Living Dead Girl

Living Dead Girl, by Elizabeth Scott

A 15-year-old girl has spent the last five years being abused by a kidnapper named Ray and is kept powerless by Ray's promise to harm her family if she makes one false move. The narrator knows she is the second of the girls Ray has abducted and renamed Alice; Ray killed the first when she outgrew her childlike body at 15, and now Alice half-hopes her own demise is approaching ("I think of the knife in the kitchen, of the bridges I've seen from the bus... but the thing about hearts is that they always want to keep beating"). Ray, however, has an even more sinister plan: he orders Alice to find a new girl, then train her to Ray's tastes. Disturbing but fascinating, the book exerts an inescapable grip on readers—like Alice, they have virtually no choice but to continue until the conclusion sets them free.

Sing it, sister.

This book is like a punch to the gut. It's short, painful, and leaves you gasping. That's as far as I want to take that metaphor. This book is supremely unpleasant, a short novella-length narration by a girl who believes (correctly) that she has no power. She's been so carefully trained that even her thoughts do not belong to herself. The connection she draws in her mind between her ten-year-old self's selfishness, and her subsequent 'punishment' is heartbreaking.

Scott writes sparingly, sometimes only one paragraph or a few lines per chapter, for further emphasis. Alice, the abducted, spends her time alternately wishing for death and justifying her continued imprisonment.

On Amazon, almost all of the negative reviews relate to how graphic the book is. In fact, to me, at points it almost felt like a child abductor primer, a step-by-step instruction manual on how to beat the life out of children and bend them to your will. Other review talk about how abrupt the ending is. Interestingly, no one brings up the improbability of the ending, the confluence of events which made it possible for things to fall out as they did. Not to say too many spoilers, but the ending came as such a relief, that maybe that's why no one questioned it. In a book that sticks (for the most part) grippingly to realism, the readers need a bit of the fairy tale ending. Otherwise we'd all turn the last page and want to die. Or become social workers and police officers. The abruptness was fitting, because no matter how things shake out from here, Alice is content.

Bewitching Season

Bewitching Season, by Marissa Doyle

In 1837 London, young daughters of viscounts pined for handsome, titled husbands, not careers. And certainly not careers in magic. Shy, studious Persephone Leland would far rather devote herself to her secret magic studies than enter society and look for a suitable husband. But just as the inevitable season is about to begin, Persy and her twin sister discover that their governess in magic has been kidnapped as part of a plot to gain control of Princess Victoria. Racing through Mayfair ballrooms and royal palaces, the sisters overcome bad millinery, shady royal spinsters, and a mysterious Irish wizard. And along the way, Persy learns that husband hunting isn't such an odious task after all, if you have the right quarry.

This was one of those books to which I had had been looking forward for quite some time. I had to wait all summer before it came to my turn in the queue, and I could pick it up and read it. So you might imagine my disappointment when I discovered that it wasn't quite all that. I'm a big fan of both regency teen novels and magic novels, and any combination thereof (see further Sorcery and Cecelia, or the Enchanted Chocolate Pot; also Amaranth Enchantment). Perhaps it's because I've read too many of these, but Bewitching Season did not strike a chord for me. It starts off with an excellent premise - two young magical twin sisters, about to embark on their Introduction to Society, have to navigate young men as well as nefarious wizards - but about a third or halfway in, I just found myself wanting to shake the main character, Persy. And that didn't go away.

Persy is ostensibly the wallflower and the less attractive of the two sisters because she's less vivacious (we know this because she mopes about it for the first three chapters). An old childhood acquaintence, all grown up and handsome, re-enters their drawing room, and clearly has eyes for her, and Persy for him, and yet we must suffer through the entire course of the book as Persy goes back and forth on he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not, managing to hit every cliche on her path to true love. Thinking that you don't deserve his love because you are the "plain" sister? Check. Believing that because your sister is talking to him (because you are too shy to do so) means that they love each other, even though you are the only person they discuss? Check. Trying to cast a love spell on him even though he is clearly already head over heels? Check. Assuming that all his behaviour after said love spell is just an indication that your magical skillz are too strong for his willpower? Check. Rejecting him to save him from your own heedless attempts to ensnare him? Check. Not to mention, of course, the usual burning touch of hands, breathless glances, etc. etc.

