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It's been a full year of delicious anticipation, this waiting for the second volume in Sherry Thomas' delightfulOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
It's been a full year of delicious anticipation, this waiting for the second volume in Sherry Thomas' delightful Lady Sherlock series. I thoroughly enjoyed A Study in Scarlet Women last year, and I had just a really good gut feeling about where the sequel would take my favorite characters—from the absolutely flawlessly rendered Charlotte Holmes and the impenetrable Lord Ingram, to Mrs. Watson, Livia and Bernadine Holmes, and poor, beleaguered Inspector Treadles. I was so pleased to be back in their company once more when I finally cracked open my copy of A Conspiracy in Belgravia and commenced reading.
It took her awhile, but now Charlotte is living in something more akin to the manner she would prefer. Together with her companion Mrs. Watson (and Mrs. Watson's irrepressible niece and aspiring physician Miss Redmayne), Charlotte is becoming extremely well-versed in the solving of all things mysterious around London. The only black marks on her new life are the distance she is forced to maintain from her sisters Livia and Bernadine and the mutual distance she and Lord Ingram force themselves to maintain from each other. The entire delicate balance is thoroughly upended, however, when none other than Lady Ingram herself requests a consultation with the increasingly infamous Sherlock Holmes. It is a matter of some delicacy, according to Lady Ingram, concerning a young man she once loved. A man she passes once every year at an agreed upon time and place to assure one another of the other's continued safety and devotion from afar. But the man missed their silent rendezvous this year, and Lady Ingram will know the reason why. And so Charlotte finds herself in the most untenable position of investigating on behalf of her oldest and dearest friend's estranged wife, and doing so behind his back. And just when she thinks this case cannot possibly get more personal, it does, and there is absolutely no hope of turning back.
Charlotte rarely resorted to imagination—observation yielded far better results. And while the world was made up of innumerable moving parts, in her own personal life she saw no reason why decisions shouldn't be simple, especially since most choices were binary: more butter on the muffin or not, run away from home or not, accept a man's offer of marriage or not.
I love Charlotte a little beyond reason. She is everything I could have wanted in a female incarnation of the inimitable Holmes. As a matter of face, every single character was in fine form in this their second adventure together, particularly Livia—who is an absolute treasure. Her relationship with Charlotte, the ways in which they are each hobbled by the most personal and daunting aspects of their lives, and the ways in which they quietly reach out to each other as sisters were extremely affecting. The longing and the loyalty between these two sisters who have dealt with their nightmarish parents in such drastically different ways played out in beautiful contrast. And, okay, while we're on the subject of longing, can I just say that I thought the quiet moments between Charlotte and Lord Ingram in the first book were exquisite. The scenes between them in this one sent me careening over the emotional edge. Just one of the impossibly poignant interactions between Charlotte and Lord Ingram:
Soundlessly his fingers tapped the crest rail on which they rested, each one by turn. "Years ago, you said something to me. I don't remember it word for word, but in essence, you told me that men, even otherwise sensible men, fall under the illusion that they will be able to find a perfect woman. That the problem lies not in the search so much as in the definition of perfection, which is a beautiful female who will integrate seamlessly into a man's life, bringing with her exactly the right amount of intelligence, wit, and interests to align with his, in order to brighten every aspect of his existence."
She remembered that conversation, one of the most disharmonious they had ever held, on the subject of the future Lady Ingram.
"You warned me against believing in the illusion—and I was highly displeased. I didn't say so at the time, but as we parted, I thought that you'd certainly never be mistaken for a perfect woman. It was beyond evident you'd never fit readily into any man's life, and no one could possibly think that the purpose of your life was to be anything other than who you were. At the time, those were not kind thoughts. They flew about my head with a great deal of scorn—venom, even. My opinion of you hasn't changed, by the way. But nowadays I think those same thoughts with much resignation but even more admiration." Their eyes met again. His were still the same mysterious green, but now there was a warmth to them, a deep affection tinged, as he said, with much resignation but even more admiration. "I'm sure I'll fly off the handle and accuse you of all kinds of perfidy once I learn what you've been up to, but let it not be said that I don't know who I'm dealing with. We disagree often, and that is a fact of our friendship.
I could have cried at them, you guys. Over and over again, I could have. But I chose to wait until this small moment to actually let the tears slip out:
"Thank you for listening to me, by the way," she said, "when you didn't wish to hear a single word."
He would always listen, when she had something to say. That he did not voice aloud, because she already knew.
I feel compelled to note just how emotionally astute this novel is. It is one of its most important qualities. The ring of quiet truth kept rolling over me in waves throughout my reading experience. And, yes, much of it Charlotte's undeniable acumen. But much of it is Ms. Thomas' ability to let a scene unfold in its own time. No moments are rushed. No dialogue is off in the slightest. As Charlotte notes at a certain point, "The old silence threatened to descend." An ever-present sense of the weight of one's personal history, of the quiet, but inexorable accumulation of a life's worth of decisions, their provenance, and their consequences, pervades this story in achingly beautiful ways. The different levels of haunting are delicately explored, in both the coils of the investigation and the ties that bind each character together. I so appreciated this book's subtlety and its increasingly nuanced ruminations on what it means to know someone and to be known by them, to see as we are seen. Sherry Thomas carries the whole thing off just splendidly. This is a sequel to behold. A sequel for the books, as it were. Never think of missing it....more
I thought today would be the perfect day to review this unicorn of a book. It is All Saints' Day—a fitting day toOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
I thought today would be the perfect day to review this unicorn of a book. It is All Saints' Day—a fitting day to revisit all the crooked ones, no? It is also the first day of November and so, today, . . . well, you know the rest. What I'm saying is, today is kind of the perfect day to do all the Maggie Stiefvater-related things! Which is, of course, why I'll be attending her signing event later this evening at my local indie, key in hand. I know. I win today. I do. What I do not do is take it for granted. My good fortune or this book. This beautiful, beautiful book. But before we get into my reaction, I want to make a brief request. If you haven't yet had a chance to read Maggie's post on how this book came about and what it was originally going to be and what it actually became, I straight up implore you to do so. It is one of my favorite things I've read this year and it is something I needed to read this year. My favorite line? "I discovered that I wanted to instead write about light."
On the night this story begins, both a saint and a scientist were listening to miracles.
The time the 1962. The setting is the tiny hamlet of Bicho Raro, Colorado. The problem is Beatriz, David, and Joaquin Soria have a rather desperate secret. The three cousins run an illegal radio station out of the back of a 1958 Dodge moving truck. Joaquin is the voice. Beatriz is the heart (and brain). Daniel is the Saint. Among the tight-knit, if wildly unusual Soria clan, there is always a Saint—one of the family members given the magical task of granting miracles to wandering pilgrims. People from all over find their way to Bicho Raro in search of miracles. Some of them leave. But some of them stay, waiting desperately for that last most difficult step in the process—that acceptance of their miracle, of the darkness within them, of what they must do to accept their miracle, solve their darkness, and move on (both literally and figuratively) from the little town, its mysterious inhabitants, and the multitude of owls inexorably drawn to the miracles. But it is not just the pilgrims who are required to accept what they cannot. It is also the Sorias. For Daniel has done what no other Saint has. He has interfered with one of his own miracles by trying to help one of the pilgrims who has come to mean something more to him than she should. Now his own darkness is coming to swallow him whole, and possibly every inhabitant of Bicho Raro along with him.
I know that Maggie can turn her hand to anything she likes and have it come off beautifully, but the fact that she chose to turn to magical realism and light at this specific point in time is a bit of a godsend as far as I am concerned. Because we collectively needed this book, I think. It is gentle and sweet in the way that only true gentleness and sweetness at the heart of ever-encroaching darkness can be. This book felt like a prayer, in the most far-reaching sense of the word—its cadences soft and ongoing, its longing true and framed by real need, its love rooted in the beauty of this flawed world we live in and in the people whose hearts and breaths imbue it with meaning. The entire time I was reading, I felt I was living inside one of Ronan Lynch's dreams. This book is a fable and a love letter, a reminder and a jumping off point. I fell in love with each of the crooked saints and their pilgrims, with Marisita and her rain-soaked butterfly dress, with Francisco and his whistling language and way with misused fowl, with Tony and his unavoidable heights, and, yes, most of all with Beatriz and Pete. Pete who wasn't there about a miracle at all, but rather about a box truck he believes might help fill the hole in his heart. And Beatriz who simply wants to understand and know more, and who fears being asked to do anything else. Watching Beatriz and Pete was a privilege.
It was nothing extravagant, just Patsy Cline sung in his low and uneven voice, and they began to dance. It was very quiet. No one else would have seen if not for the desert. But when the desert heard Pete Wyatt singing a love song, it took notice. The desert loved him, after all, and wanted him happy. So when it heard Pete singing, it rose a wind around them until the breeze sang gently like strings, and when it heard Pete singing, it provoked the air to heat and cool around every stone and plant so that each of these things sounded in harmony with his voice, and when it heard Pete singing, it roused Colorado's grasshoppers to action and they rubbed their legs together like a soft horn section, and when it heard Pete singing, it shifted the very ground beneath Bicho Raro so that the sand and the dirt pounded a beat that matched the sound of the incomplete heart that lived in Pete Wyatt.
I was dead the moment Pete Wyatt fell in love with the desert and the desert itself raised its head and took note. But Beatriz and Pete dancing as Pete softly sings Patsy Cline? And every other marvelous and magical character pausing to mark the beauty of the moment? That put the nail in the coffin. I am truly dead. I am dead of all the crooked, light-filled things....more
I am having difficulty achieving some semblance of coherence when it comes to this beautiful book. My feelings foOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
I am having difficulty achieving some semblance of coherence when it comes to this beautiful book. My feelings for it are threatening to overwhelm me on every level this morning. I didn't sleep last night. And I mean that literally. I didn't sleep a wink. Twice, I tried to force myself to do the right smart thing and wait to finish on the morrow. But my head and my heart would have none of it. They were both buzzing far too loudly to even think of sleep. I bought McKelle George's debut novel Speak Easy, Speak Love on the day it released based on three things: it has easily my favorite cover of the year (I swoon, I swoon over this cover), it was edited by my Martha (say no more), and it is a Roaring Twenties adaptation of Much Ado About Nothing (as Ms. George herself puts it—Shakespeare's most romantic comedy). I really feel like I could just leave it there, and that those of you in possession of a soul would immediately run to the bookstore (as one does) and set about doing yourselves the massive favor of devouring this story. In case any of you are forcibly housebound or bedridden (been there), I shall expand.
Benedick Scott is one hundred percent over it. He's leaving his posh prep school and his autocratic father once and for all and is bound for the only place (and people) that have ever really felt like home. Hey Nonny Nonny—the Long Island speakeasy run by the jovial (if rarely sober) Leo Stahr and his glittering daughter Hero—is home to a number of other rapscallions ever on the down and out. Chief among them are Benedick's best friend—the mercurial Prince—and Hey Nonny's star crooner—Maggie Hughes. What Benedick does not expect is to be followed into the night by his fellow trust fund kid Claude Blaine or to encounter one Miss Beatrice Clark—aspiring medical student and sometime boarding school reject. Beatrice, like Benedick, is in need of a home. Kicked out of boarding school just before graduation, she is determined nothing will stop her from getting into medical school and pursuing her dream of being a doctor. Beatrice has always been different from others, and she takes the unusual denizens of her Uncle Leo's home (and their various highly suspect and massively illegal activities) in absolute stride. And before any of the others realize it, Beatrice has made herself an indispensable member of the small group of outsiders desperately trying to keep the struggling speakeasy afloat.
Benedick Scott was on his way to freedom or profound failure or, if the usual order of things held up, both. Two chests, strapped closed and marked for delivery to an apartment in Manhattan, sat at the end of his bed. On his person he needed only his typewriter, slung over his shoulder in a battered case. He'd stuffed the case with socks to cushion any dinging, along with his shaving kit, a worn copy of Middlemarch, and thirty-four pages of typed future.
I read these opening lines aloud to Aaron as I began the book, and his eyes widened slightly, his head tipped knowingly, as he quietly bid me farewell and Godspeed. He knows. He knows because it's as though that first paragraph was tailor fit for me. After a handful more pages, I gave up trying to muffle my exclamations of delight. Speak Easy, Speak Love had clearly announced itself as an experience and I gave myself over to it entirely. McKelle George's writing is exquisite. Every line feels at once effortless and meticulously crafted, to the point that I, who never go slowly, was slowing down and savoring each rich turn of phrase. By the 100-page mark, I was beside myself in love with these characters. They were so dashing, I was afraid to let them out of my sight.
I am, admittedly, an enormous fan of Much Ado About Nothing. But as I read, I kept thinking to myself—she took the bones, yes. But this achingly gorgeous slip of magic and mirth is all hers. And I knew it from the moment I met Prince—there in the darkness, leaning against the tree, cigarette dangling, eyes flashing, waiting for Benedick. Prince is the early warning signal that beyond this point there be dragons. Dragons and heart-stopping jazz, inexplicable longing and the sharpest of tongues. The trio of romances in this tale are absolutely not for the faint of heart. What I mean by that is, they are so ineffably real and so elegantly delineated that I choked back thick and sudden tears on more than one occasion. The thing is—I had heard reviewers describe this book as "light" and "romantic" and "fun" and "witty." And it is all of those things. But make no mistake—just like its source material, it is so much more. So much more that I don't think those four descriptors would even make it into the top fifty terms I would use to describe it. What I'm saying is, I was nowhere near prepared for how consummate the storytelling would be. "For fans of Stephanie Perkins and Jenny Han," the blurb read. Yes. Okay. Sure. But I feel compelled to say that the caliber of writing and the emotional weight in this volume put me in mind of Megan Whalen Turner and Robin McKinley, which is to say wordsmiths in possession of the deftest of touches and the most expansive of souls.
