This week, I’m over at Nerds of a Feather with a review of Sanctuary by Andi C. Buchanan. It’s a book that centres diversity through a found family ghost story.
Although I’m not a big fan of King Arthur and the legends of Camelot, I could not resist the promise of a queer retelling. Which is a good thing for me, because Spear was a book I genuinely savoured.
It retells the story of the knight Percival, referred to here as Peretur which is the sixth century Welsh version of the name. However, the issue of a name is a fraught one. She was raised in the wild by her mother, a mentally unstable woman who nevertheless has great magical ability and who knows that there is power in names. So for a while, the main character has no fixed name, but is referred to in different ways, depending on whether her mother is having a good day or a bad one.
Eating daily from one of the treasures of the Tuath De, Peretur grows up strong. Knowing how to speak to the animals and insects helps her to learn how to hunt and fight. One day, she saves a group of knights and knows that it is time to leave her home and meet her destiny: to become a knight and to answer the call of the Lake.
It is strange to me that this is such a short book (coming in at under 200 pages, it’s really an oversized novella) because it has the feel of an epic. The language is rich, the initial shock of it seeming almost purple before I acclimatised to its beauty. It paints a natural world that is vibrant and alive, filled with its own secrets and companions, which contributes to a sense of the mythic.
This is shored up by the interweaving of Celtic legend into the traditionally rather Christianised tales of Camelot. Although the Celtic deities nominally remain in the Overland, away from mortals, their presence and the consequence of their actions remain very present. Likewise, the four treasures of the Tuatha De Danann — the stone, the sword, the spear and the cauldron — are material items fought over by immortals and mortals alike. This interweaving brought a new angle to the story for me, making it of more interest, and was so neat it seems surprising it hadn’t been thought of before.
(Although, perhaps it has. The author’s note humourously comments on the time-honoured tradition of stealing and reworking elements, common not only to the creative process in general, but in renditions of the legends of Camelot in particular. I’m very unfamiliar with the source material and therefore not in a position to judge definitively.)
Another relatively fresh approach to the tale was the diversity of the cast. While Peretur did not read to me as trans (her pronouns were consistently she/her and there was no indication of gender dysphoria; cross-dressing seemed mostly a matter of practicality and a way of being socially acceptable in the kind of role she wanted to fill), she was most certainly queer. The king’s Companions include knights with a range of skin tones; notably, white is not the assumed default and is explicitly described where present. Nor are the knights necessarily able-bodied. Delightfully, this makes Lance a brown, disabled, bisexual man (thus subverting the love triangle I always hated by making it a triad). The author herself puts it best:
“Most importantly for me, historical accuracy also meant this could not be a story of only straight, white, nondisabled men. Crips, queers, women and other genders, and people of colour are an integral part of the history of Britain — we are embedded at every level of society, present during every change, and part of every problem and its solution. We are here now; we were there then. So we are in this story.”
Spear was the very first book I read in 2022 and it set the bar high. I was captivated by the magic of it, and its poignant longing to belong even after having the door shut in one’s face (multiple times). In the end, I don’t know whether to hope for a sequel or to simply relish this compact slice of epic.
In my TBR report for January, I mentioned getting sucked in to Kobo’s subscription service. One of the ways that happened was through Murder Most Actual by Alexis Hall. The book is currently being offered as a Kobo exclusive and since I’ve very much enjoyed what I’ve read of Hall’s work to date, I couldn’t resist.
Murder Most Actual is, unsurprisingly, a murder mystery. Liza and Hanna’s marriage is going through a rough spot, so Hanna books the couple in for a weekend at a secluded castle-turned-hotel in the Scottish Highlands. The lack of internet and mobile phone reception seems ideal for giving Liza some distance from her work as a popular true crime podcaster… until they get snowed in. And the bodies start to drop. Literally: the first victim is a guest that falls from the castle tower.
Of the books by Alexis Hall I’ve read so far, Murder Most Actual reminded me most of The Affair of the Mysterious Letter. Both are books in which the author is messing about with genre in a fun way that is at times rather meta (though I note he does a bit of this in Boyfriend Material as well). In Murder Most Actual this takes the form of bringing together both murder mystery and true crime, then looking at the gaps between them, and bringing some critiques of those genres.
The murder mystery elements come out most strongly in the characterisation. Fans of Cluedo will immediately pick up on the colour-coding of the other guests: the reverend wearing a green sweater, the colonel in the mustard tie. Not only was this an entertaining nod to a landmark work of the genre, it also helps immensely to keep track of the large cast of characters. There are also nods to other giants in the field; Agatha Christie’s mark can be seen on the short inspector with the dubious foreign accent who is hot on the trail of a criminal mastermind. These characters are ridiculously stereotypical in a fun way that helps to point out how over-the-top murder mysteries can be.
Although the secondary characters are not exactly well-rounded, Liza and Hanna certainly are. The author used this technique previously in Boyfriend Material and it works here to good effect. Their relationship has nuance; both of them love each other a great deal and want to make things work, but have grown apart over time and have coping mechanisms that make things worse. Insecurities come up and although they are dealt with in the course of the story, it is acknowledged that they will more than likely come up again.
One of the key conflicts that comes up between them is that Hanna just doesn’t get Liza’s interest in true crime. This is one of the ways in which the genre gets critiqued. Hanna has reservations about the ethics of the genre and while she agrees that Liza behaves ethically for the most part, there are times when Liza crosses the line by asking inappropriate questions and harassing other guests — who, Hanna is at pains to point out, are people. It also sends Liza running off into danger when the most prudent choice would be to head in the opposite direction. Nevertheless, I found Liza’s obsession with solving the puzzle she’s presented with to be relatable.
Murder Most Actual is definitely not the most subtle of the author’s work, with a tendency to lampshade his points. It also felt overly long, with the middle dragging. Given the number of characters, a novella form might have done it a disservice and cutting the number of characters reduces the pool of suspects. Still, I could feel my attention wandering at times.
But on the whole, it was a fun book and an entertaining read.
Published: November 2021 by Kobo Originals Format reviewed: E-book (epub), 302 pages Genres: Mystery Source: Kobo Available:Kobo
This week, I’m over at Nerds of a Feather with a review of The Aurora Cycle by Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff. It’s a stylish teenage space opera offering action and adventure.
