummeting, the local weather forecast is full of hissing between teeth and scowling audible even on the radio, and everyone may be frozen to their driveways tomorrow morning.  Including me.

The Trouble You Can Get Into Staying Indoors

 

The rabid weather continues.  You can feel it trying to sink its fangs into you even through the window.  Grrrrrr it says.  Waiting for you.  You can't hide indoors forever.  True.  Next time the domestic companions are going to be goldfish.  Meanwhile Peter's next-door neighbours are having their (rear) bedroom painted and are therefore sleeping in the (front) guest room and have put in a Special Request that their neighbour's peculiar wife leave at mmph o'clock in the morning quietly.*  Try scraping the new quarter-inch of ice off your windscreen quietly.  I said irritably to Peter, maybe we'll just walk home tonight.  Peter suggested a blanket over the windscreen.  Windscreen has been suitably enrobed.  I predict that at mmph o'clock this morning the blanket will merely have frozen to the windscreen. . . .

I've spent way too much of today on line ordering semi-last-minute Christmas presents** and several of the sites are saying 'due to extreme weather, you may not get this till February, but that's okay, right?  You wouldn't still be Christmas shopping now.'***  Er.  Well.  I had started the Christmas sprint this weekend;  retailers are busy laying out their supplementary lures and a Large Famous Museum with an Excellent Shop (and of which I Am a Member) had sent me a come-on for 15% off, just this weekend.  I had a good time yesterday evening, skipping through the virtual pages, and rolled up to the check-out with a basket to make their marketing manager proud.

The site wouldn't accept my password.

The site wouldn't accept the new password it had just that minute sent me when I assumed I had taken leave of my senses and done something clever about my password, and then forgotten what it was. 

It still wouldn't accept my old password, which I was pretty sure was the old password.

It wouldn't let me register as a new customer, because it already had me on its database.

It wouldn't let me give it money to buy stuff as a nonregistered visitor, which some sites will let you do.†

And of course the 15% off was over at midnight.

I wrote them a very cranky email.

This morning I received a polite apology from the Large Famous Museum, a new password, and the offer of 20% off for any order I made today.

I ordered.  It appears to have gone through.  I appear to have got the 20% discount.  And it may arrive before February if the weather lets it.

Today I've also been trying to sort out my charity gifts—you know the kind of thing, you get a Christmas card and a certificate that says Hi!  You've just made Zebediah, the Amazonian Horned Frog, very happy with your donation, which will keep him in hamburgers and undersized capybaras for six months!  And then you write somebody else's name in the blank at the top and stick it in the Christmas card and send it along.  A lot of these sites will do the sending for you, but that requires a higher level of organization than I can cope with all at once like that—it's enough that I'm buying the things, I'll figure out who they go to later.  I always buy a few more than I think I'm going to use because Zebediah still gets his capybara steaks and nobody knows you're a shambolic nincompoop but you. 

But the Evil Site Monster is still spotlighting me.  I was adopting a tiger for a tiger-mad friend today from a Large Famous Wild Things Preservation Society which I am no longer a member of because they are such hopeless incompetents on the admin side you have to wonder how good they are on the practicals.  However they have a very attractive tiger package and maybe they've improved. 

Got to the end of the filling out and ticking boxes and agreeing to things.  Presumably you also have noticed the way pretty much every sales site on the planet tells you to print out your receipt page?  What?  No.  There's a lot about life on line that irritates the crap out of me but not having knee-high piles of sales receipts is one of the benefits.  Most of them email you, so I just leave the window open till the email arrives.  If I'm in a hurry, I copy the receipt page into a Word document. 

The email didn't arrive.  And it didn't arrive . . . I went back to look at the receipt page and noticed that it says Download your certificate here!  What?  I'm supposed to get something official-looking in the post.  Something you download doesn't have the cachet.  Dubiously I pressed the 'download' button.  I am chuted to a new page, and am then given a pop-up box telling me I need a bolt-on flimflammer to do their brouhaha justice.  Haven't got, don't want, go away.  Closed the flimflam pop-up, pressed the 'back' button . . . and am dumped into a blank page containing nothing but an aloof-looking tiger and a 'Nice to know you, sucker hahahahahahaha!' banner from the Large Famous Wild Things Preservation Society. 

And the email still hasn't arrived. 

* * *

* Rats.  You mean they don't like my rendition of Una Voce Poco Fa?  I think I approach the exquisite musicality of Florence Foster Jenkins^ rather closely.  But I will tell the hellhounds to pee in a more subdued manner. 

^ Who can be successfully googled for under 'notoriously awful soprano'.  Regular readers of this blog are already acquainted. 

** True last-minute Christmas shopping begins on the 23rd.  The jolly red haze of panic begins at 6 pm on Christmas Eve.  Some of you may remember that I must bear this time of year under the further burden of having a husband who is impossible to buy presents for whose frelling birthday is nine days before Christmas.  I hadn't fully thought this through when I asked him to marry me. 

*** There is no post in January, of course.  The Royal Mail really does perform heroics—not always the correct heroics, but heroics—in the run up to Christmas, and then has a nervous breakdown that lasts till about the middle of February. 

† Dogging your every key-press with breathless descriptions of the wonders to be had as a signed-up comrade.

Incarceron and Sapphique by Catherine Fisher

 

I can hardly say enough good things about these books.  Love love love love LOVE. 