Benedick opened his door and stood up, keeping one elbow on the doorframe, the other on the Ford's roof, shedding his exhaustion like a winter coat. His eyes brightened, and his pale, clammy skin managed to defy medicine and glow. "Have I got a story for you!"
And it was a story—in that it was not quite the truth.
But it wasn't a lie either.
Listening to him, Beatrice experienced the afternoon all over again, but this time there was no real danger. There was a boy who'd had a terrific idea that went a little off the rails and a girl who was a good sport and just the kind of sidekick you'd like to have along. Beatrice heard herself laugh when Benedick described her shooting off a man's hat, but it hadn't seemed that funny when it actually happened.
There was a sunniness in his words that somehow even disguised his appearance, erasing the boy shaking with exhaustion, flattening all his mercurial layers into one outfit of razzle-dazzle. But the razzle-dazzle was also real. That was the most baffling part of all. He was this, too.
She let him do it, not only because she came out looking all right in his story, not a clock-throwing ruin of a girl, but also because Benedick's talking about her as if she were already one of them made her one of them.
What a tricky, tangled science.
I am physically restraining myself from sharing more passages just like this one. Because honestly? This passage is just one of a thousand that left me gasping on the floor with their acuity. McKelle George has fleshed out my favorite relationships and forged new connections I couldn't have seen, but that felt right and real the moment they landed. Which brings me to John and to Maggie, who I find I can't even talk about just yet—so fresh and lasting are my emotions regarding them. Just know that I am not overstating things when I say that their respective arcs are arguably the most compelling and ethereal of all in this novel bursting at the seams with compelling and ethereal character arcs. Likewise, know that you ought to discover them for yourselves. Go find them. Find them all, and come back and tell me. And maybe by then I'll have summoned a bit more in the way of coherence. Until then, adieu....more
I loved this series so much I'm not sure I've moved past it or that I even will. I should preface this by sayingOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
I loved this series so much I'm not sure I've moved past it or that I even will. I should preface this by saying that I picked up Sarah J. Maas' Throne of Glass what seems like ages ago and was singularly unimpressed. Like massively so. I didn't even finish it, though I feel like I did give it the old college try. I realize its original cover did it a disservice. But at the time, nothing about that first story felt unique. It felt tired, like I'd read it before, and the writing did not stand out to me in any way. Fast forward a few years, and I just kept hearing absolute knockdown raving about Ms. Maas' newer series—A Court of Thorns and Roses. The first book was out in paperback and something about all of your glowing comments (and the beautiful cover) pushed me over the edge. I read and thoroughly enjoyed the first book, which is a lovely mashup of the Beauty and the Beast and Tam Lin fairy tales (I know, it's like it was tailor fit for me). The book builds and builds to a wonderfully satisfying conclusion that left me very eager for more. Fortunately for me, A Court of Mist and Fury was already out and A Court of Wings and Ruin was soon to be released. I call that timing providence, because I am forever the one waiting years and years for the next book to come out.
Feyre Archeron survived. But almost in name only. She is returned to the Spring Court. Returned to Tamlin. To a place that used to feel safe. But the effects of her time Under the Mountain, in Amarantha's clutches, will never fade. To say nothing of the bargain she made with Rhysand—High Lord of the Night Court. And so her days are spent in a protective bubble of silence and seeming serenity. While Tamlin and his advisers plot revenge, Feyre is left to dwell on the blood on her hands, on the emptiness inside her, and on the fury she feels for the mercurial fae who is set to whisk her away each month. But when her increasingly intolerable existence reaches the breaking point, it is Rhys who winnows her away for good. Then Feyre is forced to learn a new court and a new people, as she finds herself woven into the even greater plans of the High Lord of the Night Court, who is not at all what he seemed. Through Rhys, she meets the Inner Circle—a group of comrades I defy anyone to resist. And it is Cassian and Mor, Azriel and Amren who fill in the cracks in Feyre's heart, who help her find a cause worth surviving for again.
Red exploded in my vision, and I couldn't breathe fast enough, couldn't think above the roar in my head. One heartbeat, I was staring after him—the next, I had my shoe in my hand
I hurled it at him with all my strength.
All my considerable, immortal strength.
I barely saw my silk slipper as it flew through the air, fast as a shooting star, so fast that even a High Lord couldn't detect it as it neared—
And slammed into his head.
Rhys whirled, a hand rising to the back of his head, his eyes wide.
I already had the other shoe in my hand.
Rhys's lip pulled back from his teeth. "I dare you." Temper—he had to be in some mood today to let his temper show this much.
Good. That made two of us.
I flung my other shoe right at his head, as swift and hard as the first one.
I had to start with that quote, because it was at that precise moment that the first breath of laughter bubbled up out of me. And my affection for these two only grew. In fact, it grew beyond even my wild expectations. I didn't know. I suspected, but I didn't know that Sarah J. Maas had it in her to capture my imagination and affections so thoroughly and swiftly. With the flinging of just one shoe. But she did. And I, like Feyre's shoe, hurtled through the air of this beautiful book. I utterly enjoyed the first book in this series, particularly the final third, which I thought was masterfully done. But I haven't fallen in love with a tightly knit band of characters like I did with Rhys' Inner Circle in some time. They remind me ever-so-fondly of my beloved comrades from Sharon Shinn's Mystic and Rider series. I think about them all the time. My heart was in my throat over their fates the entire length of the novel. Cassian and Azriel—the winged Illyrian pillars of my heart. Mor and Amren—the endlessly complex and powerful women who are never bowed. And Feyre's own sisters who play larger and much more vital roles in this book. But the arc between Rhys and Feyre is the soul of this novel (and this series). I will go down with their ship.
I will kill anyone who harms you," Rhys snarled. "I will kill them, and take a damn long time doing it." He panted. "Go ahead. Hate me—despise me for it."
"You are my friend," I said, and my voice broke on the word. I hated the tears that slipped down my face. I didn't even know why I was crying. Perhaps for the fact that it had felt real on that throne with him, even for a moment, and . . . and it likely hadn't been. Not for him. "You're my friend—and I understand that you're High Lord. I understand that you will defend your true court, and punish threats against it. But I can't . . . I don't want you to stop telling me things, inviting me to do things, because of the threats against me."
Darkness rippled, and wings tore from his back. "I am not him," Rhys breathed. "I will never be him, act like him. He locked you up and let you wither, and die."
"Stop comparing. Stop comparing me to him."
The words cut me short. I blinked.
"You think I don't know how stories get written—how this story will be written?" Rhys put his hands on his chest, his face more open, more anguished than I'd seen it. "I am the dark lord, who stole away the bride of spring. I am a demon, and a nightmare, and I will meet a bad end. He is the golden prince—the hero who will get to keep you as his reward for not dying of stupidity and arrogance."
The things I love have a tendency to be taken from me. He'd admitted that to me Under the Mountain.
But his words were kindling to my temper, to whatever pit of fear was yawning open inside of me. "And what about my story?" I hissed.
I love them because I didn't see them coming. Because they never give up on each other, because their understanding of each other is stronger and deeper than anyone can tell. It. Will. Survive. These two are equally magnetic, equally layered, and elegantly rendered. As beautiful as Rhys' home of Valeris, their friendship and unswerving loyalty are epic. And they are absolutely required to be in order to match the sweep of this world and the demands of their story—from the eerie lair of the Bone Keeper, to the heartless thirst of the King of Hybern, to the ponderous depths of the Cauldron itself. If you have been wavering on the edge of this series, you simply must dive in. This band of heroes is too worthy of your love to miss....more
I'm just going to start off by saying I cannot stop thinking about this book. I finished it weeks ago, but this lOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
I'm just going to start off by saying I cannot stop thinking about this book. I finished it weeks ago, but this lovely Beauty and the Beast adaptation will not leave my mind. This is the first book I've really read by Meagan Spooner. I gave These Broken Stars a bit of a go awhile back, but we sort of drifted apart halfway through. Not the case here. The gorgeous cover caught my eye and the early glowing reviews reinforced my conviction. Having finished it, I immediately ran out and purchased copies for a number of the relevant readers in my life. And despite having pushed on and read several books since, Hunted is the one I find my mind and heart returning to over and over again.
Yeva holds a lot of things in. She loves her family—her father, her sisters—and so she sits obediently in the baronessa's chambers. She pretends to make small talk and embroider bits of cloth with the other ladies. She smiles politely at the young man who is said to be courting her (and doesn't think overly much about him when he is not there). She tries not to look too longingly out of the window and yearn for a time before her father made his money, before their lives changed and she was forced to come in out of the cold of the forest. And life is comfortable and quiet and perfectly fine. Until the loss of her father's fortune forces the family to return to the family's decrepit hunting lodge. When he subsequently disappears, Yeva knows he has gone after the legendary creature at the heart of the woods—the one no one has ever been able to find, let alone defeat. A talented hunter, trained at her father's feet, she sets out, determined to find find her father and save her family.
Yeva shivered. The thought of being left alone in the dark again was enough to make her eyes sting, but she had no reason to distrust her benefactor. He would not leave her a light only to take it from her again.
"Very well," she whispered, and turned the wick down, the light shrinking and quivering. Yeva almost didn't see it go out, afterimages dancing before her eyes and blinding her.
The door squealed open, the noise of rusty hinges shredding the quiet. Yeva clapped a hand over her ears, grimacing. Then came that tiny sound, a footfall. The person, whoever it was, was wearing the softest of shoes. Or else they were barefoot, like she was.
"Are you a captive too?" she asked the darkness.
The voice didn't answer right away. There came a quiet clatter as something was placed down on the tray of food. "Yes," said the voice then, the word emerging like a sigh.
Reader, I was a goner from the opening page. Hunted is told primarily from Yeva's point of view. But before each new chapter, we get a brief glimpse into the mind of the Beast. I started to simultaneously look forward to and dread each glimpse, knowing that the Beast's fractures could only grow more troubling with every passing day. The fragmented text and stark artwork on these handful of pages haunted me throughout the novel. But what a beautiful tale it is. Yeva is strong and determined and completely aware of the expectations regarding her future, as well as the ramifications her choices will have on the lives of her sisters and the people who have long worked for her family. She does not rush headlong into anything. But when the brunt of her family's protection falls on her shoulders, she does not hesitate to employ all of her hunting skills to strike out on her own in search of the author of her family's trauma and destroy it (or him). Vengeance is the watchword, and I absolutely believed she would follow through on her vow. But I also believed her grudging compassion, her innate desire for understanding, and the complicated choices she faces as an inhabitant of the Beast's castle. This story takes its time, and I savored every interaction, every conversation, between Yeva and the Beast. A favorite moment:
For an instant he was so like one of the crumbling gargoyles on the battlements of the castle that Yeva thought maybe just speaking of his secrets had turned him to stone.
But then he heaved a breath and dropped lower to the snow, crouching like a wounded animal, forelegs bent and breath stirring the top flakes with each puff. "You are clever," he mumbled.
"I know stories," Yeva corrected. "The bespelled can never speak of what afflicts them—that is always part of the curse."
The Beast's eyes flicked up. "You believe I am cursed?"
It was Yeva's turn to hesitate. Her mind still could not decide whether he was a man who had murdered her father or a beast who'd given in to animal instinct and torn him to pieces. And it still couldn't decide which would be worse. Either way he would have to answer for what he'd done.
"I know you aren't natural," she said finally. "And you can clearly hunt better than any human hunter could, so your need for me must mean you have a task you cannot complete on your own."
The Beast said nothing, didn't confirm her guesses. But neither did he deny them.
"And this existence is clearly . . . " Yeva paused, swallowing. "It is clearly miserable."
The Beast stayed silent.
"So, yes." Yeva took a deep breath. "Yes, I believe you are cursed."
Meagan Spooner's deft crafting of this fairy tale is exquisite. In fact, it is positively Robin McKinley-esque. And you know I do not use those words lightly. But truly, this Russian folklore-inspired adaptation of my beloved fairy tale is old school in the best sense of the term. It is the kind of deeply measured, quietly emotional, and palpably textured storytelling that I used to lose myself in as a girl. I want to fashion its very own nook on my nightstand so that I can reach it when the slightest need arises. To be clear, Hunted is unquestionably the highlight of my reading year thus far. You simply must read it....more
Teenage Sherlock Holmes, Watson is a girl, and the story is told from her perspective. This is essentially all thOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
Teenage Sherlock Holmes, Watson is a girl, and the story is told from her perspective. This is essentially all the information I needed in order to make the decision to dive into Every Breath at the earliest opportunity. But in case you're wavering, it's also fun to know that this is Australian author Ellie Marney's debut novel, that it is a YA contemporary mystery, and the first in a series to boot. Next up, I think we should just take a moment to talk covers. I have yet to purchase my own copy (that's earmarked for the next paycheck), but both the US and Aussie covers have a lot going for them. The Aussie one gets tons of points for having Watts actually on the cover, for one thing. But in a very rare move, I'm leaning US if only because it's not a photo of actual people (never works out well for me) and because, well, his throat. Also his hair and his entire posture. But his throat. That's Mycroft. I love him this cover.