This week, I’m over at Nerds of a Feather with a review of The Art of Broken Things by Joanne Anderton. It’s a new collection of short stories by one of Australia’s most talented writers of dark speculative fiction.
February is the month of Valentine’s Day, so I usually like to review some romance novels. But sometimes what I really want is an action-packed space adventure with a grudging friendship at its heart.
Rig lives on the fringes of a society carved up by three human factions. Once, she was a brilliant inventor for one of the factions. Now, she devotes her energy to smuggling refugees from the factions’ war to safe places, making the occasional legitimate cargo run in order to make some money. When her former faction catches up with her, she finds herself thrown together with a deadly fighter with a mysterious past. The pair team up to escape and rescue Rig’s sister from her former faction.
Bluebird was such fun to read. It had a cinematic style and had some great set pieces, starting with a sharp-shooting game at a bar and moving at various points through a couple of motorbike(ish) chases, a heist/spy infiltration of a ball and a spaceship chase through a debris field, to name a few. It kept a good action-adventure pace, while still managing some quieter, more emotional scenes where the characters connect.
The majority of the story is told in a close third-person perspective focused on Rig. This is interspersed with interludes detailing Ginka’s backstory.
Bluebird has been compared to the TV show Firefly and I can definitely see aspects of it. Rig is a sassy rebel on the fringes of society, trying to keep her ship together and get paid while sticking it to those in charge. Ginka also has a bit of a River Tam vibe to begin with: petite but deadly, and a bit niave about how the world works. But there’s no rag-tag crew; while there are some found-family feelings here and there, the true heart of the story is the friendship that develops between Rig and Ginka. I appreciated that it was something the characters particularly valued. In this sense, the story reminded me a bit more of Archivist Wasp… although that may also have been a bit of Ginka’s techno super-ninja vibe paired with Rig’s hardy make-do survival. And while there is no romance between these characters, they do have love interests elsewhere (June, Rig’s sexy-librarian girlfriend, is an absolute delight).
Given that this was a debut novel, the style was very readable, without any of the awkwardness that sometimes creeps in. However, there were a few places where the plot felt a little thin and the worldbuilding wasn’t the most complex. For example, it didn’t seem plausible that there was so very little information known about one of the factions when it remains a major player in galactic politics. That said, these quibbles weren’t enough to detract from my enjoyment.
All in all, I had a blast reading Bluebird and recommend it if you’re in the mood for a fun space romp. I’ll be keeping an eye out for more work from this author in future.
The Rook by Daniel O’Malley had been languishing on my Mt TBR for some time when the TV series was released. I watched the first season, or maybe part of the first season, before eventually wandering off to shinier shows. More recently, I dusted off the book because it fit a prompt for last year’s Magical Readathon and I figured I’d be able to skim through it fairly quickly since it didn’t seem all that interesting.
Friends, I have learned my lesson once again: always read the book first. It turns out the TV show took itself way too seriously, added some distasteful elements for drama and completely murdered the tone of the book.
Myfanwy Thomas wakes up in a London park with no memory of who she is and surrounded by bodies wearing latex gloves. In her pocket, she finds a letter from her former self offering her a choice: flee and start a new life, or return to the supernatural organisation she worked for and discover who has betrayed her.
The Checquey is rather like if the X-Men ran MI5. All of the top level members (named after chess pieces) have supernatural powers, including Myfanwy. But Myfanwy’s real superpower is a gift for administration. This delighted my heart in so many ways. In fact, the beginning annoyed me a bit with the way the old Myfanwy was so amazingly organised — leaving letters and binders full of information on her life — while the new one seemed more bumbling and reactive. However, her bewilderment makes it all the more satisfying as she grows into her powers, both supernatural and personal.
The letters and binder the old Myfanwy has prepared makes for a smart, plot-relevant way of info-dumping. The reader gets to learn about the people and organisation along with the new Myfanwy. As the book progresses and there’s less need for explanation, these morph more into a diary, giving us a glimpse into the old Myfanwy’s life and the predicament in which she found herself. It becomes a clever way to offer more pieces of the puzzle. Because the heart of the novel is a mystery: who has betrayed Myfanwy and why?
While this heart is very genuine, the story is also very tongue-in-cheek. Myfanwy’s organisational powers are definitely part of this. It amused me how Myfanwy never picked up on the way the underlings around her were terrified of her as a stickler for procedure and protocol. There was also a lot more slime and tentacles than you’ll see in James Bond (and the TV series; why, oh why did they cut that out?). Some of the villains also played with James-Bond-style tropes in a way that was very entertaining.
Another big strength of the book was the relationships between the female characters. It’s hard to say much here without giving spoilers, but I appreciated the variety in the relationships between the women and how they were never in competition. It was also a delight to see multiple competent women at work. And while Myfanwy is not exactly the celibate type, her focus is most definitely her career and not her love life; there was no romance shoehorned in.
In conclusion, I’m immensely relieved that I didn’t let the TV series talk me into unhauling The Rook without reading it first. I would have missed out on a smart, funny book that was an absolute delight. I’m very happy I have the sequel on hand… and that a third in the series is scheduled for release later this year.
This week I’m over at Nerds of a Feather with a review of Dark Rise by C.S. Pacat. It’s a story that brings some shades of grey to the traditional battle between light and dark, walking a fine line between paying homage to classic works of fantasy and generic predictability.
An incomplete list of things that I love: historical fantasy romance; sunshine/stormcloud pairings; competent ladies (even as side characters); land magic; sentient (or semi-sentient) manor houses; stolen kisses in a private library. I’m pretty sure A Marvellous Light was written just for me.
An administrative error sees Sir Robert Blyth (Robin to his friends) become a civil service liaison to England’s magical bureaucracy. His predecessor has disappeared and Robin’s magical counterpart, Edwin Courcey, is not happy about it. However, when Robin is cursed, the two are forced to work together to unravel both curse and mystery.