I might have had more patience for this had Persy had other redeeming characteristics - but she kinda doesn't. Maybe it's a facet of being a teenage girl that I've forgotten about, but her behaviour is both rude and selfish, by refusing to confide in her sister because of her own jealous antics and "noble" mindedness. That's really what I disliked the most - her rejection of her sister means the book isn't really about friendship and sisterly relations and adventure, it's about this wah-wah narrator who puts her family and friends in danger by not telling them everything she knows, then goes about refusing to listen to advice and decides the best way to solve everything is to run away. Persy's misguided martyr mindset is inappropriate and irritating when everyone around her just wants her to succeed.

The "main" plot, that of the missing governess, is solved with, really, very little fanfare. Most of the book is taken up with fruitless searches for her, which (while realistic in their futility) are pointless, as in the end, the bad guys bring the girls to her anyhow. So that they could have done absolutely nothing and still found her. Gosh this review sounds bitter. Bewitching Season is really not that bad - inoffensive and harmless, at the very least. I just wish that the relationship Persy has with her little brother was actually between her and her sister. And that she wouldn't whine so much. To paraphrase Love, Actually: "Get a grip, people hate sissies. No one's ever going to like you if you cry all the time."

Adios to My Old Life

Adios to My Old Life, by Caridad Ferrer

As a talented singer-guitarist with a dream of going pro, Alegria Montero is getting fed up with the endless, boring parade of quinceaneras and other family party gigs. She's longing for something bigger. And Oye Mi Canto - a new reality show that's searching for the next Latin superstar - is definitely that. Ali figures she'll never make the cut, but auditioning sounds like a good way to get her overprotective father to take her ambitions seriously.

To Ali's complete shock, she passes her audition. Next thing she knows, she's dealing with wardrobe fittings, cameras, reporters, vocal coaches, and websites designed by lovestruck fanboys. She's also dealing with jealousy, malice, and sabotage among the contestants, all of which has her wondering: Is it really time to shoot for the stars and try to win the whole competition, or is it time to say "Cut!" and become a normal teenager again?

Adios has a lot of things going for it - humor, teen angst, glitter and a peppy, poppy voice. The rhythm of the writing feels very fresh and true, with the spanish interspersed and the natural cadences of speech. The plot seems ludicrous, but Ferrar plays with that, trying to make the characters as real as possible so we accept the circumstances. Ali Montero is an uber talented seventeen year old, who can play guitar as well as piano, and who sings the old ballads as well as she does the hot new singles. She's got a place assured in the competition, a hot assistant director making eyes at her, a ever loyal cousin, a loving father, and one mean bitch nemesis. In the end, the utter absurdity of the plot does overwhelm the book. It's a modern fairy tale wrapped up in American Idol, and everything comes out okay in the end with the fairy god(father) pulling the strings. It's a soothing, easy read, because you know that all the conflicts will end up with a happy ending, good will triumph over evil, and that everyone gets exactly what they deserve.

Unfortunately, the utter niceness of it all brings down the depth of the story - why care about Ali's arguments with her father about whether she can handle this type of life when you know it will all be solved when Ali proves she can be cool under pressure and finds her father a nice romance? Why care about Ali's (kinda ridiculous) break-up with Jaime when you know that although he lives in New York and she lives in Miami, there's going to be an easy solution for everyone concerned? [NB. An easy albeit, creepy solution, in which he follows her around all day, filming her, mmmm.] All the choices and characters in Adios are black and white - which isn't to say that they're bad, just. . . less great. There's little character development, because Ali already is (basically) perfect. She's stressed, to be sure, but she entertains no doubt, and she never questions herself. And maybe she doesn't need to, because she makes all the right decisions, but it's not the most compelling read.