Rachel Watts' friendship with her neighbor James Mycroft is something of a full time job. Newly (and unwillingly) arrived from the countryside, Rachel struggles to find a place for herself in Melbourne. Unused to navigating city life after the loss of the family farm, she and her older brother and parents find themselves acting almost like strangers as they adjust to their new home and environment. But then Mycroft enters her life, with his jittery brilliance, his obsession with forensics, and his ongoing allergy to school. And soon her days are not quite as numb, filled as they are with contributing her powers of observation (and cooking skills) to the latest in a long line of Mycroft's investigations. But this most recent involves a murder. And not just any stranger, but that of Homeless Dave—a man they both knew. Unable to accept the official police verdict, Mycroft and Watts set themselves to the task of tracking down the truth behind Dave's violent death and bringing the mysterious killer to justice.
I'll admit, I was a little nervous at first. I was nervous the high school setting, and possibly the nature of the relationship between Watts and Mycroft, would pall too quickly or somehow not resonate with me in just the right way. As nerves go, basically your run of the mill stuff. But I've read one fantastic Sherlock Holmes adaptation and I was so keen to find another. Happily, Rachel herself was the first to set me at ease. Her transition to the city has been a particularly difficult one, and the dry but upfront way in which she expressed that difficulty struck a chord of sympathy within me:
I like it in his room—the starry lights, the feeling of sanctuary. I'm still not used to dealing with a lot of other people. I've known Mycroft, and Mai and her boyfriend, Gus, since last November, and they still feel like "a lot of other people." Actually, Mycroft alone could probably qualify as seeming like "a lot of other people." He does so much crazy stuff you could imagine more than a single offender.
That passage could just as easily been an entry from one of my high school journals. Other people, man. Not for the faint of heart. I love that the story is told from Watts' perspective. She has very honed powers of observation, though she herself might decry that claim. But it means that not only is she vital to Mycroft's ongoing efforts, she also does an incredibly effective job of introducing the reader to her singular friend. And if her focus is more frequently drawn to to Mycroft than it is anyone else in the room, it isn't any wonder as his magnetism and zaniness and pain fairly claw their way off the page. Gratefully, his presence never overshadows Watts. Not even a little bit, as we are firmly grounded inside her viewpoint and know just how hard she works to keep everyone in her life afloat and not lose track of her own needs, even if she is reticent about voicing them aloud. The mystery itself makes for a fun, often dark ride, and I enjoyed sitting back and accompanying them in their rounds. But the heart of Every Breath is, without question, the chemistry between Watts and Mycroft. Ms. Marney quite simply nails their need on the head. The pacing and development of Watts-and-Mycroft is one long and delicious thread running alongside the unfolding of the murder investigation. As the precarious hold they each have on their lives begins to unravel against the backdrop of Watts' uncertainty and Mycroft's desperation, the solace they take in being together, the rightness of their fit, is so soothing it is tangible. I currently have the sequel on order from Australia and am sitting here feeling antsy just thinking about what these two might be getting up to without me....more
One of the most pleasurable reviews I've written this year was the one I wrote in January for Every Breath—the fOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
One of the most pleasurable reviews I've written this year was the one I wrote in January for Every Breath—the first book in Ellie Marney's spectacularly good teen Sherlock Holmes series. I enjoyed the book so much and was so blasted eager to spread the word. Now I'm even more over the moon to tell you I've read Every Word, and it is every bit as good as the first. In fact, it's better. Everything that was good in Every Breath is essentially ratcheted up in this sophomore entry, and there isn't one misstep along the way. I was on the edge of my seat for every page. I was that worried about my beloved Watts and Mycroft. And with excellent reason. Ms. Marney spends zero time beating about the bush and jumps right into pulse-pounding action and gut-wrenching emotion. Which, as you know, basically means I was in heaven from start to finish.
It's not that Rachel Watts would have preferred to have been able to say goodbye to her sometime partner/accomplice James Mycroft before he left for parts unknown. It's that she absolutely cannot believe he left without her, let alone without telling her. Knowing he's still on the trail of unraveling his parents' tragic deaths, she doesn't trust him at all on his own in London investigating an eerily similar car crash to the one that orphaned him. And so it's not a question of if, but when she will hare off after him. She's prepared for the supreme lack of welcome she'll receive when he finds out she's followed him. But she can't let him face that many demons alone and is determined to back him up in whatever capacity he needs. What she doesn't expect is how thorny a "simple" forensics investigation becomes once it expands to include additional murders and the disappearance of a copy of Shakespeare's First Folio. Together, the two dogged investigators must navigate the increasingly treacherous waters of a multifaceted mystery as well as their own knotty relationship.
But in that second, in his face, I see the whole world. I finally understand something crucial.
James Mycroft did die in that car crash seven years ago. Seeing what he saw, experiencing all that pain, that ten-year-old boy passed away. The person who returned was not the same. He was changed so completely, so physically and mentally transformed, it was as though a whole different individual was born. A different boy, living in a different place, with a guardian and no parents, a boy with no past and only one name . . .
All the blood rushes out of my cheeks as that name falls off my lips. "Mycroft . . . "
I'm such a worrier. I always worry when I know an installment in a series is going to switch up locations on me, even when that means spending the majority of the story in London. I should learn to just roll with the punches, but I never seem to. So I was apprehensive that Watts-and-Mycroft might not translate as well in a new locale, and I was even more concerned about the obstacles they would encounter and how Mycroft would handle Watts flagrantly disobeying his wishes and inserting herself (even farther) into his most private pain. Of course, none of it turned out to be a problem whatsoever. I mean, it's far from smooth sailing. There's pain and anger galore, and everyone gets hurts and alternately holds it in and has it out with the objects of their pain and anger. But it's all so gloriously done that it only endeared these characters and their story to me further. Watts is spectacularly direct when it comes to Mycroft and his massive issues. When he throws out another wild pitch, she doesn't even flinch but watches it sail by and then raises a metaphorical eyebrow at his display. It was hugely gratifying, watching them negotiate one another, to say nothing of the brilliance that is their combined deductive exploits. Truly, together they are a force to be reckoned with.
Which is not to say that they don't struggle mightily (and on every front) in this book. Because if ever a book was fraught, it's this one. I was prepared for a lot of things, but I wasn't prepared for how dire it got in the end, for just how far through the fire Marney was going to drag her two protagonists. It was incredibly effective in ensuring that I was with them. The peril felt almost unbearably real. But the wonderful bit is that through all the anxiety and grim darkness are woven the most beautiful threads of love and hope. Along with a downright explosive amount of chemistry. These two, you guys. Seriously. I want to quote each of my favorite exchanges here, but they are all far too spoilery. So I will content myself with assuring you of the excellence of the storytelling and imploring you to read it, too, so that Watts and Mycroft will have more of us on their side when they confront the fallout of what they've done in the next volume. I, for one, am terrified. Deliciously so....more
And so the time has come for the second installment in our Georgette Heyer series this year. I moved almost immedOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
And so the time has come for the second installment in our Georgette Heyer series this year. I moved almost immediately from The Convenient Marriage to The Nonesuch, which I borrowed from my trusty Beth's extensive Heyer shelf. I knew next to nothing about it, but loved the title and hoped (rather shallowly) that the titular character proved somewhat more lively than the man on the cover. Spoiler: he does, albeit in a somewhat restrained manner. As befits a paragon of his stature. Truly, the way the entire countryside rhapsodizes over this man. It's endlessly amusing. It's also a good thing he takes it all with a humongous grain of salt. And that Ancilla gives as good as she gets.
The banter between the Nonesuch and Miss Trent (I categorically refuse to call him Waldo) is the unrivaled highlight of the novel. I was gratified we got a good deal more than we did in The Convenient Marriage. Although, Heyer's dialogue is so perfect, I will always wish for more. And while we're enumerating wishes, I will offer up my fervent wish that the entire production had not been so thoroughly railroaded by one Miss Tiffany Wield. She's appalling, everyone knows she is appalling (with the thankfully brief exception of Lindeth), and she gets entirely too much page time for my blood pressure. This was not meant to be her show, and I resented all the perfectly good courting time between the shelf-bound governess and the Nonesuch being swallowed up by her weaselly machinations. Fortunately, the Nonesuch, Ancilla, Lindeth, and lovely, lovely Patience are there to carry the day and ensure the Huge Misunderstanding didn't gather too much steam for my suspension of disbelief.
"I don't dislike you. If—if you thought me stiff when we first met it was because I dislike the set you represent!"
"I don't think you know anything about the set I represent," he responded coolly. "Let me assure you that it is very far removed from Mountsorrel's, ma'am!"
"Of course—but you are—oh, the Nonesuch!" she said with a quick smile. "Mountsorrel and his friends copy you—as far as they are able—"
"I beg your pardon," he interrupted. "They don't—being unable! Dear me, I sound just like the Beautiful Miss Wield, don't I? Some of them copy the Corinthian rig—in the exaggerated form I don't affect; but my set, Miss Trent, is composed of men who were born with a natural aptitude for athletic sports. We do the thing."
Ahem. Another favorite exchange:
"A look of such piteous entreaty was cast at me—"
"No!" protested Miss Trent. "Not piteous! I didn't!"
"Piteous!" said the Nonesuch remorselessly. "Your eyes, ma'am—as well you know!!—cried Help me! What could I do but respond to the appeal?"
"Next you will say that it went much against the pluck with you!" said Miss Trent, justly incensed.
"No service I could render you, ma'am, would go against the pluck!"
Her colour mounted, but she said: "I should have guessed you would have a glib answer ready!"
"You might also have guessed that I meant it."
I do love a solid rejoinder. And any time Ancilla is "justly incensed." And in this second outing with Heyer, I definitely enjoyed our hero and heroine spending more actual "in-room" time together. Though I still bemoaned the lack of closeness beyond conversation. By the time he finally puts his arm around her. I SWEAR.
That said, another proposal scene utterly nailed. This one of the devastating variety, sure, but still. Guys. Woman knows her way around a proposal scene. It was the saddest scene in the book and it remains my favorite—tightly written, taut with emotion, and so much left to be said. Sigh.
I think by now you're all familiar with my love for Ellen Emerson White's books. So you'll have no trouble underOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
I think by now you're all familiar with my love for Ellen Emerson White's books. So you'll have no trouble understanding the level of excitement I've been living with ever since I heard she was writing a contemporary YA about the first girl to be drafted by a Major League Baseball team. Wild horses were having trouble keeping my anticipation within any sort of manageable proportions. It's difficult to believe that the release day has finally arrived, but it has, and I'm here to tell you you need to rush and grab your copy. Featuring White's trademark wit and understated class, this book is in—you'll forgive the pun—a league of its own.
Jill Cafferty is pretty sure she'll go. Yes, she's accepted a scholarship to play baseball for Stanford. And, yes, she's assured her mother that if she doesn't go early in the draft she'll head off to college and accept her fate. But. She's pretty sure she'll go. What she isn't sure is which team it will be and what in the world she'll do when it actually comes time to say goodbye to her mother and older brother and go live and work with a bunch of guys. Guys who will more than likely be none too pleased to have her around. But baseball is sort of it for Jill. Her entire life has led to this point, even if the realities of being the first girl to go pro induce a level of blind panic she's wholly unfond of. But if she doesn't try now, how will she ever know if she could really go all the way?
A Season of Daring Greatly is just everything I wanted it to be. I mean, every ounce of it. It resides in that unique space where young adult meets new adult, as Jill is eighteen years old and on her way to college (or the minor leagues) when our tale begins. If you've read even one of Ms. White's other books, you'll have an inkling of the kind of main character you're in for, which is to say the kind of girl who is simply more in all the ways that matter. Jill is smart, driven, determined, and self-exacting. She's private, though quite open with her two closest friends. She has a healthy, if quirky sense of humor. And while she has a truly gratifying confidence and pride in her abilities, she is not without a corollary set of very real fears, doubts, and concerns. In fact, where her confidence and skills meet the pressures and fears of actually playing professional ball is where this novel shines. Like Jill herself, the book feels almost shockingly natural—as comfortable as your favorite pair of jeans, despite its unprecedented setup. Jill may be the first of her kind (and she is 100 percent/24-hours-a-day aware of that and the expectations, both fair and unfair, that come with it), but she has made a commitment. And, come hell or high water, she will see it through to its finish,whether it be in ignominious defeat or in the breaking of barriers. She's really not certain from day to day which it will be.
This reading experience is very much focused on the day-to-day journey with Jill and her internal struggle with the internal and external ramifications of the life she's chosen. Watching her learn (and be forced) to balance her lifelong love of the game with the new and painful trappings of fame, league politics, team machinations, and the realities of sexism and gender stereotypes on every level is fascinating and timely. These deeper questions are balanced with that excellent humor and with Jill's determined, but shy forays into friendship on her team. I was particularly enamored of her relationship with her veteran catcher. A favorite scene (taken from my uncorrected ARC):
She managed to throw a strike—a good one, sneaky fast, right on the inside corner—so, the batter swung at the next pitch, and sent a sharp grounder up the middle, which she didn't manage to get anywhere near.
Terrific. That meant two runs, and—except the shy second baseman streaked over, flicked it backhanded from his glove to Raffy without missing a beat, and that was the third out.
What a great play! And he'd made it look easy.
She was so relieved that she intercepted him on his way off the field and couldn't stop herself from giving him a truly heartfelt hug.
He looked horrified, and extricated himself, speaking so rapidly in Spanish that she only managed to catch a few phrases, most of which were along the lines of "Holy Mother of God!"
So, she backed away from him raising her hands apologetically—but, still, that had been a big league play. She was practically in love with him, for making that play. Deeply in love.
It felt as though a huge weight had lifted from her shoulders, and she suddenly felt so cheerful, that she almost wanted to bounce into the dugout.