Robin is the sunshine of the pair, although he doesn’t have a lot of cause to be cheerful. His parents spent or gave away most of the family fortune, leaving Robin to scrape together enough to keep things running after they died. Being treated like items in their parents’ art collection forged a strong bond between Robin and his sister, but he doesn’t exactly have many friends. In fact, it was a rival of his parents that assigned him his new position, thinking it to be a dead-end job. Nevertheless, for the most part, Robin remains charming, well-mannered and extremely likeable. While intellectual pursuits are not his strong point, he’s good with people and an astute judge of character. He’s a little reckless, but sweet. He’s also totally clueless about magic.
In contrast, Edwin Courcey is from a powerful old magic family. Possessing very little magic himself, he has been the butt of their disdain for years and it has taught him to hold few things dear, lest they be taken from him. What he lacks in magical power, he makes up for with knowledge and intelligence. His prickly surface makes his underlying tenderness and vulnerability all the sweeter.
One person with whom he shares this tender side is his mother, who suffers from chronic illness. Although we see little of her on the page, we get to see what it costs her when she interacts with even a couple of people. Such representation in a historical fantasy was refreshing.
M/M romances can often suffer from a lack of female characters, but I was delighted to see that wasn’t the case in A Marvellous Light. While it could have stood to show a few more female friendships, the variety in the female characters worked well, ranging from badass to bad-tempered. A couple of highlights for me included Robin’s sister, Maude, who loves her brother dearly but is insistent he send her to university now that their parents are out of the picture. Another is Miss Morrissey, Robin’s new secretary, whose fearsome competence is the only reason the office isn’t falling down around their ears… but who was overlooked for Robin’s role by virtue of being female and Punjabi.
The magic system is an interesting one. While the use of gestures in magic is hardly a new idea, it’s not often the sole focus and the author manages to frame it in an original way. Giving Edwin an assistive device in the form of a simple bit of string makes the system both visceral and comprehensible, as well as being an interesting bit of character building.
Cleverly, this dominant form of magic is also not the only form of magic in the book. Land magic also makes an appearance in a number of ways. The presence of multiple systems of magic give some nuance to the story, particularly in relation to marginalised magic users and the subversion of the dominant form. However, this depiction of land magic has thus far been very much tied to Western conceptions of land ownership and boundaries. Perhaps this is fitting for the setting and genre, but remains vaguely disappointing. Despite that, I found it highly entertaining to see two city boys be chased around by a murderous hedge.
The ending was a well-balanced mix of enough conclusion to be satisfying, while at the same time leaving some big loose ends to be woven in to the rest of the series.
I am a big fan of KJ Charles and A Marvellous Light has a similar feel to much of her work: similar period of history, a good balance between action and character development, similarly explicit sex. One difference that’s worth noting is in relation to the sex scenes; while Charles tends to feature strong BDSM elements, they are only very faintly present in A Marvellous Light. This is perhaps balanced out by the torture scene the latter opens with.
So, while I had a few quibbles, A Marvellous Light was very much my cup of tea and is a strong opening to a very promising series.
Juliet Marillier has long been a favourite of mine, mostly thanks to her deft blending of magic, fairytale and history. Of all her books, the Blackthorn and Grim trilogy have been my favourite, so I was delighted when she released a new series about the children of the eponymous couple.
Liobhan and Brocc are students at Swan Island, a hidden community of warriors and spies. Competition for graduate positions is fierce, with most of the cohort failing and being sent home. However, the siblings are talented and have a good chance at being accepted. Nevertheless, they are surprised when their teachers request they undertake a mission; their talents as musicians make them ideal candidates to track down the missing Harp of Kings.
The Harp of Kings brings together several of Marillier’s older series. There are direct references to the Sevenwaters and Wolfskin series, plus of course Blackthorn and Grim. You don’t need to have read any of these before The Harp of Kings, though I think it helps to have read Blackthorn and Grim. Not only does it provide context about the parentage of Liobhan and Brocc, but it also has the strongest stylistic influence.
For example, as with the previous series, this book is told in first person, with the point of view alternating between three characters: Liobhan, Brocc and their fellow student Dau. Marillier has mentioned before that she’d hoped to continue writing more of Blackthorn and Grim after the final book in their trilogy, Den of Wolves (indeed, the conclusion of that book suffered somewhat from feeling rushed). While she hasn’t been afforded that opportunity, the characters of Blackthorn, Grim and (redacted) map rather neatly onto the POV characters in The Harp of Kings.
Liobhan is a woman in a male-dominated field and is the only female candidate to Swan Island among her cohort. She’s been brought up by her feminist mother to know her own value. Hungry for success, she fights hard and is good at what she does. Her confidence can be misinterpreted as cockiness, and indeed, if she were a male character I might enjoy seeing her get her comeuppance. Instead, her battle with her temper in the face of the patriarchy makes her all the more sympathetic. And fighting is not all she does; her skills as a musician are highly valued. Nor is she afraid to show her vulnerability.
Her brother, Brocc, is less warrior and more bard. It is clear from early on that he’s only on Swan Island for his sister; his heart lies more truly with his music, his head in the clouds. He doesn’t desire power, but misses home.
The final POV character is Dau, a fellow student and rival of Liobhan’s. Being brought up more traditionally, he harbours some sexist views and tries to convince Liobhan to give up fighting in favour of the more feminine pursuit of music. His voice is more distinct, tending towards the factual and detached, though this softens along with his character — and indeed with our view of him as we come to learn more of his backstory.
The story’s premise also owes something to the parent trilogy, which often involved the investigation of some mystery that most likely has some kind of supernatural element. As with many of the author’s works, the fae have a strong presence, though it’s not always recognised immediately. Other common signature elements present include dogs and herbalism.
I would give a content warning on this book for cruelty to animals, bullying and sexual assault.
I’m not sure how I feel about the continued presence of sexual assault in Marillier’s work. The incident in The Harp of Kings certainly could have been much worse, and is a far cry from the rape that took place in the first of the Sevenwaters books, Daughter of the Forest. And it is important to acknowledge the existence of such incidents, particularly as they relate to the themes of female powerlessness and feminism present in this book and its parent trilogy. However, I’m not fond of their reoccurrence across the author’s body of work.
The book also doesn’t do much with diversity on any spectrum. While Dau masquerades as mute farrier’s apprentice for much of the story, his muteness is mostly for plot purposes and is discarded when it doesn’t serve. The story doesn’t really delve into the lived experience of permanently being that way.
