I'm on a thorough Sherlock Holmes kick. Particularly, one about the women in his life.
In canon, Mr. Doyle really didn't have much to say about women. But between the movie (full of the worst Irene Adler in history), the Enola Holmes books (must read), and now The Language of Bees (about Sherlock's wife and Irene Adler and his granddaughter), Sherlock's is very much a woman's world right now.
I quite enjoyed this book, just as much as I did the movie, and for many of the same reasons. It's high pulp, exquisite and galloping. We've got human sacrifice, Neolithic stone circles, cults and ceremonial daggers, a wild aeroplane flight in a hurricane, spontaneous disguises and long-lost sons dropping out of the woodwork. It's awesome.
The Man Himself isn't in the book, much. It's mostly Mary in this one, which suits me just fine. Mary is wrestling with a lot of issues and doing it in fine style. She's shaken from the past year, but finding her feet again and I like spending time in her mind.
Mycroft continues to be the Edwardian equivalent of a "geek in the box," someone to whom you can throw random queries and expect an answer except as suits the plot. I rather enjoy him in this role.
My only complaint about the book is the ending. Ms. King had been knitting the story up into a nice knot, all unraveled ends neatly tucked in, when suddenly, and without cause (seeming), she snaps the whole damned mess loose, Mary and the little girl make a mad dash through the night, and the slaps a "to be continued..." on the end.
My friend had warned me about this but I'd forgotten and it came as a nasty shock. I'm put out. I'm also, as I imagine she wanted me to be, champing at the bit for the next book. If it doesn't go haring off to Shanhai, I will be sorely wroth.
I'm also hoping that she takes some time to talk about what happened in Japan.