She paused in front of Adler, waiting for his reaction.
He looked at her for a few seconds, with about eight expressions moving across his face, before settling on a small frown.
"Don't hug the infielders," he said. "They hate that."
Seemed that way, yeah.
I'm still grinning over that exchange. Because I am just am so fond of Jill and the team she sets on its ear. The team that also finds itself stretching enough to take her in and give her a new fabric and viewpoint from which to feel out and examine her life. While you won't be at all displeased where this novel lands, it's virtually impossible not to feel an immediate thirst for more. Please....more
This is not a drill. I repeat, THIS IS NOT A DRILL. I believe I am, in fact, upon the brink of accomplishing something that I have been meaning to doThis is not a drill. I repeat, THIS IS NOT A DRILL. I believe I am, in fact, upon the brink of accomplishing something that I have been meaning to do for years. I want you all to be the first to know that I just read my first very Georgette Heyer. That's right. I actually did it. After years of promising myself and countless others (many of you) that I would do it, I finally managed it! And I can tell that I'm about to dive headlong into a full-fledged binge.
After consulting all of your past comments on which Heyers are your favorites and why (and after some serious counsel from Beth Brower and a well-timed trip to our local Barnes & Noble), I chose to start with The Convenient Marriage. I had no idea it would turn out to contain, without question, one of my favorite proposal scenes ever. The kind of proposal scene that makes you feel like nothing could ever go wrong after it. It takes place very early on, and it made me laugh and sigh repeatedly with delight. I know I will be yanking out my copy to reread that scene for years to come.
"It's v-vulgar to care about Settlements, but you are very rich, are you not?"
"Very," said his lordship, preserving his calm.
"Yes," nodded Horatia. "W-well—you see!"
"I see," agreed Rule. "You are going to be the Sacrifice."
She looked up at him rather shyly. "It c-can't signify to you, can it? Except that I know I'm not a Beauty, like L-Lizzie. But I have got the Nose, sir."
Rule surveyed the Nose. "Undoubtedly, you have the Nose," he said.
Horatia seemed determined to make a clean breast of her blemishes. "And p-perhaps you could become used to my eyebrows?"
The smile lurked at the back of Rule's eyes. "I think, quite easily."
She said sadly: "They won't arch, you know. And I ought to t-tell you that we have quite given up hope of my g-growing any taller."
"It would certainly be a pity if you did," said his lordship.
"D-do you think so?" Horatia was surprised. "It is a great trial to me, I can assure you." She took a breath, and added, with difficulty: "You m-may have n-noticed that I have a—a stammer."
"Yes, I had noticed," the Earl said gently.
"If you f-feel you c-can't bear it, sir, I shall quite understand," Horatia said in a small, anxious voice.
"I like it," said the Earl.
"It is very odd of you," marvelled Horatia. "But p-perhaps you said that to p-put me at my ease?"
"No," said the Earl. "I said it because it was true."
Which is not to say that the entire experience was perfectly smooth sailing. Horatia is a bit hysterical for my taste. Or rather, she starts off very promising indeed and then proceeds to be rather hysterical for the next couple hundred pages. And, yes, I grew impatient. And yes, I really would have loved it if she'd managed to see one single thing for what it was without Rule having to patiently explain it to her. But Rule. You guys. Rule. I loved him from beginning to end. He gives the impression that he is always withholding a smile when he is at his most decorous and that when he is smiling placidly at you is when you are actually in the most danger. Rule will always be dear to me. As will drunk Pel & Pom, roving the streets of London at the crack of dawn, trying to discern whether or not Horatia actually murdered someone with a poker. I'm still filled with helpless laughter when I think of those two, to say nothing of Pom's great aunt.
Glamour might still have clung to a rakehell who abducted noble damsels, but no glamour remained about a man who had been pushed into a pond in full ball-dress.
The Convenient Marriage also includes two excellent duels, one hilarious and quite brief, the other magnetic and drawn-out. And, yes, I could definitely have done with a handful more scenes in which Rule and Horatia were, say, in the same room together (particularly at the end). But, on the whole, my time spent with these characters was utterly entertaining, and I will be cracking open my second Heyer tonight....more
I decided to start off the year with a read I felt was sure to satisfy. That's the space I'm occupying right now,Originally reviewed here @ Angieville
I decided to start off the year with a read I felt was sure to satisfy. That's the space I'm occupying right now, guys. I need something new and I need something that's going to just make it right. Tall order, I know. But I've been a fan of the first Veronica Speedwell mystery for awhile now, and I was definitely eager to rejoin Veronica and Stoker's company to see what adventure they might find next. Deanna Raybourn has been my go-to author when it comes to Victorian mysteries for awhile now. Together with Sherry Thomas, Anna Lee Huber, and Laurie R. King, she brings the nuanced character development and effortless charm that I so enjoy to historical shenanigans and foul play.
Veronica Speedwell has been thwarted in her latest plans for further world exploration when her host trips over a tortoise (truly) and sustains a compound fracture, the likes of which make their journey to the South Pacific impossible for the foreseeable future. And so she and Stoker are stuck cooling their heels in the back gardens, cataloging museum items and generally trying not to get on each other's nerves. But their pasts (most definitely plural) and murder do tend to find them. Before long, Veronica has accepted a most mysterious request from a very royal source to investigate the grisly murder of a local artist and exonerate the man who is set to hang for the crime. Stoker (as per usual) is less than thrilled with Veronica's audacity on his behalf. But not so much that he isn't soon along for the ride.
A Perilous Undertaking starts off at just a cracking good pace. It was immediately excellent to be back with our intrepid leads, and I was intrigued by the ongoing exploration of Veronica's royal connection woven into this second mystery. Veronica is at her best, in my humble opinion, when she is at her most acerbic. Thus, her early interactions with both Scotland Yard and the mysterious Lady Sundridge assured me all would be well. The other genuine attraction of this series lies in the tempestuous but true relationship between Veronica and Stoker. And when it is just the two of them, things do feel right.
He shook his head. "You are mad. And I am madder still for letting you talk me into this."
I gave him a wry smile. "We will be like Arcadia Brown and her faithful sidekick, Garvin," I said, invoking our favorite literary detective. Stoker claimed not to enjoy popular fiction, but ever since I had introduced him to the lady investigator's adventures, he had devoured them while still pretending to be above such diversions.
He narrowed his gaze. "If you are expecting me to brandish a pistol and go haring off with you, crying 'Excelsior!,' you will be waiting until the crack of doom," he warned. "I am only doing this because I know there is no point in attempting to talk you out of it, and you will need someone to watch your back with a murderer on the loose."
I grinned at him and lifted my glass in salute. "It begins."
You see? And begin well it does. The problem for me arose soon after, once investigations truly got underway. Things simply . . . slowed down. Not that they weren't out and about in pursuit of their goal, but nothing truly seemed to progress. Not their relationship, not their roles within the larger picture, not the complexity of the mystery itself. I have always loved allowing mysteries to unfold in their own time, but the secret at the heart of this one was sort of glaringly obvious from the start. No matter how many players joined the fray, I knew who it was and why. And the problem wasn't so much that but the fact that they were tired reasons. In fact, so many of the elements of this jaunt felt tired to me. Every one of Stoker's actions was "lavish." Every new character on the scene remarked upon the very same set of Veronica's characteristics. Every new bit of "shocking" evidence hailed from a sort of laundry list of standard Victorian tropes. Opium den, check. Den of iniquity, check. Jealous wives, check. My dismay grew with each passing page. The thing is, we readers are already one book in at this point. We know the specific ways in which our heroine gleefully flaunts her society. We already love her for them. We do not need to be bashed over the head every other paragraph with why they make her unusual. We would like more in the way of introspection. And that is how it felt. Like all of the labels and the general exclaiming over them stood in for actual character development. Even between Veronica and Stoker, I felt cheated out of more depth. They bantered. They aided and abetted each other. But they never grew. There were a couple of moments that were clearly meant to accomplish this, but to me they felt manufactured in the extreme, particularly their timing and the way in which they were presented. I finished, but I finished disappointed on the whole. Mine is, I realize, a very personal reaction to this book. So if you enjoyed A Curious Beginning (as I very much did), you might give A Perilous Undertaking a try. It could be your cuppa....more
If you know me at all, you know that Crooked Kingdom was right behind The Raven King for my most anticipated booOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
If you know me at all, you know that Crooked Kingdom was right behind The Raven King for my most anticipated book of the year. And I had to wait all the way to the end of September to get it. I suffer, guys. I suffer. Was it worth the wait? Absolutely. Am I utterly desolate that it's over? Oh my word, yes. Has it taken me awhile to process my emotions and be able to write about them somewhat coherently? Why yes, yes it has. Thanks for asking. A duology is a rare and beautiful thing. It is also a perilous thing. For there's no coming back from that second book, no third book to potentially wrap things up just right. All your money on that one book to make it well. In this case, it ended so perfectly I could only sit there in amazement at how right it was. For everyone. Which is not to say that things were not sacrificed (they were) and that it did not hurt (it did). But it was right. And so very full.
Be warned. Beyond this point there be potential spoilers for Six of Crows.
There was simply no time. No time for Kaz and the gang to rest and lick their wounds. No time even to celebrate the heist of the century. The Wraith was taken, and there would be rest for no one (least of all Kaz) until she was rescued from Van Eck and revenge (on several levels) was exacted. Of course, everything in Ketterdam runs on Kaz Brekker's clock, which is not nearly fast enough for a few of the crows, who each have their own set of troubles that will not wait for revenge plots or rescue missions. To say nothing of the myriad interested parties intent on their stake of the jurda parem profits and the potential that people like Kuwei possess. No plan is foolproof, though. And this one is even less than most, given that along the way the Barrel and its denizens cease to follow established rules and Kaz is beset by a whole other set of obstacles. It's a fight for the underworld, for the city, for the world itself and even Kaz may not have a firm grasp on all the players. But he didn't rise to be leader of the Dregs without fully enough ruthlessness and intelligence to power an entire city. And, as always, his motley crew are with him to the end.
Though Kaz's tone was easy, Matthias heard the dark anticipation in his words. He had often wondered how people survived this city, but it was possible Ketterdam would not survive Kaz Brekker.
It was possible I would not survive this book. But, like the other crows, it was always Kaz that held us together. Even when he didn't want us there. And it's worth mentioning that for the first good third of this book, I was not at all sure what sort of beast I was dealing with. Everything felt ever so off kilter from the first book. Not in a wrong way, just in a we might possibly not be in Ketterdam anymore way. Even though we are clearly in Ketterdam for the entirety of the book. But the repercussions of the wildly exciting adventure of the first book ripple ruthlessly through this, its sequel, through each of the players. And no one is meant to feel precisely comfortable, I don't think. Incredibly relieved and happy to be in one another's company once more, utterly charmed by each of the impossibly charming pairings within the group, but not precisely comfortable with the spaces each are forced to occupy now. Nor are we to be allowed to forget or even gloss over just how dark Kaz Brekker's world is. However. Once the action does get going (once Kaz has sufficiently schemed his way to a proper lather), it does not let up. And from start to finish, the dialogue is something to behold. Every exchange either put a smile on my face (Nina & Matthias, Wylan & Jesper) or tightened my heartstrings to the breaking point (Kaz & Inej). An example of the latter:
When she turned to him, her eyes were bright with anger.
"He was going to break my legs," she said, her chin held high, the barest quiver in her voice. "Would you have come for me then, Kaz? When I couldn't scale a wall or walk a tightrope? When I wasn't the Wraith anymore?"
Dirtyhands would not. The boy who could get them through this, get their money, keep them alive, would do her the courtesy of putting her out of her misery, then cut his losses and move on.
"I would come for you," he said, and when he saw the wary look she shot him, he said it again, "I would come for you. And if I couldn't walk, I'd crawl to you, and no matter how broken we were, we'd fight our way out together—knives drawn, pistols blazing. Because that's what we do. We never stop fighting."
Kaz and Inej. They're sort of it for me. And that is saying something in a novel that gave me so many more reasons than I ever needed to love each of these crazy criminals without reserve. I may have wished for more time together, more scenes exchanging looks and working out possible futures, more with each pairing. But loving them was locked in long ago. Which, of course, makes reading it that much more dangerous, when those fragile beings live and fight and breathe and bleed in a world that has little love for them, in a world of no mourners and no funerals. Which brings me to how brave I thought this novel was, to how marvelous a conclusion Ms. Bardugo wrought. It fairly blew me away with its perfection. Even with all of my accumulated, dogged hope, I didn't envision an outcome as satisfying as this one. And I say that holding the pieces of my heart in my hands. To say it is perfect is not to say it is without the highest of stakes and the purest of sacrifices. Everything about it hurt. Even as I was laughing at Jesper's quips, Nina's bravado, and Wylan's blushes, I had to remember to hold the pieces of my heart together. That is precisely what made it worth it. It mattered. So much. They fought together. They each stayed entirely true to themselves and true to their unwavering love and loyalty to each other. And that ending—that fiercely beautiful ending. My, what storytelling....more
It's funny, the timing of books. It's so funny. I've been sitting on Winter for around about a year now. And it'sOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
It's funny, the timing of books. It's so funny. I've been sitting on Winter for around about a year now. And it's been well over two since I reviewed Cress. You'll remember, I was not what you might call a "fan" of that book, which partly explains why I waited so dashed long to start Winter. It's just that I was such a genuine fan of the first two books. Scarlet is perfect, in my opinion. And as I was most displeased with Wolf and Scarlet's treatment in Cress (to say nothing of the, shall we call it "phoning in" of Cress and Thorne's characters), well. I had issues, guys. I had issues. But something continued to niggle in the back of my mind that Winter would be different. A return to form, possibly. A casting out of new lines, so to speak. Whatever it was, the Winter kairos all came together for me a week ago, and I basically whipped my way through the fourth installment in the Lunar Chronicles.