However, on the whole, I enjoyed The Harp of Kings. It served up exactly what long-time fans of Marillier have come to expect, and will appeal to readers who will appreciate badass lady warriors and historical fairytales.
Today has not gone to plan. A weather change is coming through, leaving me in a significant amount of pain. I need to start making dinner in an hour and the kitchen is still a disaster from yesterday. The dog is whining to be taken for a walk (again). And I’ve been trying to write this review all day; I need to get some words down so that it doesn’t become yet another task piled on tomorrow’s list. In the midst of all this chaos, A Psalm for the Wild-built by Becky Chambers is a book I can turn to for comfort.
Sibling Dex is a tea monk in service to the God of Small Comforts. They ride around the moon of Panga listening to the problems of others and dispensing tea and permission to take a quiet moment. They have worked very hard to be good at what they do and are recognised for their efforts. But even though they have a good life, they remain unsatisfied. On a whim, they leave the area of Panga settled by humans and strike out into the wilderness. There they encounter the first robot seen by humans in centuries.
A Psalm for the Wild-built is a novella that fits squarely in the genre of solarpunk. This is perhaps most obvious in the setting and worldbuilding. Like most solarpunk, it is set in a world that was heading towards ecological catastrophe but managed to pull back from the brink and develop more sustainable ways. Sibling Dex starts in the one city left on Panga. There’s greenery and solar panels everywhere, while the buildings are made of biodegradable materials. This society moved away from fossil fuels, so there’s nary a car in sight; Sibling Dex tours the countryside on a bike with an electric motor, towing a wooden caravan. While we don’t see a lot of the small towns Dex regularly visits, the impression is given that each of these has found their own unique way of living, adapted to their particular landscape. Chambers once again shows her mastery by giving us enough worldbuilding for the place to feel interesting and lived in, but not enough so that we feel like we have seen it all and thus leaving room for the rest of the series.
However, solarpunk is about more than just setting, it is about hope. A Psalm for the Wild-built hits this even before the story has started, with the dedication reading “For anybody who could use a break.” If that sounds relatable, so will many of the other problems you find in this story. They range from the mundane (like forgetting to put out a towel before getting in the shower) to the significant (messing up the first day at a new job) to the existential (feeling like you have no purpose in life). These are not high conflict problems but are still shown to be important and made Dex a very sympathetic character. Their journey through these problems shows them to be fallible and there’s comfort in knowing that if this person — who surely seems from the outside to have their life together and who offers needed respite to others — can face these things and find a way through, then perhaps I can too. They also show that we can all use a break from time to time. Much of the solace and wisdom offered to Dex comes from the robot Mosscap. In her previous work, Chambers has shown a knack for making alien species seem at once both truly alien and yet also relatable. In A Psalm for the Wild-built, she uses that skill for her robot, allowing her to tackle head-on some common stereotypes regarding robots that frequently show up in science fiction. Via Dex’s misunderstandings, she’s able to point out how these stereotypes perhaps haven’t been thought through particularly well and instead offering a smarter and more compassionate alternative.
For a novella, it packs in a lot and I could spend several thousand more words discussing it (I haven’t even started on the intersection between Zen Buddhist and Indigenous perspectives). Instead, it suffices to say that A Psalm for the Wild-built is a smart and compassionate tale that will reward rereading. It’s a reminder to take a break that I highly recommend.
2021 is apparently my year for New Zealand authors. Queen of Swords Press has happily enabled me by releasing Foxhunt by Rem Wigmore this month.
This solarpunk novel shows a world in which humanity managed to halt its headlong rush into ecological oblivion. A greener, more sustainable path is enforced in part by the Order of the Vengeful Wild, a group of masked assassins who execute (or sometimes just discipline) those reported as breaking the new ways. When the most deadly of the Order comes after Orfeus, she must survive long enough to figure out who has falsely accused her and why.
Orfeus is a classic disaster bisexual with a side order of D&D bard. She’s a charismatic music star, good at making friends. However, she sometimes struggles to keep those friends, since her impulsive nature leads her to make thoughtless decisions that often have a negative impact on those around her. She’s cocky and makes mistakes. But despite her flaws, she has a good heart and a great deal of courage, always fighting for what she believes is right.
She’s helped in this by her magic. Orfeus is Blooded, meaning she can heal quickly, boost her energy when she’s tired and even pull lightning out of thin air. There is a scientific explanation given, but a lot rides on the old quote that sufficiently advanced science will look like magic. And it’s plausible in this setting, where Orfeus barters herbs for what she needs (or simply offers a song), and where architectural beauty is just as important as function.
Community is also an important part of the setting. Almost everywhere, there’s a sense of people watching out for each other — even in places where I wasn’t expecting it. As a travelling performer, Orfeus seems a bit outside of this which shows up in the way she’s slow to grasp the implications of her actions on those around her. But she’s not entirely without a sense of community: she still checks up on her neighbour and tries to limit the collateral damage to her hometown when the Order comes for her.
Queer community in particular is central to the story. Orfeus herself is trans. Wolf, the warrior who’s hunting her is genderfluid. There are badasses of all genders among the Order of the Vengeful Wild and a broad range of pronouns are used throughout the book. It’s a delightful disruption to the unrealistic Lone Gay trope.
This focus on community may make the story sound like a cosy one. And to some degree it is. But this is also a story about making difficult decisions — to do the things no one else wants to do, or do the necessary thing even if you don’t want to. It’s a story with sharp edges, showing that no utopia is perfect and that any system is flawed. It went some unexpected places, with the ending in particular catching me by surprise (and most of the characters, as well). However, in retrospect, it seemed suitably foreshadowed and was a satisfying ending, if not the one I wanted.
All in all, Foxhunt wasn’t the cosy read I expected, but remained a thoughtful and nuanced story in a vibrant world that I enjoyed nevertheless.
As I have mentioned previously, there has been some delightful fantasy romance coming out of New Zealand recently. One group of authors have banded together to produce Witchy Fiction, a range of light romance novellas about witches set in New Zealand. Of the titles I’ve read so far, my favourite has been Succulents and Spells by Andi. C. Buchanan.
The book is told from the perspective of Laurel, a witch from a large family of witches. She’s not really sure what she’s doing with her life, having not found her magic specialisation and on the verge of giving up on her Masters degree in linguistics. On one of her rare days off from waitressing, she’s visited by Marigold, who asks to take a sample from the monster living under Laurel’s sharehouse.