I'm more upset by this than I really ought to be, because the writing itself is so sparkly and sparky and kicky, that it deserves better material. It sounded like a real person talking, and first person point of view books need that kind of voice. As a narrator, I utterly believed in Ali. I just wish she had more interesting things to talk about.

Mara, Daughter of the Nile

Mara, Daughter of the Nile, by Eloise Jarvis McGraw

Mara is a proud and beautiful slave girl who yearns for freedom. In order to gain it, she finds herself playing the dangerous role of double spy for two arch enemies - each of whom supports a contender for the throne of Egypt.

Against her will, Mara finds herself falling in love with one of her masters, the noble Sheftu, and she starts to believe in his plans of restoring Thutmose III to the throne. But just when Mara is ready to offer Sheftu her help and her heart, her duplicity is discovered, and a battle ensues in which both Mara's life and the fate of Egypt are at stake.

The description on the back of the book is exactly so - and it sounds kinda fun and dramatic and romantic, which is maybe why I feel so let down. Mara is good, but there were just some. . . parts. . . which made me really fall out of sympathy for the characters. The book takes place ostensibly in the reign of Pharaoh Hatshepsut, one of the famous women rulers of Egypt. The country is in turmoil, drained by her extravagent self-aggrandizing demands and insistence on two massive obelisks in the middle of a temple. An underground revolution quietly plots to remove her from the throne and place her half-brother in her stead. And okay, here is where I began to lose all liking for the romantic leads - part of the reason that they're trying to get rid of Hatshepsut is because she has the effontry to style herself king rather than royal wife and consort, and prefers erecting monuments to fighting wars. And sure, make the argument that we're trying to be historically accurate, and that those could have been valid points against her during the period of the book, rather just sexist excuses to get rid of her. But then you sort of have to go - but the rest of the book is wildly inaccurate! Why stick perniciously to something which casts your heroes in such a repugnant light, then play fast and loose with the rest of the facts?

And yes, I'm no preeminent scholar in egyptology and my information comes from wikipedia, but I would still like to point out that Hatshepsut ruled for about 22 years, not 15, her name was chiseled off by Thutmose III, twenty years later, rather than by her father Thutmose I, and her reign was marked by peace and prosperity, and she was not indolent towards foreign enemies. I admit, history changes with time, and the theory that Hatshepsut and Thutmose III actually got along, and he only took her name off things later to ensure a smooth succession is a pretty recent one. In 1953, the whole chiseling-off-the-name-to-erase-the-memory-of-a-cruel-ruler would have seemed pretty good stuff for a novel. But now it just makes her revolutionaries seem petty and only interested in their own advancement. But sure, let's read the book and pretend it's all fiction, and see Hatshepsut as the author writes her - a metallic voiced automaton. Seen in that light, the story is a little less off-putting.

But seriously. Some of the paragraphs in Mara really evoke the atmosphere of subtle danger and opulence, others just evoke. . . England?

'Right again. I am in the full confidence of the queen. It's most convenient. . . Aye, Her Majesty distributes bribes as lavishly as she does everything else!'

and

'That scurvy Architect! Yet he is her favorite.'

Scandalous! It's just a little jarring to be reading along, and then have to picture this "noble" Egyptian in like, a smoking jacket and monocle. Sheftu's nobility is apparent in his actions, namely that he really hates killing people unless he has to, and steals money and goods from graves. No? Not convinced? Then how about because:

He is young and tall...and well favored, with eyes like the night...When he smiles - it is like a magician's potion.