            I've read a lot of Fisher's other books* and have always found her stories engaging—she builds good worlds, and then she plonks interesting people in these rich and fertile earths, and I want to know what happens, and I don't want to stop reading just because a four-leg needs hurtling or the village fete needs chocolate chip cookies or the dentist needs another £1,000,000 of my blood and tears.**   My US publisher also publishes Fisher*** and this summer they sent me a lovely big box of books including INCARCERON and SAPPHIQUE and I thought, oh, Catherine Fisher, excellent, I'll save those for a while . . .

            Listen to me.  Don't save them.  INCARCERON came out the beginning of the year and SAPPHIQUE is out any minute†.  They'd make great holiday reading.

            INCARCERON begins with one of the major characters—maybe he's the hero and maybe he isn't—almost getting killed:

            'Finn had been flung on his face and chained to the stone slabs of the transitway. . . . He felt them before he heard them;  vibrations in the ground . . . Then noises in the darkness, the rumble of migration trucks, the slow hollow clang of wheel rims. . . . the parallel grooves in the floor arrowed straight under his body.  He was chained directly across the tracks. . . .  The grinding of machinery shuddered the floor.  It whined in his bones. . . . He waited, forcing his terror down, second by second testing his nerve against death, not breathing, not letting himself break, because he was Finn the Starseer, he could do this.  Until from nowhere a sweating panic erupted and he heaved himself up and screamed, "Did you hear me!  Stop!  Stop!"

            'They came on. . . . '

            Finn and his band of bandits live in Incarceron.  Incarceron is a vast, a world-vast prison;  it contains not merely cells and shafts and tunnels but cities and forests and mountains—and millions of little red blinking electronic Eyes, which are the Prison, watching its inmates.  Finn again:  '. . . That was the first time he had heard the Prison laugh.  He shivered, remembering it now, a cold, amused chuckle that had echoed down the corridors. . . . The Prison was alive.  It was cruel and careless, and he was Inside it.'

            There is a myth about the Prison—that beyond its ringing metal walls and unreachably high but closed and solid sky, there is Outside.  One man, it is said, found the way Out:  Sapphique.  He promised that he would return and free the other Prisoners;  and while that was a long time ago, they still tell stories about him, stories which some of the Prisoners believe:  'There was a man and his name was Sapphique.  Where he came from is a mystery.  Some say he was born of the Prison, grown from its stored components.  Some say he came from Outside, because he alone of men returned there.  Some say he was not a man at all, but a creature from those shining sparks lunatics see in dreams and name the stars.  Some say he was a liar and a fool.'

            There is an Outside.  We the readers meet it in chapter two:  'The oak tree looked genuine, but it had been genetically aged. . . .  She sighed and leaned back against the trunk.  It looked so peaceful.  So perfect in its deception. . . . '  Claudia is the daughter of the Warden—the Warden of Incarceron, who lives Outside, and who may or may not be able to enter—and therefore to leave—the Prison he administers, if 'administer' is the word for watching over a living, conscious, malicious, jealous, ambitious, sealed world.  Claudia, her father, and the Realm they live in exist under the Protocol:  'We will choose an Era from the past and re-create it.  We will make a world free from the anxiety of change!  It will be Paradise!'  You don't need me to tell you that it is not Paradise—and it will perhaps not amaze you to hear that Incarceron was supposed to be Paradise too—another Paradise. 

            The Warden is the second most important person in the Realm, second only to the Queen.  Claudia is to marry the Queen's son, Caspar:  '[The Warden] walked to the panelled wall and looked up at the portrait there. . . . "Caspar, Earl of Steen.  Crown Prince of the Realm.  Fine titles.  His face hasn't changed, has it?  He was merely impudent then.  Now he's feckless, brutal, and thinks he is beyond control. . . . A challenge, your future husband."'

            Claudia wants to escape her politically expedient marriage;  Finn wants to escape Incarceron.  All the Prisoners want to escape Incarceron—but Finn has memories, if they are memories and not madness, of things that cannot have happened in Incarceron, and a mysterious tattoo on his wrist that may indicate an origin outside Incarceron—which may in fact indicate a connection with the Realm's ruling family—the Realm's ruling family which lost its elder son in mysterious circumstances and left Caspar, his half-brother and only son of the ruling Queen, to be Crown Prince.  If Finn's memories are true, it would mean that it is possible to breach Incarceron's walls.  If Claudia's suspicions are true, then Giles, Caspar's elder brother, was murdered.  But what if he wasn't murdered, exactly.  What if he was . . . .         

            There is no neat and tidy conclusion here—SAPPHIQUE is so open-ended that I had tentatively assumed Fisher would be going on with it, although she calls it 'two books' like that's the final word on the matter on her web site.††  The open-endedness is a good thing—there's no way these complex characters in their complex and abundantly populated storylines—Claudia and Finn are only the beginning—would have gone quietly into a squared-off and all-questions-answered happily, or even unhappily, ever after.  One of the best things about these books is the way the characters are never quite what you think they are:  INCARCERON starts with a shocking betrayal, and you will probably assume, as a result, that you know who these people are.  You'd be wrong.  Let it be a warning to keep your wits about you.  And have fun. 

* * *

* Not all.  But at the end of SAPPHIQUE I hit the Book Depository and ordered everything I didn't recognise. 

** Especially tears, as I sign the fourth mortgage. 

*** Note that they're reissuing THE BOOK OF THE CROW next year some time, which is—or rather are, there are four of them—another page turner, although of a very different sort than INCARCERON.  I'll try to give you a heads up at a suitable moment. . . . My relationship with time being a trifle nonstandard, as you know.

† The ARC unhelpfully says 'December'.  The Penguin site advertises it as 28 December. 

†† http://www.catherine-fisher.com/index.asp   But I recommend you don't read what she says about INCARCERON and SAPPHIQUE till after you read them.