Marigold is autistic, a PhD candidate in biological science who in her spare time is researching monster genetics. Like Laurel, she is also from a long line of witches, but doesn’t have magic herself, beyond an ability to talk to monsters. What she does have is an abundance of enthusiasm and warmth.
The Witchy Fiction range seem intended as cosy romance, and Succulents and Spells has that in spades. Both of the main characters are charming, friendly people. Laurel is close with much of her large family, who have an online chat to keep in touch and discuss magic problems. She treats her housemates as found family, making sure they sit and have dinner together whenever possible. And she’s constantly helping strangers out with small spells. Being from Laurel’s perspective, we see fewer of Marigold’s connections, though she speaks of her absent family with affection.
There was a bit of class difference between Laurel and Marigold, but although present it was never an issue between them. Conflict is minimal and mostly the result of misunderstandings; tension is brought in by mysteries needing research. Given the current state of the world, this is a welcome approach and was a delight to read. I also appreciated the way the story normalises including one’s pronouns when introducing oneself.
The story is set in Wellington. Having never visited, I’m not in a position to say how well it invoked the feeling of the place. However, I can say that it never felt overwhelming or like I was expected to know a place I’d never been. In fact, the writing style as a whole was excellent, with enough detail to be evocative but without bogging things down. The dialogue felt very natural.
On the whole, I found Succulents and Spells to be light but thoughtful, an uplifting read for difficult times (or any time, really). It’s the first in a series and concludes with a happily-for now, so I’m looking forward to seeing more from these characters.
Published: September 2020 by Contemporary Witchy Fiction Format reviewed: E-book (epub), 102 pages Series: Windflower #1 Genres: Fantasy, romance Source: Kobo Available: Amazon (AU, CA, UK, US) ~ Barnes & Noble ~ Booktopia ~ Kobo
April 2020 was a bit of a rough time. Australia reeled from devastating bushfires straight into pandemic. Understandably, many books released around then missed my radar entirely. One of those was Monstrous Heart. Fortunately, the recent release of the sequel caught my attention and drew me into this deliciously Gothic series.
Arden Beacon comes from a long line of Sanguis Ignis, magic users whose blood can spark flame. The Beacons have a proud tradition as flame keepers, manning lighthouses all across the country. Arden’s talent is weak and she can aspire only to the smallest of posts. So, when the Eugenics Society offer her a short-term job at a lighthouse of her own in the fishing village of Vigil and afterward the chance to marry the man of her dreams, the offer seems too good to be true.
Arden’s only neighbour on the isolated promontory is Jonah Riven, a rough character rumoured to be half sea-monster and to have murdered his wife, Bellis. Arden finds herself strangely drawn to Bellis’s story and the man at the heart of it.
>This book really embraces its Gothic elements in a number of ways. Riven most obviously stands in for the very shady love interest with the absent wife. More often than not, his shirt is in shreds or done away with entirely. Then we have Lord Justinian as the socially acceptable, but morally repugnant suitor. He lives in a literal crumbling manor house overlooking the sea, and Arden is forced to stay under his roof for a time until he eventually signs off on her suitability as Vigil’s flame keeper.
Vigil itself is a salt-encrusted fishing village where most of the people are poor and uneducated. It’s not quite the sort of place where everyone is distrustful of outsiders, though there are elements of that. However, Monstrous Heart is the sort of story where those with good intentions have them manipulated by less scrupulous characters. No good deed goes unpunished.
Because it embraces these Gothic elements, the story features a number of episodes of sudden violence. It’s a dark tale that should carry trigger warnings including but not limited to sexual assault, assault, drowning, eugenics and blood letting.
Indeed, eugenics and blood letting are major components of the world building. Magic is carried in the blood and activated through blood letting. The Eugenics Society keeps a record of all the blood lines and their abilities, conducting annual tests to scoop up anyone they might have overlooked. They have a keen interest in making sure these powers are maintained; weak though her ability is, Arden is not free to marry whomever she likes, but must gain permission from the society.
Despite the presence of a Eugenics Society, queer characters are not treated poorly by the world or the story, which was delightful to see.
Other elements of the world building sat oddly. There were strange traces of our world, mentions of the familiar twisted out of all familiarity. For example, one meal featured passenger pigeon pie and roasted dodo. It added to the sense of disquiet story builds. Given krakens play a major part of the story, I suspect a Lovecraft reference that I’m not well-versed enough to grasp. However, I hope that the connections will grow a little more clear as the series progresses and we see more of the world.
I found the style of writing a bit clunky in the beginning and the first third of the book is perhaps a touch slow. But it smooths out as things progress and the plot threw me some curve balls I definitely wasn’t expecting.
While it is a dark story, I didn’t find it depressing. I think this is in part due to an awareness of the Gothic tropes being played with, but also due to the human decency of the characters. While there are times they are undeniably selfish, these are balanced out by times when they are trying to help others. The characters all have other people they care about. These positive moments bring hope to the story, even as they serve to highlight the bleakness.
So, if sea monsters and Gothic love stories are your jam, I highly recommend checking out Monstrous Heart. I, for one, am glad the next book is already out.
There has been some delightful fantasy romance coming out of New Zealand recently. Last year’s WorldCon brought The Lord of Stariel to my attention and I’m very glad it did.
Hetta Valstar is not a respectable woman in the strictest sense. After all, she has magic: both illusion and pyromancy, the former of which she puts to use in special effects at the theatre where she’s employed. She wears red lipstick, carries her own luggage and likes to flirt (and sometimes more than flirt). Nevertheless, when her father dies, she returns home to Stariel, the family’s country estate, for the funeral. She must also participate in the ritual to determine the next Lord of Stariel. Most of the family expects Hetta’s eldest brother, Marcus, to inherit, or else her cousin, the former Lord Stariel’s preferred heir. But it is the land itself that gets to choose.
Of course, it chooses Hetta. Chaos ensues.
The Lord of Stariel is a charming story, with a 1920s vibe. Hetta herself reminds me somewhat of Miss Fisher: feminine, independent, capable and a low tolerance for sexism and patriarchal nonsense. Naturally, I loved her immediately.