Oh, okay, now I understand. The main character, Mara, suffers from a fatal case of overconfidence. She's so confident, actually, that she becomes unsympathetic - her smirky ways and easy tricks just make you want to show her up. She's initally really rude to the only truly sympathetic character in the book - Inanni, a Syrian princess, who is, according to Mara, dumpy, sweaty, and stupid. Mara, of course, with her own glorious and unusual blue eyes and filmy garments learns to feel Pity out of her most Compassionate Heart, and kindly arranges for Inanni to be sent home at the end of the book. It's like you can actually see her heart growing two sizes that day. The reader can also be comfortable in attributing tender feelings to Mara because in the end, she remembers to free a slave she used to work with, although whether that makes up for her high-handed treatment of the other servants in the palace (and her own amusement at so doing) is perhaps best left unanswered.

Despite all my Issues with Mara, it really does beguile you a bit despite itself, which is a mark of how well done it is. Even though I longed for comeuppance for both Mara and Sheftu and I hoped sincerely that five years later finds them both unhappily disillusioned by Thutmose III, I admit that I got swept up in the denouement, hoping that rescue would come in the nick of time and that Sheftu would believe her and forgive her, even though she was patently a spy. And it does all end happily, although oh my GOD, how is it that someone whipped to the point of unconsciousness (several times) can just stand up and walk around in the end with no greater problem than a little soreness when it gets jarred by the litter ride to her lover's house, because they're not even going to go to the doctor first, and did they even have counts and countesses in Egypt, and, and, and...

What I Saw and How I Lied

What I Saw and How I Lied, by Judy Blundell

When Evie's father returns from WWII, the family fell back into its normal life pretty quickly. But Joe Spooner brought more back with him than war stories. When movie-star handsome Peter Coleridge, a young ex-GI who served in Joe's company in post-war Austria shows up, Evie is suddenly caught in a complicated web of lies that she only slowly recognizes. She finds herself falling for Peter, ignoring the secrets that surround him. . . until a tragedy occurs that shatters her family and breaks her life in two.

As she begins to realize that almost everything she believed to be a truth was really a lie, Evie must get to the heart of the deceptions and choose between loyalty to her parents and feelings for the man she loves. Someone will have to be betrayed. The question is. . . who?

I don't really need to tell you how good this book is, as it's a National Book Award winner (beating out, inter alia, The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks, and a new one by Laurie Halse Anderson (which I may read next, now!)). Right from the first sentence, this grabbed me:

"The match snapped, then sizzled, and I woke up fast. I heard my mother inhale as she took a long pull on a cigarette. Her lips stuck on the filter, so I knew she was still wearing lipstick. She'd been up all night."

That description is incredible. I actually re-read that first sentence about five times, because I could hear, in my mind, the snap and sizzle of the match. That depth of description never falters, either. The period details of What I Saw are faultless - as far as I can tell, having never actually been to Florida in 1947. The details are pitch-perfect, the tone of the speech, the articles of clothing, the slang and the references (the nerdy boys are 'Poindexters', one man gets out of the war through a 'bum ticker', Evie's mother is compared to Lana Turner, and Evie's just watched Gregory Peck in Duel in the Sun, and listened to Amanda of Honeymoon Hill growing up) - they all work to create the atmosphere. They are obscure without being frustrating. There was actually, only one thing that irritated me about this facet of the book, and that was the (to me) over-inundation of cigarette- and smoking- related references. It felt a little like someone was hitting me over the head with them, saying, look how common it used to be to smoke. It really only bugged in one particular case, when Evie is smoking in the car with a fellow hotel guest, and "Smoke! Smoke! Smoke! (That Cigarette)" is playing on the radio. Which, to be fair, was the #1 song in July, 1947. But it still feels a little like it's done more for show than realism. My mother, however, assures me that she never even noticed all the smoking references, immune as she is to them after growing up in the 60s. So maybe it's not that far off from reality. Younger readers might be similarly thrown out of the story though.