Ahem. Spoilers for the first three books are threaded through this review. Proceed with caution.
In many ways, Princess Winter is the focal point of the Lunar palace. Crazy Winter. Poor Winter. Beautiful Winter, they call her. And she is all of those things. With her exquisite face, marred only by the self-inflicted scars forced upon her by her nightmare of a stepmother. With her increasingly frequent hallucinations, of her limbs slowly turning to ice and breaking off, of the palace walls running with blood. Of a nameless horror no one else seems to see. And so her days are filled with fear, the only bright spot being her longtime guard and best friend Jacin. But even Jacin will not be around forever. With the imperial wedding approaching, and every one of her thaumaturges on high alert, Queen Levana has an eye out for any hint of insubordination in the ranks. And insubordination is just what Jacin has in mind when he realizes the depths of the Queen's plans for her detested stepdaughter. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to any of them, a rebellion is being mounted from within, as the ragtag group of rebels under Linh Cinder's command set their plan in motion to free Scarlet, clear Thorne, marry Kai off to the Lunar nightmare, and then promptly free him from doom by declaring Cinder the missing princess and rightful heir to the Lunar throne. Really, nothing could go wrong.
"It's not proper for seventeen-year-old princesses to be alone with young men who have questionable intentions."
She laughed. "And what about young men who she's been friends with since she was barely old enough to walk?"
He shook his head. "Those are the worst."
I quite liked what Ms. Meyer did with Winter herself. She is certifiable in a really interesting and believable way, and I remained fascinated as I found myself swinging in and out of lucidity along with her. In fact, my favorite descriptions in the novel were the ones detailing Winter's hallucinations and the incredible sacrifice she was making behind them. It is probably worth pointing out now that the rest of the descriptions in the book should could have been cut down by half. I'm dead serious when I say this 832-page door stopper should have been half as long as it was, and it wouldn't have had to sacrifice a whit of emotional impact or plot/character development. I'm super surprised it made it out the door as long as it did (and you know I generally prefer the longer the better), but the endless descriptions of the Lunar court and its denizens in their Capitol-like getups were simply unnecessary bulk and should have been jettisoned. I kept noticing this as the the tale went on, but then I would arrive at another lovely scene involving two or more of our winsome crew, and my frustrations would dissolve under their witty banter and very genuine charms. Which brings me to Carswell Thorne. You guys, he was there in this book. While being MIA off in buffoonery land in Cress, he was so very present and himself in Winter. Which thing made me smile hugely. Because I just knew he was that brand of awesome when he burst unceremoniously onto the scene in Scarlet. Which also leads me to Cress and how she came into her own here as well. Their arc was possibly my favorite of all of them in this concluding tale. My favorite line coming from Thorne's lips near the end, when all looked to be falling apart around their ears:
"Cress . . . " He seemed torn, but also hopeful and unguarded. He took a deep breath. "She looked like you."
She looked like you. I'll say no more here, but you done good, Thorne. You done good.
Which brings me to my favorite couple of the entire series—Scarlet and Wolf. My heart may have clenched in pain just a few times at the way their arc played out. And if I felt like Wolf got a measure of short shrift when it came to his portrayal in this volume, I felt that Scarlet was just one hundred percent her blazing self, and I held her tightly to my heart the entire time. Because she was in no way compromised. She was acerbic and ruthless and loyal and fierce in the ways she always has been. Scarlet, as ever, makes the series for me. It was a worthy conclusion in most ways. Given my druthers, I would have exchanged reams of description for a bit more in the way of meaningful time with these crazy star-touched characters I have loved. But there was certainly no shortage of brilliant action, brushes with death, maniacal scheming, whip-sharp humor, and true love. And overlaying it all we were given Winter's sweet, always-generous outlook on her fellow human beings forced to eke out an existence against a backdrop of hatred, envy, joy, disease, and heartbreak (and, of course, interstellar warfare). It felt very much a timely message to me and one I cherish at the close of this year that has been what it was.
Winter reached over and pulled the pilot's harness over Scarlet's head.
"Safety first, Scarlet-friend. We are fragile things."
This is the first installment in Sherry Thomas' Lady Sherlock series—a gender-swapped retelling of Sherlock HolmOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
This is the first installment in Sherry Thomas' Lady Sherlock series—a gender-swapped retelling of Sherlock Holmes. So basically, my catnip. We are living in an excellent age when it comes to Holmes retellings. From Laurie King's Mary Russell books to Ellie Marney's Every series to the BBC's Sherlock, it's a feast of delights. And since I have been a Sherry Thomas fan for awhile now, I could hardly contain my excitement when I heard she was working on a female Holmes. The glowing cover blurb from Deanna Raybourn certainly didn't hurt.
Charlotte Holmes has taken the mother of all calculated risks and successfully gotten herself thrown out. It all started . . . well, ages ago, really. The youngest of four daughters, with parents who seem to hold nothing but disdain for one another, Charlotte isn't precisely the oddest one in the family. But that's not saying much. She is, however, the most determined to leave her parents' (and society's) expectations behind and embark on the kind of life she has always wanted. The devil, of course, is in the details. And it isn't long before the grim reality of life as a woman alone on the streets of London and in search of respectable work begins to take its toll, particularly as Charlotte is determined to support not only herself but her two sisters as well. However, her sharp intellect and dispassionate approach to humans in general see her in good stead. And if an old friend (and longtime sparring partner) occasionally has her followed for his own reasons, Charlotte can handle it. But when a series of mysterious deaths begin to resemble a connection of sorts, and when her beloved sister Livia's name gets dragged into the mix, Charlotte immediately steps in to clear her sister's name and solve the mystery. Woven through the hunt for the killer are the enigmatic Mrs. Watson, the dogged Inspector Treadles, and the old friend who is never far from her thoughts.
I'll just go ahead and start by saying A Study in Scarlet Women was not at all what I expected! And that is by no means a bad thing. I enjoyed every bit of this twisty, dense, and unconventional tale. I think I just happened to go in with certain assumed parameters, and Sherry Thomas happily conformed to none of them. The story's timeline is quite fluid, and the reader is definitely expected to keep up on several levels. The narrative hops around at will from one point of view to the next, and it is up to Charlotte (when we are with her) and the reader to tease apart and piece back together the many tangled threads. Charlotte herself was a revelation, if an incredibly self-contained one:
Charlotte left her seat and walked to a window. It gave onto the same street where Miss Hartford's carriage had been parked, waiting for her return. The carriage was gone, but in its place, a man stood underneath a streetlamp, reading a newspaper.
At first, she thought he was the man from the carriage. Instead, she recognized him as the one who had waited out the rain across the street from her earlier in the afternoon.
The one she'd suspected of following her.
She was not alarmed. Whoever had commissioned the man's service had not done so with the intention of harming her, but to keep an eye on her.
This did not make her happy—she did not care to be closely monitored. She wasn't angry at the person responsible for this surveillance—in his place she might have done the same. Nevertheless, she wished her secret guardian hadn't felt compelled to be so positioned as to be able to effect a rescue at any moment.
It implied that such a rescue was not only necessary, but imminent.
That she couldn't in good conscience—or cold logic—disagree with the assessment made it feel as if the air was slowly leaking from her lungs.
And that's it right there—perhaps the most affecting aspect of this winding novel—the honest way that it portrays the realities of the lives of the many different women that walk its pages. Like air slowly leaking from their lungs. I was fascinated by (and sympathetic to) each one. Charlotte herself is so quiet. Brisk and concise when she is rattling off a litany of her deductions, yes. But quiet. And quietly perplexed by the injustices and inanities perpetrated by and inherent in the people around her. I loved her for that perplexity, for her fierce loyalty to her sisters, for her continual expectations of fairness and opportunity, and for her adamant refusal to leave a certain distant someone well enough alone. We are treated to a few precious, and yes, quiet, exchanges between Charlotte and her old friend. They are enigmatic in the extreme and endlessly complicated, even if we only have the merest sliver of the whole picture at this point in time.
She had very much looked forward to a word in private with him. But she forgot, as she usually did, the silence that always came between them in these latter years, whenever they found themselves alone.
The queer sensation in her chest, however, was all too familiar, that mix of pleasure and pain, never one without the other.
She could have done without those feelings. She would have happily gone her entire life never experiencing the pangs of longing and the futility of regret. He made her human—or as human as she was capable of being. And being human was possibly her least favorite aspect of life.
These two. I have to hold myself back from despairing of them. For how little page time they're actually together, I love them rather a lot. And I don't even really know him. But I hold out hope for more ever-so-gradual unraveling in the coming tales. In the end, this is the most unusual of beginnings—an introduction that requires every ounce of focus its readers have to give, even as it grudgingly reveals a paltry few of its own secrets. My kind of mystery....more
I'm feeling very possessive when it comes to this one, guys. I finished it a few days ago, and it has been a bitOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
I'm feeling very possessive when it comes to this one, guys. I finished it a few days ago, and it has been a bit touch and go emotionally since then. You try to find other characters and other places to fill the void, but the truth is—it's not your first rodeo. And you know very well you're not going to simply be able to will the ability to move forward with your life. That you're just going to have to wait it out and mourn having been with Quincy and Arch, er, those characters, as steadily and for as long as you were and then learn to live on a day-to-day basis not being with them. And, yes, I do know they're sitting right there on the shelf whenever I need them. But you know what I mean. You have to somehow get past the end having happened to you, too. And not just to them. The Q is a lovely little (actually gratifyingly thick) standalone historical fiction (with a twist) novel and instant entry on my Best Books of 2016 list. Oh, and lest I forget, that cover. It is everything. With the newsprint? And the crease? And that very particular Q? Everything, I say.
It's worth mentioning that Beth Brower and I are friends. And that while I've talked about and spotlighted her work several times on the blog, I haven't reviewed her first three novels because of the close nature of our friendship. But this one, you guys. No power in the 'Verse could stop me from spreading the word. It's that good.
Quincy St. Claire makes time for nothing and no one not intimately involved in the day-to-day machinations of her beloved printing press—The Q. Since being taken in off the streets by her Great Uncle Ezekiel (along with her friend and fellow foundling Fisher), she has harnessed every ounce of her formidable energies and poured them into making Ezekiel's unusual press run like clockwork. And if it is true that Quincy's name is spoken far and wide throughout the lower streets and upper parlors of Rhysdon, it is also true that no one, with the possible exception of Fisher, truly knows the girl who sits on the high stool behind the counter. The girl who writes down the questions that pour in from the denizens of the city, each on an individual Q slip, and who then prints them to be sent out into the world to find their answers. Within the confines of The Q, it is Quincy's world. And it follows her rules. Until one night the heretofore laid back, if quite elderly, Ezekiel throws the hitch of all hitches into her plans. He is to die, he tells her. Imminently. And he has set her a task in the wake of his passing. Twelve of them, to be exact. Not only is she not to be informed what the tasks are, she is to be monitored in her efforts by none other than the bane of her existence—Mr. James Arch—The Q's solicitor and general disapproving stick-in-the-mud. If she fails, The Q will fall into other hands. Ezekiel proves immovable, as well as a man of his word, and so it is up to Quincy to go against every one of her grains and divert some of those well-harnessed energies to accomplishing the mysterious tasks. The alternative, after all, is unthinkable.
Quincy unwound her scarf and laid it over a matchstick chair. Removing her jacket, she opened her creaking armoire and hung it back in its place. Rolling up her shirt sleeves, Quincy walked to her window—a single window that looked down on Gainsford Street—and frowned at the snow.
The Q was to be given away.
If she could not fulfill her uncle's obscure requirements, The Q was to be given away.
On either side of Quincy's window stood two bureaus, tall, with five drawers each, large enough to fit clothing, papers, and what few possessions Quincy found worth keeping. She liked them not for the plebeian practicality they offered, but rather for the way that, when she pulled herself up on one and rested her feet on the edge of the other, Quincy found herself perched high in her window, watching whatever was passing on the street below. She did so now, feeling the gears of her mind catching, too disjointed by her uncle's words for their usually smooth, oiled rotation.
This early passage was the first moment I felt in perfect sympathy with our heroine. As she felt her mind strain to accommodate an unforeseen, wholly unwelcome shift in her well-ordered world. An old and solitary soul tucked economically inside the body of an eccentric young slip of a girl, Quincy is all that is analytical and stubborn, prone to excellence and disdain in equal quantities. In short, I loved her to pieces. From her dogged taunting of the self-righteous Mr. Arch to her single minded passion for the business that gave her life a reliable shape and purpose. To say nothing of her quiet, unwavering loyalty to her oldest (and only) friend Fisher and her uncharacteristic (some might say) fondness for a certain disreputable smuggler who drops into her domain from time to time. Oh, yes, I understood Quincy. And because I understood and loved her, I felt keenly her fierce determination and resolve to hold onto The Q at all costs. And so the pages flew by, full of eloquent and visceral descriptions of the workings of the press. I fell in love with not just Quincy, but with the intricate hierarchy of Rhysdon society, and especially with the people from all walks of life who found themselves drawn to this fanciful, yet precise location where they might quietly voice their questions, knowing that they will be heard, set in careful type, and perhaps someday answered. For a young woman with little use for demonstrative affections, she manages to provide rather a lot of hope for a city in need of just that.