I also enjoyed the way in which Hetta must come to terms with the life she has to give up, which she liked and wasn’t prepared to leave. Given the unpredictability of the last year or so, I suspect many will be able to relate.
The story is essentially a manor house mystery, although not a murder, despite starting with a death. To say more would be to spoil the story, so instead I shall say that the death brings together a reasonably large cast in the family. There’s a wonderful balance here between family conflict and genuine affection. I particularly enjoyed the warm relationship Hetta has with her brother Marius and the way it is troubled by the secrets being kept. I also appreciated that Hetta gets along with her stepfamily, despite she and her stepmother being rather different people. And although Hetta’s relationship with her cousin Jack isn’t always the smoothest, it is clear that Hetta understands and accepts (to some degree) the reasons why. Her aunt brings a stronger note of discordance with her strict notions of propriety and her outrage when Jack does not inherit Stariel.
Although a large part of the story is about family, that’s not all there is. On Hetta’s return, she finds that the gangly serving boy she had befriended as a child and written to steadily over the years has turned into a very handsome butler. Wyn is thoughful and charming, except when he’s avoiding Hetta. Nor is he the only handsome man around. Hetta’s childhood crush has become the lord of the neighbouring property and is paying attention now that Hetta is a grown woman.
Looming over all of this is the immanent threat of the fae descending on Stariel, now that the King of the Fae has found a way out of the faerie world. The Lord of Stariel needs to step forward and protect the land.
The pacing is perhaps a touch slow in places, as the various threads are being laid in place, but it does make space for some lovely moments of connection between the various characters.
So, if you’re looking for something reasonably light and charming to combat these dark times, The Lord of Stariel may be the book for you.
The Course of Honour has been on my TBR pile for so long that it has been turned from fanfic into the published novel Winter’s Orbit. But despite the long wait and all the hype, it turned out to be not the story for me.
Count Jainan’s home planet of Thea is barely able to keep the Iskat Empire from taking over. So, when the Imperial Prince Jainan’s married to dies suddenly, he allows himself to be rushed into another arranged marriage with the prince’s cousin, Kiem, in order to preserve the alliance. Although Kiem doesn’t exactly take his duties as an Imperial Prince seriously and has a reputation as a bit of a playboy, he proves surprisingly helpful as Jainan starts to investigate the possible murder of his former husband.
This story had a lot of elements I enjoy. I’m a sucker for reserved/sunshine pairings. I also love a good slow-burn romance. And I am all here for political intrigue. But although it was an entertaining enough read, it ultimately left me feeling rather ambivalent.
It’s hard for me to put my finger on exactly why. It may be that it was trying to do too much, because I found that neither the romance nor the science fiction elements were all that robust. There’s a lot of miscommunication between Jainan and Kiem. While there are some good reasons for that, it means that the physical aspects of their relationship jumped from no to go very quickly. (Readers concerned that some of the smuttier aspects of fanfic have made its way into the book should know that the sex scenes fade to black). Any intimacy between the characters is very limited, sandwiched between disasters. Which keeps up the pacing, but isn’t entirely satisfying as a romance.
As for the science fiction elements, aspects of the worldbuilding also felt shaky. There are passing references to God, despite it being unclear if this was in any way tied to our world, emphasising the flimsiness of the religious systems mentioned. But on a more grounded level, a large reptile makes an appearance in a snowy environment without any clue as to how a cold-blooded creature survives such a landscape (magic, I guess?). It’s supposed to serve as a joke (after all, bears are supposed to have four legs and fur), but just jolted me out of the narrative.
(Incidentally, for a while I was wondering if Iskat is meant to be Australia. Case in point: all the wildlife is constantly trying to kill the characters. But the presence of snow conclusively says not.)
That said, there were aspects of the worldbuilding I enjoyed. I’m always here for societies where gay relationships are normalised. The presence of nonbinary characters in this world was also normalised, although this could have used some work. The most prominent of the nonbinary characters (as well as one of the other minor nonbinary characters) was something of an antagonist in the narrative. It would have been good to have this balanced out with a few more nonbinary characters in more supportive roles.
Another thing I enjoyed was that there were lots of women in positions of power (including the Emperor and the Crown Prince). Often in stories that focus on gay relationships, the presence of women seems to disappear entirely. That definitely wasn’t the case in Winter’s Orbit. One of the stars of the show was Kiem’s assistant Bel, who proves herself a total badass on a number of axes (including administration, be still my beating heart). Word is that there’s set to be a companion novel and I have my fingers crossed that it will feature Bel.
This story should come with a content warning for intimate partner abuse. I am not the best person to judge, but it seemed to me to be handled reasonably well. There were times when I thought the good-with-people character should have picked up on it faster. But on the other hand, I think it’s realistic that people attribute the signs to other stories they already have about the victim. And the narrative also makes it clear that it was to certain others’ advantage for them to ignore those signs.
All in all, Winter’s Orbit was an entertaining enough read, but ultimately unmemorable.
Arkady Martine’s novel, A Memory Called Empire, was a stunning debut, offering up a richly imagined world and digging into themes of identity and colonialism with sensitivity and nuance. A Desolation Called Peace meets the high bar set by its predecessor, developing the world and existing relationships with the same eye for nuance, as well as breaking new ground.
Having rescued Lsel Station from the threat of the Teixcalaan Empire (at least for the time being), Ambassador Mahit Dzmare returns home to find she’s in even more hot water there. Fortunately, she’s saved (again, at least for the time being) by the wheels that she set in motion. The new Emperor has sent out a fleet to investigate Mahit’s report of a ravenous alien race not far from Lsel Station. When the fleet captain puts out a call for a diplomat and linguist to make first contact, Three Seagrass answers, collecting Mahit along the way.