Next: the Characters! Peter and Evie and Joe, oh my! Like all good mysteries, the cast of characters is small, memorable, and secretive. Everyone is hiding something, some people are hiding more than one thing, and, unlike in the biblical days (see Matthew 10:26), not everything hidden shall be uncovered, nor every secret made known. The cast is presented with empathy, as no one is evil all the time (sort of) and each person's motivations make them more realistic and sympathetic. The problem is that each person is being backed into a corner, from which the only escape is through the destruction of someone else. So there's some good tension there. In fact, the only character that I got sick of, was Evie. Evie, Evie, Evie, with her idiotic fifteen year old naivety and truer-than-true-love mindset. As soon as Evie meets Peter, the handsome young GI, she's sunk - and so are we. Now we get to listen to pages of her inner thoughts about whether or not he likes her, how to dress to impress him, stalking him, etc. etc. The difference is palpable. For instance, before she meets Peter, she has a dark sense of humor about herself:

"But I saw their glances slide off me, like ugly was Vaseline and I was coated with it."

Hey, I thought it was funny. It's certainly a very striking image. After she meets Peter, her caliber of rational thinking takes a steep dive:

" 'I wish a lot of things,' [Peter] said, "and one of them is, I wish you were back in that house, with your battle-axe Grandma Glad."

It sounded like the most romantic thing anyone could say. As if we were falling in love, and we knew it was wrong, but we'd do it anyway. We'd follow our foolish hearts. We'd listen to the crazy moon."

Yeah, uh huh, the moon isn't the only crazy thing in this scene. I guess it's a compliment, that Evie's willful refusal to believe this isn't true love gets under my skin so much. But seriously - Evie is 15, Peter is 23, he's just been through the war, he's obviously got some weird thing going on with Joe, her father. There is no good reason for world-weary older men to find young naive (and in this case, pre-pubescent) girls attractive. Reasons for this are always bad, a la Jane Eyre or Rebecca. Do you want to go through what the second Mrs. deWinter had to go through? Do you, Evie? And that shit came out in 1938, don't tell me you didn't read it. I bet you thought it was romantic.


Now, I don't want to spoil the end too much, although let me say that parts of it, wonderfully, cannot be spoiled. But I would like to say that Evie is redeemed in my eyes (if still kind of ridiculously, wilfully dumb in some Peter-related areas). You're left wondering, about 3/4 of the way through, how this is possibly going to end, as every page brings fresh entangelements. But the denouement is skillfully managed. You never lose sight of the way all the little scenes from the book fit into the overall assembly, as they're given first one construction, then another. All in all, a very well done book, with an impeccable, uh, set design? It starts out a little slow, but don't lose hope - the ending is worth it.

Bones of Faerie

Bones of Faerie, by Janni Simner

The war between human and faerie devastated both sides. Or so fifteen-year-old Liza has been told. Nothing has been seen or heard from Faerie since, and Liza's world bears the scars of its encounter with magic. Corn resists being harvested; dandelions have thorns. Trees move with sinister intention, and the town Liza calls home is surrounded by a forest that threatens to harm all those who wander into it. Still, Liza feels safe. Her father is strong and has protected their town by laying down strict rules. Among them: any trace of magic must be destroyed, no matter where it is found.

Then Liza's sister is born with faerie-pale hair, clear as glass, and Liza's father leaves her on a hillside to die. When her mother disappears into the forest and Liza herself discovers she has the faerie ability to see she has no choice but to flee. Liza's quest will take her into Faerie and back again, and what she finds may be the key to healing both worlds.