Quincy and Fisher walked through all this in silence. Silence was the most common stock-in-trade between them, and the portfolio of their friendship was thick with it. So, without words, they stepped across the streets, their feet pressing the pavement with the same sounds, their toes turned just so; they knew what life was like at each other's side. Sometimes he would speak, or she would, small offerings on the altar of their joint survival.
This beautiful friendship was one of the most affecting aspects of the novel—for its solidity, its history, and its ardent portrayal. Bound together, are Quincy and Fisher, and we get to see them continue to chase survival on all its levels. And while we are speaking of ardency, I would be remiss if I didn't express my wholehearted devotion to the romantic vein that wends its way through the tale. I so appreciate that readers are given just as many pages as they might want to witness that particular relationship develop in the organic, stumbling, messy, and magnetic way that it does. Even more, I admire the way the two of them don't alter their essential chemistry to fit the other's expectations. They rage when they should rage, but they also see beyond the surface when the light glances off the other person in just the right way. Most importantly, they don't forget what they've seen and just how valuable it is. As I said, days later, I still can't get them out of my head. They're in there, striding down alleys and scarfing down buns, and generally making it impossible to get anything else done, so badly do I want to just sit back and watch them push and support each other and question wildly whether or not they will ever be able to make it come out right. I loved them so. The experience of reading The Q was an impossibly charming one. It repeatedly put me in mind of a few time-honored favorites, from a little Westmark here to a little Spindle's End there, to say nothing of a healthy dash of Dickens just for good measure. In the end, one thing is certain—The Q has room for you....more
I somehow neglected to write a review of Illuminae when I read it last year. It may have had something to do witOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
I somehow neglected to write a review of Illuminae when I read it last year. It may have had something to do with my response to the novel, which was complex. I was completely riveted to the page throughout. In fact, I swallowed it in a single night. However, I wasn't sure if it would prove to be a re-read for me, primarily because I felt a distance between myself and the characters. The separation enforced by the epistolary format, on top of the protagonists' themselves' separation for the majority of the novel combined to make me feel a bit wistful. I suppose I just wished I felt a level of closeness to them that matched the level of commitment I felt to the unfolding story. Which was to say complete and utter. There was, interestingly, no question of whether or not I would be picking up the sequel. Also somewhat interesting was how I felt nothing but excitement that the sequel would follow a new couple. And so it was that Gemina fell into my lap and swallowed me whole.
Hanna Donnelly has essentially made Jump Station Heimdall her playground. No matter that her extravagant exploits have become more a way of surviving the tight confines of her life as the only daughter of the exacting station captain than anything else. No matter that they involve the occasional rendezvous with her own personal dealer—himself a member of the notorious House of Knives crime family. No matter that her model (if slightly milquetoast) boyfriend disapproves wholeheartedly of said dealer and has to sneak around to meet her so as not to raise the wrath of her father. Nik Malikov has a thing for the privileged princess who occasionally patronizes his "establishment," and he takes plenty of flak over that fact from the various and sundry cast of cutthroat characters that comprise his family. No matter that the tattoos on his skin tell a story that may or may not be more complex than they at first appear. No matter that their whisperNET repartee is fast becoming the best part of every single one of his days. No matter that each successive requirement from his family takes him farther and farther away from the kind of person who might actually stand a chance with a girl like Hanna. What neither of them knows is their "home" is about to be thrown into chaos and violence the likes of which even the notorious Malikov's have yet to see. And their connection, limited and superficial as it has heretofore been, may prove the only link to survival either of them have.
BRIEFING NOTE: First relevant point of contact between Hanna Donnelly and Jackson Merrick on Heimdall's whisperNET system. For full effect, read everything Merrick says in a loin-stirringly deep, uppercrust accent while listening to smooth jazz.
The sly, staccato wit in this series is just so on. Set as it is against a near constant threat of death, dismemberment, or worse, this wit is sometimes a lifeline, for both the characters and the readers, I suspect. As with its predecessor, the entirety of Gemina is told in the form of found footage, including an impressive and fabulously inventive assortment of documents, all of which are being presented as evidence in the tribunal addressing BeiTech Industries' involvement in the "alleged" attack on Jump Station Heimdall. A number of familiar (and terrifying) faces make appearances upfront before we are hurled into making the acquaintance of a whole host of new personages who each play a pivotal role in the horrific events that went down on Heimdall. One of the most enjoyable aspects of reading Gemina is getting to see exactly what was going on at the jump station while the events of Illuminae were taking place. The two timelines overlap, and I found it heightened my experience with Hanna and Nik knowing just what was happening with Kady and Ezra at the same time. And, yes, this overlap means we get to spend some much-coveted time with a certain AI that I'll confess I've been missing something fierce. It's passages are among my very favorite (and are some of the most unsettling, of course). And, yes, I'll go ahead and say that I found my emotions knit tightly with Hanna and Nik in a very short time, partly because they do spend more (though still not much) time in the actual vicinity of one another, and partly because I'm just a sucker for the particular quality of banter you get when you pair up a crime lord's son with a military captain's daughter.
Which leads me to the most excellent of all the elements of this novel—Hanna Donnelly. Quite simply, she is stone cold awesome. Raised by her father to master any number of forms of combat, her princess persona is a very thin facade indeed. The relentless pressure and pace of the novel reveal the core of steel underneath the facade and it was a viciously satisfying pleasure to watch her tear her way through the fabric of her nightmare and never, not ever give in or give up. And perhaps just as importantly, she does all of this without sacrificing a shred of her humanity, with all its attendant vulnerability and desires. She blew me, Nik, and the entire population of Heimdall away. And I can say that allowing that I am nursing a pretty healthy crush on Nik Malikov. They are right together. But Hanna. Hanna is whole in a way that resonated with me profoundly. She is the reason Gemina is the force that it is. She is the reason you simply have to read it....more
So the truth is I had a feeling about A Promise of Fire from the moment I clapped eyes on it. And the funny thingOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
So the truth is I had a feeling about A Promise of Fire from the moment I clapped eyes on it. And the funny thing is, I was drawn to the girl on the cover because she reminded me immediately of Kate Daniels—only one of my favorite urban fantasy heroines of all time. Little did I know, so much more than just the cover of this book would go on to remind me of the fabulous Ilona Andrews series. Though the Kingmaker Chronicles are epic fantasy romance with a Greek mythology bent, they share that certain brand of high octane banter and impossibly high stakes that make the Kate Daniels books so fabulous. This is the first volume (as well as Amanda Bouchet's debut novel), and I find myself so looking forward to getting my hands on the next one.
Catalia Fisa has hidden herself as well as she knows how. Having successfully attached herself to a troupe of traveling circus performers, she cautiously employs a mere fraction of her actual ability to tell fortunes (and keep an eye out for anyone who might be looking for her). Trouble strides up to her soothsaying table in the form of Beta Sinta—a warlord in search of the fabled Kingmaker, the one rumored to possess the power to solidify control for the Alpha (or warlord) determined (or ruthless) enough to catch her. And before she knows it, Cat is literally tied to Griffin's side and carted off to the southern wilds of Sinta entirely against her will. Fortunately, she's had a lifetime of "training" in resisting force, and she will not go quietly no matter how loudly he and his band of loyal henchmen growl. But the farther they travel together, the larger the secrets Cat's holding onto loom, and the more difficult it becomes to justify abandoning this warlord who doesn't seem to want to go to war and somehow holds her nightmares at bay, to say nothing of his astoundingly naïve (if disarmingly charming) family.
This epic adventure was entirely too fun to put down. I'm a huge fan of Greek mythology, and Ms. Bouchet infuses her tale with bits and bobs and huge heaping globs of all the familiar gods and goddesses (as well as various terrifying creatures). The whole thing plays fairly fast and loose with these deities, which is admittedly appropriate, even if a couple of times her versions made my hackles rise. But on the whole the world-building is expansive and inventive and I loved traversing it with Cat and Griffin. Because those two. They are wild forces to be reckoned with, and I loved watching them snipe and bat at each other every step of the way. Cat's power is revealed in as infinitesimal chunks as possible, reluctant as she is to involve any other being in the gargantuan nightmare that is her past and the impending doom that represents her future. And having spent a lifetime being used by those more powerful than she, she refuses to go back to a place of vulnerability. While the reader is privy to quite a few of these internal struggles, Griffin is not. And he, for all his insisting on assuming the Beta role in his kingdom, does not deal well with obfuscation or dismissal. The result is a host of sparks. An early exchange:
Beta Sinta stops, his mouth flattening in obvious irritation. "Help me, Cat. Or at least tell me the truth. I know when you're lying."
"Oh?" My heart trips over its next beat.
"Your eyes get twitchy."
"My eyes do not get twitchy!"
"This one gets narrower." He touches the tip of his finger to the corner of my right eye, and a little jolt zips through me. "It's as if you're expecting the lie to hurt, but it doesn't because it's your own."
As I said, the banter (or, in this case, my favorite kind of quiet tension) between these two just carries the day throughout the story. Cat's ability to tell when people are lying is a skill of such magnitude that Griffin finds himself unable to let her out of his sight. The pain that it simultaneously causes her, though, is just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to answering the questions of why Cat is the way she is. But Griffin didn't battle his way to placing his sister on the throne without amassing the persistence and indefatigable will it takes to reach whatever goal he sets himself. What I love about Griffin is how he learns to make space for Cat, how clearly he recognizes and admires her abilities, and how his plan to use her morphs into a desire and a need to support and aid her in her own troubled journey. Just what that journey will entail remains nebulous to everyone involved, clearly to be unraveled in future volumes, though it is pretty clear to the reader exactly who and what is gunning for her. Cat herself is a wriggling ball of sarcasm, frustration, repressed affection, and leashed power. She elicits the wide gamut of emotions in both the reader and her supporting characters. But it's clear she's got charisma to spare and energy and guts enough to carry us all through any number of wild romps....more
Let's just start by acknowledging that I am woefully behind on reviewing the Sarah MacLean books I have read andOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
Let's just start by acknowledging that I am woefully behind on reviewing the Sarah MacLean books I have read and loved, which is to say all of them. The thing is, I am simply not overstating things when I say that reading Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake changed my life. And it is a truth universally acknowledged that both A Rogue by Any Other Name and One Girl Earl Deserves a Lover hold pivotal places of honor on my Beloved Bookshelf. As such, I'm beginning to think that her books are so important to me that when it comes to articulating precisely why, I can run into a bit of a struggle. But. I am going to attempt to begin to rectify the situation by reviewing her latest novel and the second installment in the wonderful Scandal & Scoundrel series. I reread the first book in the series in preparation for the sequel, and I am happy to report it was just as delightful the second time around.
Lillian Hargrove's world has just been shattered, and by the one person she trusted the most. On top of that, when the man she loves chooses to ruin her, he does it on the most public of stages and on the most epic of scales—as he is about to reveal his latest masterwork, of which she is the subject. While she was a willing model for the painting, she in no way gave consent to it being shared with the entire population of London. Fully cognizant of the enormity of her mistake, Lily retires to the town home where she lives alone and begins preparations to leave London (and her scandal) behind for good. What she does not count on is her latest guardian swooping down from Scotland, determined to marry her off yesterday and rid himself of the unwanted burden she embodies. Alec, Duke of Warnick, never wanted any of the nonsense he's inherited along with his dratted title, least of all a troublesome ward who seems bent on self-destruction. Once he sees her, he deems it only a matter of days before he is able to marry her off and be on his way back to Scotland. What he doesn't count on is Lily herself and just how magnificently she will change the course of his life.
I think everyone who read The Rogue Not Taken was hoping the larger than life Duke of Warnick would be the hero of the next book, and I was no exception. Lily Hargrove, however, was the surprise. And what a lovely one at that. I immediately felt a huge amount of sympathy for her awful plight, even as I (along with Alec) questioned just how blind she had to have been to have trusted the detestable Derek Hawkins or to think that the portrait would somehow never see the light of day. That said, the self-possession and ruthless honesty with which she handles her ruination were admirable to behold, and I was rooting hugely for both of them throughout their tale. An early encounter (taken from my uncorrected ARC):
"Shall we discuss the scandal?"
Her cheeks burned. She didn't like it. "Is there a scandal?"
He turned to look at her. "You tell me."
"Well, I imagine the news that you broke down the door in broad daylight will get around."
Something flashed in his eyes. Something like amusement. She didn't like that, either. "Is it true, lass?" And, in that moment, in the four, simple words, spoken in his rolling Scottish brogue, warm and rough and almost kinder than she could bear, she wished herself anywhere but there.
Because it was the first time anyone had asked the question.
And it was the millionth time that she'd wished the answer were different.
The way she handles herself alongside the imposing Scot, set against the truths we glean from her inner dialogue, is why I immediately found Lillian endearing. And we gain enough insight into her less-than-charmed upbringing to understand a little of why she makes the mistake she did and to fully admire (once more, along with Alec) the intelligent and organic way that she conducts and asserts herself throughout the ensuing ordeal. Fortunately, she is helped along the way by a few fellow scandalous (and gleefully familiar) faces. Each of the glorious Talbot sisters make their entrances, and they prove to be even more witty and outrageous than in the previous volume. I could do nothing but cheer silently as they surrounded Lily with their patent (and I suspect, hard-won) unconcern for the ton's censure. And I look forward meeting them again in forthcoming tales.
The humor in the book is not confined only to scenes involving the Talbot sisters. Lily and Alec, when they're not scheming desperately to rid themselves of the other, develop a disarming level of shared amusement. They've both endured painful moments in their past. They both see the follies of society and long to escape them. They both have long been solitary creatures, and in such they find a kinship. The long line of deceased dukes that so affect their lives, in particular, carries a delightful thread of levity throughout the novel. For example:
There was a long moment of silence before he changed the subject. "Which one owned this odious place?"