There is so much to be delighted by in this book. I was thrilled to have Mahit and Three Seagrass reunited and particularly by the difficulties of their relationship. The story acknowledges the way these characters haven’t known each other for very long and most of that time involved intense events. While in some ways they know each other intimately, in others they don’t know each other at all. This tension permeates their interactions. It is equalised somewhat by Three Seagrass stepping out of her comfort zone and leaving the Jewel of the World, the capital of Teixcalaan. But on board a Teixcalaan vessel, she’s still in Empire territory and the balance of power between these characters remains very unequal. While Mahit is still officially the Ambassador of Lsel Station, there is no call for her to act in that capacity and the military only suffer her presence because she is there at the behest of Special Envoy Three Seagrass. As a non-citizen, Mahit is not entitled to wear the eyehooks so ubiquitous to the Empire. If Three Seagrass storms off in a huff, Mahit is left unable to navigate the ship or even do something as simple as open a door, leaving her literally lost and helpless. Although Mahit and Three Seagrass have missed each other during their time apart, this has not magically erased the colonialist tensions in their relationship.
We also get some new perspective characters. The Fleet Captain Nine Hibiscus enables the reader to get a good grasp of the military situation — not only of the conflict with the aliens, but also of the schisms within the fleet. After all, what is the Empire without politics? However, the author is also savvy enough to give Nine Hibiscus her own emotional stakes. The deliciously understated relationship between the Fleet Captain and her second-in-command subtly echoes some of the dynamics of the relationship between Three Seagrass and Mahit, while also highlighting some differences. Nine Hibiscus and Three Seagrass embody idealised types of Teixcalaans: the war general and the poet. In contrast, Mahit and Twenty Cicada are outsiders, with Twenty Cicada practicing a minority religion and Mahit being a non-citizen. The difference is that despite Twenty Cicada’s otherness, he remains part of the Empire. He is a strange Teixcalaan, but he’s still a Teixcalaan. Thus, he is permitted to wear an eyehook, serve in the military, and make himself an ubiquitous and useful presence in a way that Mahit never can. His decades long, apparently non-sexual relationship with Nine Hibiscus also provides a strong contrast to the central relationship.
Another significant and new perspective character is the Imperial Heir Eight Antidote. He was introduced in the previous book as the clone of Emperor Six Direction. Now approaching his teens, he takes his place on the Empire’s stage. And, as I said before, what is the Empire without politics? Eight Antidote finds himself being manipulated and begins to learn the art of manipulation in turn. He’s a surprisingly sweet character, with an earnestness that’s endearing and makes an excellent foil to his intelligence. It’s unclear at this stage whether there will be any further books in this series (I’ve got my fingers crossed), but if there is, including Eight Antidote in this book is a brilliant stroke. Seeing him as a perspective character when he’s so relatively innocent has made me feel attached to him, reinforcing an emotional connection to the Empire he will one day inherit.
And lastly, we get to the aliens themselves. Parts of the book put me in mind of the movie Arrival. It is, after all, a first contact story with truly alien aliens, creatures who communicate in such a different way to humans but who undeniably communicate. And there’s a time pressure from the military to get things figured out before they come in with guns blazing. This association also amuses me, since Teixcaan itself is a culture of references, with a literary quote for all occasions.
The exact nature of the aliens brought to mind many other (largely recent) texts, which shall remain nameless for the time being to avoid spoilers. This disappointed me at first, since it is becoming well-trodden ground (if it isn’t already so). However, the ending brought a new approach that was satisfyingly original.
While I could go on (and already have at length without even touching on the secrets or space cats), suffice it to say A Desolation Called Peace is an intelligent, engaging book that does a fantastic job of building on what came before. I can only hope there’s more to come.
Published: March 2021 by Tor Books Format reviewed: E-book (mobi), 496 pages Series: Teixcalaan #2 Genres: Science fiction, space opera Source: NetGalley Available:Abbey’s ~ Amazon (AU, CA, UK, US) ~ Barnes & Noble ~ Book Depository ~ Booktopia ~ Dymocks ~ Kobo
Disclaimer: I was provided with a free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.
If you’ve been following along with my posts for a while, you’ll know that this year hasn’t been the best time for my reading. And if you’ve been following me for a long time, you’ll know that I’m a big fan of Intisar Khanani’s work. My review of Thorn dates back to the second year of this blog. In the time since then, Thorn was picked up by a major publisher, revised and rereleased last year. The Theft of Sunlight is Khanani’s first full-length work since 2016 and serves as something of a companion novel to Thorn. It also proved the perfect book to bust through my reading slump.
The kingdom of Menaiya has been plagued for years by Snatchers stealing their children. No one knows who these Snatchers are, and those few children who manage to escape risk a curse awakening in their blood that leaves them a husk of their former self. The only cure for this curse also wipes their memory… and any clue as to the identity of the Snatchers. When the sister of a friend is the latest to go missing, Rae decides to travel from her family’s horse ranch to stay with a cousin in the royal court. There, she hopes to persuade someone to investigate properly. Instead, she finds that someone is her when she is recruited to serve as an attendant to the foreign princess about to marry into the Menaiyan royal family.
Thorn and The Theft of Sunlight have something of a complicated relationship. Thorn was a retelling of the Goose Girl set in an original, richly imagined world. The Theft of Sunlight is not a retelling. Instead it has taken the world set up by Thorn and built on it, filling out some of the elements and themes. Although it’s not a direct sequel, the characters of Thorn are still present and get plenty of screen time. The Theft of Sunlight gives enough context that it can stand alone reasonably well. But for a full appreciation of the nuances of what’s going on (and if you care at all about spoilers), I’d highly recommend first reading Thorn and The Bone Knife (a short story included in the 2020 republication of Thorn).
While I enjoyed seeing more of Princess Alyrra and Prince Kestrin, Rae is undeniably the star of the show. She is pragmatic, down-to-earth and deeply loyal. But she does not give that loyalty blindly. Indeed, she has some serious misgivings about serving the Princess after her first day on the job. Even her cousin’s husband is treated with a wary affection, for while she likes him and approves of his deep love of her cousin, Rae is also aware that Lord Filadon is a nobleman through and through, with his own agenda and manipulations.
Rae is not without her flaws, however. She is blunt-spoken and somewhat prickly because she is used to being judged by her disability. She is also aware of her own tendency to be similarly judgemental, particularly when she feels someone is too pretty to be trusted. Her self-awareness and resolve to do better makes her more sympathetic.
As well as continuing the story of some of Thorn‘s characters, The Theft of Sunlight also picks up some of its themes. In particular, it touches on the risks of living as a young woman. It is not always safe to walk the streets alone in certain neighbourhoods; sometimes it’s not even safe in company. This was present in Thorn, too, but The Theft of Sunlight takes it one step further, showing how much of self defence relies on the notion of being able to run. But what does one do when one isn’t able to run?