This book has a lot of promise - the beginning starts off very strong, as we're introduced to this sort of post-apocalyptic world in which humans must protect themselves from magic, from the trees, which are apparently carnivorous, and from walking out at night. It's an interesting idea, and well-thought out, but it falls apart somewhat as the story progresses. Things happen very quickly in the beginning, without enough explanation (at least, without enough explanation for me, although in the interest of full disclosure, I have never guessed the correct killer in an Agatha Christie novel, so I'm certainly not going to be winning any prizes for connecting narrative dots). Because Simner's world is so unique, the reader can't fill in the gaps by falling back on their own familiarity with this "type" of world, if that makes sense. The key events in the book take place over a month long period, and the speed with which things begin to happen (Liza's sister's birth, Liza's discovery of her 'magical me') seems too close to be coincidental, but, unless I missed something, we're never given any explanation which would make it not all some huge coincidence. That oddness, taken in conjunction with the slightly one-dimensional characterizations, leaves the story a little flat. Also, Allie really annoyed me - maybe I'm too far removed from my own childhood, but why are children so freaking dumb? If I knew that the trees could eat me and that some shadow creature was following me, I sure as heck wouldn't be ignoring my parent's strictures not to go beyond the safety hedge out of some crazy idea that these two teenagers - one of whom is a werewolf - need my help. This might make me a bad person, but I couldn't help hoping that her father would get seriously injured while out looking for her, and then she'd be sorry.

Okay, back on track. I did appreciate that this was set in St. Louis, although naturally I-44 was not really recognizable anymore. I was sad about the parts which described the buildings being destroyed in the war - the riverfront is so picturesque it'd be a black day indeed if the faeries ever bombed it for real. However, living so close to the Arch has perhaps made it less mystical to me. Speaking as someone who has a small wire model of the Arch in her kitchen, the whole idea that the Arch is the gateway to Faerie is kinda laughable - ain't nothing on the other side of that but East St. Louis, yo. Or St. Louis, if you come at it from the other direction. But I digress, yet again.

So many things were never explained in the book (why are there no more mirrors, why did Liza's mother just up and leave, just how many magic traits can people get, why did Liza's mother assume she was -mysteriously- the only kid in town who wasn't magical?) and so much backstory was left unsaid that I'm sort of hoping there will be a second book to explain it all. The book is limited by whatever Liza knows, which, let's be honest, isn't much. This could easily be twice as long, with a lot more detail and build-up. But not a bad start, though not my favorite either.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows

January 1946: London is emerging from the Shadow of the Second World War, and writer Juliet Ashton is looking for her next book subject. Who could imagine that she could find it in a letter from a man she'd never met, a native of Guernsey, the British island once occupied by the Nazis. He'd come across her name on the flyleaf of a secondhand volume by Charles Lamb. Perhaps she could tell him where he might find more books by this author.

As Juliet and her new correspondent exchange letters, she is drawn into the world of this man and his friends, all members of the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, a unique book club formed in a unique, spur-of-the-moment way: as an alibi to protect its members from arrest by the Germans.

Juliet begins a remarkable correspondence with the Society's charming, deeply human members, from pig farmers to phrenologists, literature lovers all. Through their letters she learns about their island, their taste in books, and the powerful, transformative impact the German occupation has had on their lives. Captivated by their stories, she sets sail for Guernsey, and what she finds there will change her forever.

Any book about people who love to read, will generally be well accepted by, well, people who love to read. This is no exception. The story is gently told through letters, which is probably the only way such a book could have been told. The story is really a story within a story - Juliet is a writer (of articles and books, in addition to her letters) who discovers an veritable wealth of material of the German occupation of Guernsey. In both the GL&PPPS as well as the fictional book Juliet is writing, the heart of the anecdotes is a vibrant young woman named Elizabeth McKenna. It's true that in the fictional book (as well as the fiction book) without this character, the story would have just a jumbled collection of stories. As it is, those few stories told to Juliet about the occupation before the book really gets momentum feel oddly forced, a little bit unasked-for or unprompted. Once the book picks up speed, the stories feel more natural, but then falls into a second trap - Elizabeth McKenna is such a paragon that the two authors have to work very hard in order to make her more human. There is a conversation in which the other characters speculate on the difficulties that she must have gone through, but in all the tales of her, we see her only at her most noble, without despair or doubt. It's only a slight misstep, but it does somewhat divorce the reader from feeling more empathy or sympathy. In fact, the incident that struck me most keenly was one involving Remy, a concentration camp survivor, who comes face to face with some terrible memories, and I doubt very much that the authors intended Remy to be their most compelling character (though perhaps they did - if so, they certainly succeeded).