She didn't hesitate. "Number Thirteen."
"Ah. The one killed by a sheep, allegedly."
"What happened to him, really?"
She blinked. "That is what happened to him. He was killed by a sheep."
His brow furrowed. "You are joking."
"I am not. He fell off a cliff."
"The sheep. The duke was out for his daily constitutional. Below." She clapped her hands together. "Quite smashed."
His lips twitched. "No."
She raised one hand. "I swear it is true."
And on they roll. Alec and Lily's story is a quieter and more contained affair, in many ways, than Sophie and King's. Their movement and growth is more internal, as they wrestle with issues of shame, privacy, gender standards, and intrinsic self worth. My one complaint was a certain mounting impatience I felt near the end (with Alec, in particular) with what seemed to me to be an overly zealous (at times hurtful) pursuit of misconception. This dovetailed somewhat with the difficulty I had believing how quickly he changes gears. But then I reminded myself of the relatively short time period the story covers. And by the time myself accepted the reminder, I had moved on to the quite lovely conclusion, in which Alec (like myself) sees and remembers not to forget Lily exactly as she is. Which is to say—splendid....more
It's difficult to review Tell the Wind and Fire as I am both a huge Tale of Two Cities and Sarah Rees Brennan fan. When I heard she was doing a YA fanIt's difficult to review Tell the Wind and Fire as I am both a huge Tale of Two Cities and Sarah Rees Brennan fan. When I heard she was doing a YA fantasy retelling of the Dickens classic, I was one hundred percent on board. And the writing and world building is just as spectacular as I have come to expect from her. The problem, for me at least, lay primarily in the characterization. The main trio, Lucie, Ethan, and Carwyn, simply lacked the magnetism and complexity that I am used to when it comes to Brennan's protagonists. For the first two-thirds of the novel, they seem to be acted upon by their world rather than acting on it themselves--a trait I struggle with. Admittedly, the dual world of Light and Dark, magicians and doppelgangers, is riveting, beautiful, and timely. However, the limp characters held me back from fully enjoying their story. Things certainly pick up in the last third of the novel, but I wasn't able to manufacture enough care or concern by that time....more
So. As much as I adore retellings, I recently realized I'd never actually read an Alice in Wonderland retelling.Originally reviewed here @ Angieville
So. As much as I adore retellings, I recently realized I'd never actually read an Alice in Wonderland retelling. And what with the absolute rash of them inundating the publishing world these days, I figured it was high time. I've always loved the original classic and the Disney film, but I've never seen any of the more recent film adaptations. When Ace contacted me about reviewing Christina Henry's Alice in anticipation of the sequel's release, it felt like the perfect entry point. Funnily enough, I actually read the first book in Henry's Black Wings urban fantasy series ages ago. We didn't particularly hit it off, but I found myself massively intrigued to find out what she might do with a grown-up Alice. Also, the cover. It sends chills down my spine every time I glance over at the copy sitting on my nightstand. Having now read the words behind that cover, I can verify that the chills only increase after you make the acquaintance of Henry's White Rabbit.
Alice is mad. Or so they said when they found her stumbling back out of the Old City, having escaped an unnamed horror, with blood running everywhere and the Rabbit's name on her lips. And so they locked her up for ten years in a asylum for those who had taken leave of their senses, who the New City was too impatient to deal with. But two years in, someone whispers through the mouse hole in her cell. Someone by the name of Hatcher, who never takes the powders the orderlies bring, who fights tooth and nail to avoid the regular baths every inmate must take, who awoke years ago surrounded by bodies with a bloody ax in his hands. And so the two become friends and allies, working desperately to keep a shred of sanity in a world they no longer recognize. Hatcher is determined that one day the opportunity for escape will arise. And when it does in the form of a fire, he and Alice fight their way out of the prison that formed every fiber of their beings for so many years. But now they are on the run. Working their way deep into the twisted streets of Old City, they find themselves on a mad mission to escape the evil the fire released from the asylum and to recapture enough of Alice's memories to know who to hunt and who to flee.
If she moved her head all the way up against the wall and tilted it to the left she could just see the edge of the moon through the bars. Just a silver sliver, almost close enough to eat. A sliver of cheese, a sliver of cake, a cup of tea to be polite. Someone had given her a cup of tea once, someone with blue-green eyes and long ears. Funny how she couldn't remember his face, though. All that part was hazy, her memory of him wrapped in smoke but for the eyes and ears. And the ears were long and furry.
These opening lines sealed the deal, I'm afraid. There was no going back after I met Alice and she met Hatcher and the two of them agreed to hold hands throughout their ordeal. I was completely unable and completely uninterested in not being with them. Which is saying quite a lot, because their ordeal is not for the faint of heart. I repeat, beyond this point there be dragons of the deepest and darkest kind. I want to make this point early, because this book will not be for many readers. The violence factor is high. Hatcher is an actual ax murderer, after all, and he has set his sights on keeping Alice safe from any threat, which means the body count is astoundingly high in this dark fantasy that takes all the unhinged zaniness from Lewis Carroll's classic tale and neatly amplifies it by one hundred percent. Essentially, this book and I had no business falling as madly in love as we did. But there you have it. I loved it beyond reason. I kept waiting for the level of horror to send me packing, but the core—the light that Alice and Hatcher make by the mere fact of their survival—kept me following. Their fight to stop the mindless violence of the Jabberwock, their run ins with each of the unspeakably evil crime lords that run Old City, and the slow and terrifying awakening of Alice's memories are all excellently rendered.
My one issue with the novel is the absolute preponderance of violence directed toward women. It is omnipresent in Henry's world and it is massively disturbing. Alice is essentially its only survivor, and I think she is meant to be the seed that grows a revolution. Which I am clearly fine with, as I stuck with her through the entire bloody gauntlet. But I want to be sure to say that while I comprehend the reasons behind the dark world Ms. Henry has created, I feel that the story's integrity could have withstood a toning down of the violence against women (particularly during their sojourns with the Caterpillar and the Walrus) and still retained its spine-unhinging terror.
That said, this novel is utterly magnetic. Reading it feels like a madcap sprint to the finish. I swallowed it in 100-page chunks and came back each night just eager to slip back into this nightmare world. And the reason why is the two main characters. Alice and her mad Hatcher. Their heartbreaking connection and the furious way in which they cling to it is everything I look for when I come to a tale. I loved their story in all its brutal, broken beauty. I sense they will never be far from my thoughts from now on.
"You remember it all now," Hatcher said, and it wasn't a question.
"Yes," she said. She was beyond weeping for the child she once was. "It is, more or less, what you would expect. Except for the part where I escaped. Nobody expected that."
A new Victorian mystery series from Deanna Raybourn is no small treat. I was basically beside myself with joy whOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
A new Victorian mystery series from Deanna Raybourn is no small treat. I was basically beside myself with joy when I found out she would be returning to my favorite of her settings with an all new intrepid protagonist and (word had it) a broody hero to boot. Nobody broods like Brisbane broods (say that five times fast), and I was eager to make the acquaintance of this Veronica Speedwell and this natural historian by the name of Stoker. I did love the original hardcover for the heroine's dress and the misty fog drifting up the cobblestones. But I have to say, I'm more partial to this lovely new trade paperback edition. The butterflies! The silhouette of Veronica with her net! The typeface! I love it all. When a copy arrived in the mail for review, I could not have been more pleased.
Veronica Speedwell is used to being on her own. She is used to striking out for locales unknown and obscure butterfly species heretofore undiscovered. What she is not used to is abduction attempts on her person. Particularly not after she has just buried her last remaining relative and is about to wash her hands of the ties that bind in general and embark on her next adventure. But foil an abduction she does, and it's off to London with a mysterious (but kindly) German baron and into the highly unexpected laboratory of one Stoker. Covered in tattoos and dripping with disdain, Stoker is not interested in a lepidopterist no matter how well-informed on the natural sciences she may be. But it seems solitude is not in the cards for either of them, as murder continues to dog Veronica's heels and the two mutually suspicious partners are drawn into a mystery involving Veronica's parents, Stoker's past, and one memorable traveling circus.
I stared down into the open grave and wished I could summon a tear.
Deanna Raybourn always has me at hello. I've been quoting the first line of Silent in the Grave aloud regularly for going on eight years now, and the opening lines of A Curious Beginning continue the excellence. Veronica is a giant breath of fresh air from the word go, and I was more than content to follow her wherever her wandering soul led. Of course, once she and I fell into Stoker's looming warehouse of a laboratory, it was love at first sight. Stoker is every bit as wary and scarred and recalcitrant as I could hope for. Together, they are marvelously witty and biting and perfect. Veronica's parentage is one of the central mysteries of the novel, and the ever-present (if quiet) longing she feels to know where she comes from is palpable. Stoker's past is rife with pain and secrets as well, and the reader is privileged to accompany them as they traipse through their checkered histories in search of answers. The trip through Stoker's includes a very memorable stay with a traveling circus and its various and sundry denizens. I absolutely loved watching Veronica catch a glimpse of what makes him tick, and their banter throughout this section (and the entire novel) is off the charts enjoyable. I am a fan of the slow burn romance, and this one takes its time, developing in extremely endearing increments. Stoker, for all his ragged exterior, is honorable to the core. His rigid reluctance and decency is beautifully set off by Veronica's levity and refusal to be cowed or dictated to. They have a definite Holmes/Watson air about them as they unravel the threads of their tale. Veronica will always be (among other things) a bit of a gorgeous trial for Stoker. But I am convinced he will never let her fall. If you couldn't tell, I'm in love with them both and eagerly await their future adventures....more
So. Deep breaths all around, shall we? As D.H. Lawrence said (in my favorite line from the book that taught me abOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
So. Deep breaths all around, shall we? As D.H. Lawrence said (in my favorite line from the book that taught me about the birds and the bees), "We've got to live, no matter how many skies have fallen." And so this is my attempt at moving on, at living in the wake of a certain series that has been basically what I've lived and breathed for the last few weeks (barring the recently read and reviewed book we shall not speak of). Bear with me, if you will. I feel a bit fragile still. That said, are you tired yet of my old refrain of holding off on a series because I'm wary of the hugely positive press it's getting? I hope not. Because I present you with my latest bit of folly. A Darker Shade of Magic represents my first foray with V.E. Schwab, and I would categorize it as something along the lines of uncontrollable love at first sight.
Kell wore a very peculiar coat.
It had neither one side, which would be conventional, nor two, which would be unexpected, but several, which was, of course, impossible.
The first thing he did whenever he stepped out of one London and into another was take off the coat and turn it inside out once or twice (or even three times) until he found the side he needed. Not all of them were fashionable, but they each served a purpose. There were ones that blended in and ones that stood out, and one that served no purpose but of which he was just particularly fond.
Kell is one of the rarest of rare breeds. He is an Antari, a magician with one normal eye and one black eye, who can travel between the parallel worlds, from Grey London to Red London to White London. Though never to the forbidden Black London, where magic destroyed it all. Kell lives in Red London, where he serves at the pleasure of the King and Queen. He is even something of an adopted son to them, raised as he was alongside their son Prince Rhy. The two are close as brothers and get up to all manner of mischief together. Well, Rhy does. And Kell rabbits off after him trying to tame the prince's effulgent ways and teach him a little magic along the way. So that he will be a good king and ruler to the people of Red London. What no one but Rhy knows is that Kell breaks a few of his own rules now and then. Namely, he smuggles small items from one London to another as a form of self-entertainment and a way of fending off the loneliness. He does have one counterpart, the other Antari Holland. But Holland resides in the dreaded White London, where he is in painful servitude to the current ruthless rulers the Dane twins. But it's when Kell makes the unexpected acquaintance of one thief Delilah Bard that things really being to unravel. And when Lila finds her way from Grey London into magic-drenched Red London, she is bound and determined never to go back.
It is such a tale, you guys. Such a magnificent, charming, and desperate tale of one young magician's quest to balance who he is with what is expected of him and one young woman's drive to see (and do) everything before she dies. I fell in love with Kell on page one, with his magical red coat and his quiet intensity. And my soul was knit with Delilah Bard's the moment she came at Kell with a sword and demanded more from her life. A favorite early encounter:
She looked young, but sharp, bony in a starved-bird kind of way. The only roundness came from her eyes, both brown, but not quite the same shade. He opened his mouth, intending to start their conversation with a question, like, Will you untie me? or Where is the stone? but instead found himself saying, "One of your eyes is lighter than the other."
"And one of your eyes is black," she shot back. She sounded cautious, but not frightened. Or, if she was, she was very good at hiding it. "What are you?" she asked.
"A monster," said Kell hoarsely. "You'd better let me go."
The girl gave a small, mocking laugh. "Monsters don't faint in the presence of ladies."
"Ladies don't dress like men and pick pockets," retorted Kell.
Her smile only sharpened. "What are you really?"
"Tied to your bed," said Kell matter-of-factly.
His brow furrowed. "And in trouble."