Another theme that is expanded upon is the rule of law versus the honour of thieves. Both books in the series show a broken justice system where victims are ignored or gaslighted. When the guards aren’t interested in investigating, the protagonists have turned to thieves for help and a more makeshift kind of justice. While this turns out reasonably okay in Thorn, the limitations are highlighted in The Theft of Sunlight. Not all thieves are honourable or loveable (though some definitely are). And in some cases, Rae’s alliance with Red Hawk brought her significantly more trouble.
Issues of justice, human trafficking, abuse and questionable power dynamics aren’t exactly light going. I found them balanced out with the author’s trademark style. While there are some absolutely awful people, her protagonists genuinely care about others. They are concerned with kindness and doing the right thing. Nor are they alone, since there are affectionate moments with many secondary characters. It’s a tone I feel will appeal to fans of The Goblin Emperor and the work of Becky Chambers.
Investigative novels can get a bit bogged down with talking between characters and thinking through the clues. However, the pace here remained good with enough action to keep things lively. The one downside is that the story finished on a terrible cliffhanger, with the sequel not expected until next year.
I can’t wait.
Disclaimer: I was provided with a free copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.
Published: Self-published in November 2020 Format reviewed: E-book (epub), 252 pages Series: Perth Shifters #2 Genres: Romance, contemporary fantasy Source: Kobo Available: Amazon (AU, CA, UK, US) ~ Barnes & Noble ~ Booktopia ~ Kobo
Disclaimer: The author is a friend. I have done my best to give an unbiased review.
Omega Aodhan Donne has buried his past, his life revolves around his chocolaterie, Little Star, a place where he creates sweet and happy memories. Demisexual, and used to being shoved in the friends category by the time he falls for someone, he throws all his energy into creating romantic moments for others in his store, neglecting his needs. His highlight for two years has been the man who visits his shop every Tuesday.
Beta Thomas Wilson is an historian who believes the past should be unearthed, working as the curator at Western Australia’s only shifter museum, educating children and adults about shifter history. Quiet and hard-working, he allows himself to visit Aodhan at Little Star once a week, as a treat.
When Aodhan decides he wants to get know Thomas better, he offers him a window into a complicated history that influenced the lives of shifters in the whole of Australia, and faces the possibility of Thomas learning too much about his dark past.
After deciding to take it slow, their unconventional relationship becomes a whirlwind, sweeping them up together and blowing open the doors hiding their painful pasts. They couldn’t face their truths alone, but if they’re willing to face them together, Aodhan and Thomas may get the love they’ve always yearned for.
February is the month for romance novels. But not every romance novel is light and fluffy. The Gentle Wolf shows how romance can tackle heavy issues while still exploring the joy of new love.
Character is crucial in a story like this. Both Aodhan and Thomas are likeable, sympathetic people. They work hard and are devoted to their respective professions.
Aodhan strives to make his chocolaterie, Little Star, a safe haven — a place for joyous moments for his customers. This is partly a coping mechanism for dealing with a very traumatic past. However, the scenes at the cafe also show his genuine caring for other people. We get to see how he engineers opportunities to better the lives of his employees — creating a secure job for a formerly homeless man and facilitating training for his assistant — while also taking a very sincere interest in their lives.
Thomas is passionate about shifter history and dedicated to educating the community. Like Aodhan, he’s a great boss who values the specialist knowledge of his employee and encourages her to research and design her own exhibits.
Thomas’s museum is one of the places where the worldbuilding really shines. The story is set in contemporary Perth, albeit an alternate history version where wolf shifters outed themselves to the public in the 80s. Although shifters have gained the general acceptance of the public, there’s still a lot of ignorance prevalent. By allowing the reader to sit in on part of a school group Thomas is educating, the author allows us to not only see Thomas in his element, but also show us how shifters fit into the science of this world.
This also ties in to one of the most brilliant things about this book: its grasp of intersectional marginalisation. Although it is touched on only briefly, it is made clear that while shifters are present in both Indigenous and Anglo societies, each have different attitudes and cultures involving shifters. More relevantly, the story shows that even though shifters have emerged into public consciousness and have won themselves rights, those rights aren’t distributed equally. Alphas remain privileged in both shifter and human societies, while omegas have little protection from abuse. This has been a particular theme not only of this book, but the series as a whole.
As you might have gathered, this is a book that comes with some trigger warnings — which is helpfully announced up front and the details included in the back to assist both those who need the warnings and those looking to avoid spoilers. Readers with sensitivities around child abuse, incest and PTSD will want to tread carefully. No abuse is ever shown explicitly on screen, but remains a shadow cast over the story.
Which may make the novel sound like it’s all doom and gloom. Nothing could be further from the truth. This is a story about healing, and while that is often difficult for the characters, the author makes sure to share with us their moments of joy. Aodhan takes genuine pleasure in being a wolf, and there are some lovely scenes of gatherings with friends, not to mention the excitement of new love. Plus, getting to see the characters begin to come to terms with their issues is cathartic.
It should be noted that healing is not a fast process, so some readers may find the book a little slow. However, I found it entirely suitable to the subject matter and never felt like it dragged. I did feel there was a bit of an imbalance between the characters, with more focus being devoted to Aodhan. But this also felt somewhat appropriate. The issues that these characters face, while both serious, are not equal: Thomas experienced one abusive relationship as an adult, whereas Aodhan faced years of abuse by his family as a child. It makes sense that the latter is going to have a greater impact and need more time and energy to come to terms with.
One last thing that should be mentioned, particularly in relation to representation, is that Aodhan is demisexual. I’m not the best person to judge the quality of this depiction, but I found it a refreshing choice for a romance novel, particularly one that features explicit sex. It is made clear that although it takes Aodhan a fair bit of time before he feels sexual attraction to a person — needing to be around them and establish a friendship first — he is still more than capable of feeling that attraction.
On the whole, The Gentle Wolf is a thoughtful and intelligent romance novel that deals sensitively with some difficult topics. It is a very fitting addition to the Perth Shifters series and I hope to see more in the future.
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timeasmymeasure