The rest of the characters suffer from the same disease that the mythical Elizabeth does: too much goodness. Since we're granted a closer look at their foibles than Elizabeth's though, they come off the better. There is nothing subtle about the book, which isn't necessarily a bad thing. Every plot point is telegraphed well in advance, which certainly makes reading the book a very cozy experience. Despite the horrific stories related in the book (and I have no doubt that each incident was real, for someone - I read somewhere that this is the result of years of research, in which case the authors must have had strong stomachs) there is really nothing awful hiding around a corner, no unexpected tragedies or awful misfortunes. The tone suits the material of the book - without such a light touch, the reader could easily be bogged down in the misery of the past.

The GL&PPPS definitely succeeded in at least one area: it makes you want to know more about the German occupation. The mishmash of stories doesn't really satisfy the mind (though their briefness does preserve the heart) and at the end I was left with an aching curiosity about the real people of Guernsey. It's clearly the intention of the authors to keep this a light little epistolatory romance, but the absence of any sources for further reference in the back was a let down. So I can understand the criticism of some readers, who think that the book is too light and fluffy, not memorable like other war books, but it is not the nature of this particular book to mine the depths of humanity - only to provide a story about love and moving on, and to remind us that even in wartime, people can still be selfless and kind. All in all, a very sweet book, like a candy melting on the tongue. And as one last note, although the characters are not always very clear (when I was reading, I apparently merged two people - Sophie and Susan - into one, without any loss in the story. There are far too many "s" names in this book) the important ones have well defined voices in their letters, possibly as a result of the two authors. It is no mean feat to do so, which is another delight of the book.

Need

Need, by Carrie Jones

Zara's stepfather has died, her mother isn't capable of caring for her, and she has been sent to live with her grandmother in a small remote town in Maine. When her car spins out of control, she's rescued by sexy Nick (who turns out to be a werewolf), and something might be cooking with her overachieving classmate Ian. Too bad she's being followed by someone dark and dangerous—a pixie king. This pixie is no harmless sprite: when not mated with a queen for an unspecified amount of time, Zara learns, the pixie kings will demand young human men, who they kill after using them for their blood-hungry pleasures. Will Zara sacrifice herself to this vampire stand-in or let him destroy everything she loves?

I wanted to read this book for awhile - I put it on my to-read list, although I didn't go so far as to order it off Amazon when the library came up short. Luckily I got a free copy, because otherwise I would have been making a return trip to the store. If it hadn't been a kids book and only 300 pages long, I would have been skimming the heck out of the last two-thirds. Which is sad - this has a lot of potential, but it lost me early, and never really got it together enough to get me back by the end.

Zara comes to Maine, a snowy desolate state, and immediately makes friends, has two hot guys hitting on her, and has a pixie following her. It's not really the plot that fails (although it certainly doesn't help) but the supporting characters. As soon as we meet Issie - "Is" - I began to hate this book. Issie (I refuse to use "Is" because it's just too precious for words) is such a caricature of a person, such a complete fabrication, that I was irritated by the mere mention of her, let alone her actual presence on the page. Devyn, one of Zara's early friends, gloms onto the idea of pixies so quickly it's incredible. And admittedly, he himself is an otherworldly creature, so it might have been believable that he would know more about pixies than the normal person, but that's not the way that it's explained. Apparently, he just went online and found a page about pixies - and what? Some kid disappears in Maine and there's some weird guy wandering around and your first thought is, let's do a google search? It's just so bizarre. Bedford, Maine is apparently filthy with pixies and were-things and it hasn't occured to anyone's parents to tell their children, "Hey, the pixie king hasn't had sex in a while, you shouldn't wander around the woods (unless your coat's inside out)."? It boggles the mind. And not in a good way. The book felt simultaneously too long and not long enough. Too long, because when I have to work this hard to suspend both my disbelief and my personal hatred towards characters 300 pages is much too much, and not long enough, because there's very little set-up, very little character development. The pace is very arrival-mysterious stranger-!pixies!-plan to kick ass. Zara swallows the pixie thing pretty easily, but bizarrely takes like, twenty pages to figure out that the "dog" that magically appeared after Nick disappears is Nick himself. Because he is a werewolf. Something she literally just read was the mortal enemy of the pixie. Because sure, if there's gold dust on someone's jacket, that must mean that pixies are real, but werewolves? Whole 'nother matter. What a crock. I will allow that however much I personally find the whole idea that pixies and werewolves are mortal enemies to be so very retarded, in terms of that aspect of the plot, the book doesn't have any major issues - if only it were better done, I might have bought it. In Need, it merely adds insult to injury. Other things I'm not discussing, because I like low blood pressure: the hitting us over the head with the title of the book, because the pixie king needs these young boys, the whole let's-substitute-young-boys-for-raping-girls in the first place, and so much more.