He isn't wrong. Kell and Lila, individually and collectively, find themselves up to their eyeballs in trouble before this tale is through. And it is all so perfectly paced, allowing the reader time enough with each character to take their measure and form (and occasionally confirm) a number of important suspicions as to who might be an ally and who might be a shadow bent on evil. I relished each jaunt into the three so hazardously different Londons, hugging my arms to my sides each time we journeyed into eerie White London, hoping we would make it back alive. V.E. Schwab knows how to structure an adventure, and this one ramps up to the most creepy and urgent of climaxes. My heart raced at every turn, and my brain tumbled ahead to sift through the consequences of certain choices that will undoubtedly play out in the sequel. A Darker Shade of Magic is fantasy of the highest order. I'm so thrilled to have discovered it and wish Kell and Lila (and Rhy) all the luck in their coming adventures. Not that they need it....more
So basically all I can say is prepare yourselves, if you would. Because it's been days since I finished this oneOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
So basically all I can say is prepare yourselves, if you would. Because it's been days since I finished this one and I absolutely refuse to go quietly into the night about it. I completely adored Ms. Ahdieh's debut novel The Wrath & the Dawn. I thought it did a beautiful job of reworking an extremely problematic fairy tale to begin with, and it did so in believable and beautiful ways. I mean, I went into it frankly expecting a degree of justification for the story's subject matter. But I also was prepared to give the author the benefit of the doubt, seeing as how she went to all the trouble of retelling it for a modern audience. And my willingness was unquestionably rewarded. Which is why I was so eager to get my hands on the sequel and find out what those two people I'd thought about so much in the intervening year had been up to. I felt sure all would be well. Perilous, to be sure. Fraught, to be sure. But well.
The rubble has cleared and Khalid Ibn al-Rashid is on one side of the wreckage, while Shahrzad al-Khayzuran is on the other. Khalid is occupied night and day by helping his people rebuild their shattered city and by forcing himself not to think too much on exactly why Shahrzad left and when, if ever, she will be back. For her part, Shazi is determined not to bring any more hell raining down upon the husband she loves. And as such, that means she is forced to once again play a part. The part of dutiful lover of Tariq. The part of doting daughter and sister. The part of a woman who has come to her senses, who sees the monster king of Rey for what he is, and who is ready and willing to take part in the rebellion that is being crafted to bring about his overthrow. Reality is somewhat more difficult to discern, and it will take more than a magic carpet and a secret love to halt the war that everyone sees coming and possibly bring an end to the curse that has plagued the king and his people for so long.
So. I have a Goodreads shelf entitled "Absolute Train Wrecks." And while there is not what you might call a long list of titles on that shelf, the ones that are there are the ones that drove me to absolute distraction. They are the ones that were such a hot mess that I was forced to rant aloud to my husband and closest of friends in order to somehow process the magnitude of how wrong everything went. Unfortunately, that shelf has acquired its latest denizen. Because I literally cannot seem to overstate how disappointed/enraged/appalled I was by this book. At the 3/4 mark, I seriously considered not finishing it at all. It was bad, guys. So bad that Beth came over to help run damage control by talking it out. So bad that Aaron immediately saw the writing on the wall and took me out to see the new Captain America film to remind me that there are still good things in the world. But finish it, I did. And then I immediately cast about finding a different home for the copy I'd bought so that it wouldn't darken my door a moment longer than necessary. That's right, we're talking The Actor and the Housewife levels of anger and resentment here. I told you it was bad.
The thing is, I felt like the tight narrative grip that held throughout the first book completely unraveled in this one, with devastating consequences. With the exception of one scene, I didn't enjoy a single moment between Shazi and Khalid. Not that they spent anything resembling enough time together. The arbitrarily enforced separation felt so manufactured to me. All the stakes could have been kept just as high had they fought together. Separately, all the tension and beauty and squabbling that made up their relationship dissipated in so much smoke. Ms. Ahdieh excels at dialogue, and yet the only people actually talking were the abruptly introduced secondary couple. I quite liked Irsa and Rahim, but the fact that their scenes wildly outshone the protagonists' left me cold and troubled. And finishing it only confirmed my conviction that this sequel, its pacing and characterization, was a slapdash effort at best. Essentially every plot point and/or "twist" in the final third felt like a cop out to me. Characters behave thoroughly inconsistently and too little is made of the few moments that should have held a lot of meaning, robbing them of any shred they might have held onto. I'm sorry, but I cry foul. Cheap emotional manipulation and sub-par storytelling was not what I witnessed in the first novel, and it was not what I expected here. But it was what I got, and when I think of it, I still feel ill. Shut it down, book. We're through. ...more
I thought I was done with the crying when I finished The Raven King last night at an only slightly ungodly hour.Originally reviewed here @ Angieville
I thought I was done with the crying when I finished The Raven King last night at an only slightly ungodly hour. But then this morning I got up and I just didn't know what to do. And when I realized I had to sit down and write about how this book made me feel, the tears start welling up again. Honestly, Aaron will likely never let me read another series aloud to him again for all the tears he carefully wiped off my cheeks with this one. I am not a huge book crier as a rule, and I did not cry reading the other three. But it wasn't so much the sadness as it was the saying goodbye. I hate saying goodbye. Even though I am a serial rereader, there is no escaping that particular goodbye that comes at the end of a series that has meant . . . more than a lot. That contains characters I have loved the precise way I have loved these ones. These boys. That Blue. This incredible writing that makes me want to prowl the streets at night reciting passages aloud to the stars. I hated waking up this morning. Because it meant we all had to move on. And I really didn't know what to do.
I just can't see any way to avoid all the spoilers at this point, lovelies. But I do try. We have arrived at the final volume. Vos admonitos.
Richard Gansey III knows. He knows this is the closest he's ever been, or may ever be, to finding Glendower. He knows if he doesn't take matters into his own hands, Ronan Lynch will most definitely not graduate Aglionby Academy. He knows the precise texture and feel of Blue Sargent's laughter on his skin. He knows Adam Parrish's bargain with the mystical forest Cabeswater could play out in even more heretofore unexpected ways than it already has. And he knows the odds are better than even he may not survive to see any of these things happen. But, being Gansey, he presses forward nonetheless, determined to find his sleeping king, extract his favor, and see the friends he loves so well possessed of the things they need to survive with or without him. And, to his continual if grateful bemusement, so do said friends. Even as a preponderance of ruthless personages come to roost in Henrietta. Even as Gansey and Blue continue to bash up against the wall that is telling their friends about their feelings for one another. Even as Ronan spends more and more time at the Barns, Adam spends more and more time with Ronan, and both of them spend more and more time within the darkening vines of Cabeswater. Even as an unusual and overeager classmate makes indefatigable advances on the tight-knit group as a whole, And so, reinforced as they are by each other, they draw inexorably closer to the uncertain fate that has always awaited them.
Depending on where you begin the story, it's about my undying love for Ronan Lynch. Ever since the very first pages of The Raven Boys, I have loved Ronan. In English. In Latin. In every single one of the languages on his crazy puzzle box. And I can't help but be utterly unsurprised (and proud, in an odd way) at how this final volume seemed to say so much of it was Ronan's story at heart.
Of all the options in the world, Ronan Lynch was the most difficult version of any of them.
Depending on where you begin the story, it's about my gut-wrenching love for Adam Parrish. Adam, too, I fell in love with on contact. While others have questioned his choices, his motivations, his endless stubborn drive and solitude, I have soaked up every one. If I had the most fears and questions when it came to Adam's fate, it was because I unquestionably identify with him the most.
Need was Adam's baseline, his resting pulse. Love was a privilege. Adam was privileged; he did not want to give it up. He wanted to remember again and again how it felt.
But no matter where you begin the story, it's about Maggie Stiefvater's astounding skill with words, her characters that live and breathe so loudly and fiercely that they feel inviolably real, and the marvelous story in which they are entwined. The Raven King clocks in at a perfectly healthy 438 pages, and it feels funny to say that the entirety of those unfold at a breakneck pace. There are, of course, those trademark moments of indolent splendor, of quiet breaths held and exhaled. But I maintain, the experience of reading the novel remains one of rushing toward a conclusion no one, the reader least of all, is prepared for. But it comes. It comes. It comes. In the sweetest and gentlest of exchanges between Gansey and Blue. In the terrifying and violent passes through Cabeswater. In the exquisite light of fireflies dotting the air around the Barns as words rise up and burst inside Ronan. If The Dream Thieves made it possible for me to love and follow Gansey by showing me why each of the boys and Blue loved and followed him, The Raven King shows Gansey why. And it was such a beautiful artistic choice—here at the end—to show the king just what he had wrought. To hold the mirror (in all its forms) up, so that he could see the beautiful and strange constellation he and his quest had made of their lives.
I wanted so much. I wanted, I wanted. And even though the previous books in the series taught me to be afraid on all possible fronts, there were moments in this one that gave me new reasons. There were also moments that surpassed my expectation with their perfect rightness. And there were new gifts, given at a point when I thought I had passed the time when I could ask for more. But I should have known better. When it comes to Stiefvater's writing and this series, there is always more. The point was the longing, the packing into a single book, into a single series, the feeling of knowing and of being known. The feeling of finding, of waking, of wanting, of home....more
I love it when I find myself reviewing another Laura Florand winner. I can't believe it's been exactly three yeaOriginally reviewed here @ Angieville
I love it when I find myself reviewing another Laura Florand winner. I can't believe it's been exactly three years since I initially fell in love with her Amour et Chocolat series, but I have no trouble at all recalling the pure pleasure I took in devouring each successive book about egomaniacal, yet devastatingly charming chocolatiers and patissiers and the strong-willed, wonderfully intelligent women whose misfortune/fortune it was to make and keep their acquaintance. Chase Me is the second book in Florand's Paris Nights series, though they don't necessarily have to be read in order. This series is set in Paris (my favorite of Florand's settings). And while it contains all the wit and charm and emotion of her other works, it also incorporates just the perfect touch of classic Hollywood screwball romantic comedy. It turns out to be the perfect recipe.
Violette Lenoir is violently less than thrilled to find an after-hours intruder in the pristine kitchen of her top restaurant Au-dessus. With the American president rumored to be eating at her restaurant within the next few days, the press breathing down her neck, and a lifetime of battling against the rampant machismo of the Paris chef scene under her belt, she does not hesitate to throw a knife or three at Chase Smith's head first and ask questions second. The fact that the unwanted "private security" specialist promptly proposes does nothing to mitigate Violette's rage, no matter how thick he lays on the Texas charm. The problem is that after their battle of wits and weapons, he refuses to listen to Vi and go away. Worse, he appears to genuinely believe himself in love with her. But what truly enrages her, he refuses to tell her what in the world it is he does, why he was in her kitchen in the first place, and why the health inspectors inexplicably shut down her restaurant on a trumped up charge immediately after his unexpected arrival. But somewhere amid his intermittent disappearances and reappearances in her life, Vi is bound and determined to extract and answer to each and every question.
So it's basically every interaction between Chase and Vi, you know? Chase's incorrigible optimism, Vi's glorious anger, and their mutual ineffable charm just carry the day. Individually and collectively, they never let up and I would never want them to. For example:
Violette Lenoir sighed heavily. "Are you some kind of manifestation of my worst nightmare?"
"Hey." That hurt. "You're straight out of my dreams."
"You know I crush a hundred men just like you on a daily basis?"
Okay, not that he wanted to destroy her self-confidence or anything, but . . . seriously? "I'm pretty sure you don't, honey. Just because they pretend to be me in video games doesn't mean they're actually like me."
Just for a second, a flicker of genuine caution showed in her eyes, and her left hand scooped up another throwing knife. Aww, and they'd been getting along so well. He backpedaled. "But don't worry, sweetheart. I may not be crushable, but you're safe with me."
"You're not. Safe with me."
He sighed with delight. "I know."
Ugh, I love these two. It's embarrassing to admit, but I just wasn't quite expecting to love them as much as I did. I was stoked that the culinary whiz this time around was going to be a woman, and I was cautiously skeptical of a cocky American hero (I like my French heroes, so sue me). But they were both just note perfect. For every ounce of arrogant swagger, Chase made up for it with irresistible devotion, to his dangerous job and to Vi from day one. For her part, Vi has earned every ounce of her own pride and confidence. Her outrage (throughout the book) at Chase's intrusions and advances is essentially one hundred percent justified. I love that, and I love that Chase recognizes that and makes space for it. These two adults are fully independent, fully committed, and fully bowled over by the role the other is suddenly playing in their lives. And if Chase adapts a little lot more quickly than Vi is able to, it only makes their road that much more intriguingly bumpy and amusing. One more favorite (early) encounter:
"So this Quentin . . . what's his last name? Where does he live?"
"I took care of him," she said dryly. That was the point, right? She took care of all problems cocky males presented her with. That was how she could stay chef.
Yeah, it would be nice if it was all about the food, the way she'd imagined as a kid, but she'd learned long before she finished her first apprenticeship that it was mostly about surviving in a world of sexist assholes.
"Stabbed him?" her burglar asked hopefully.
"I brought one of the pallets of milk down on his head when he pushed me back against the shelves. Mild concussion."
He weighed that a moment. "Much of a struggle before you managed to bring the milk down on his head?"
Maybe. She lifted her chin at him and braced her feet. Even if there was a struggle, I still won.
"Yeah, you know what? I think I'll still pay him a little visit. Don't worry, I can find his address on my own."
"I don't need a hero," she said dryly.
He raised his eyebrows. "How do you know? It sounds like you've never had one."
These characters are epically magnetic.
Lastly, I wanted to touch on the key placement of this novel in the aftermath of the Paris attacks. It plays a visceral role in the lives of all of the characters, both inherently in Chase's career as a counterterrorist operative, and much more profoundly in the fierce spirit of Vi, her friends, her family, and the people of Paris. It was lovingly and thoughtfully written and added a beautiful element of gravitas to this fizzy, heartfelt novel. Chase Me earned an instant spot on my best of the year list, no question....more