If you manage to struggle through the immense plot holes and giant anvils in the beginning, the end isn't wholly awful. It's not good, to be sure, but it doesn't insult the readers overmuch. The ending is obviously poised for a sequel, which if I read, will be only for sheer morbid curiousity. The climax of the book contains a lot of action, but not a lot of sense. I can't really describe it, since my ability to think and express myself coherently about Need is rapidly dwindling, but rest assured it delivers on every crazy promise made in the rest of the book. I'm just so disappointed! It may be making my review harsher than it should be (probably not, though) but I just had such high hopes of this from the description. It has a mad pixie! I mean, come on, a mad pixie. How could things go so wrong, so quickly? Oh well, I wash my hands of it. I don't say this lightly, but even Twilight was better. I am so ashamed that I had to say that.


In case you were wondering, that blurb is accurate: it truly says, in the book, that when not mated for an unspecified amount of time, he needs to suck the life out of young boys. An unspecified amount of time. An unspecified amount of time. Why, may I ask, is it unspecified? Why not just say twenty years, or even just "too long"? But NO. It is AN UNSPECIFIED AMOUNT OF TIME, dammit! That may actually sum up, in five words, everything I hated about this book.

Jesus Land

Jesus Land, by Julia Scheeres

Journalist Scheeres offers a frank and compelling portrait of growing up as a white girl with two adopted black brothers in 1970s rural Indiana, and of her later stay with one of them at a Christian reform school in the Dominican Republic. The book takes its title from a homemade sign that Scheeres and the brother closest to her in age and temperament, David, spot one day on a road in the Hoosier countryside, proclaiming, "This here is: JESUS LAND." And while religion is omnipresent both at their school and in the home of their devout parents, the two rarely find themselves the beneficiaries of anything resembling Christian love.

I read this while on spring break, which wasn't a bad way to do it, boiling in the tropical heat of Mexico, reading about the tropical heat of the Dominican Republic. After finishing it, the woman who lent it to me asked if I could believe that places like the religious camp detailed in the book really existed, and about that, I didn't have a moment of doubt. Crazy religious camps are one of the more believable things in the memoir, which is perhaps why I it didn't affect me overmuch. The entire first half of Jesus Land takes place in somewhat rural Indiana, where the racism is as direct as it is pervasive. Scheeres' parents adopted two black boys in order to prove the strength of their faith, rather than from any real desire to love or help some unwanted kids. Scheeres' descriptions of the reluctance of anyone in the family to step out and shield the two children from the racism of outsiders attempts to condemn as well as atone for her own admitted unwillingness to stick her neck out. That section, as she relates the way in which she turned away from her brother David in order not to provoke violence on herself as well, seemed almost too pat. I don't doubt it, but it seemed too much like a public penance, done more out of a sense of martyrdom than real feeling. It could have just come across that way because Scheeres was constrained by the point of view from her seventeen year old self. The parts of the Indiana section which don't relate directly to David are the weak points of Jesus Land. Scheeres' behavior as a teen kind of boggles the mind, not in a holy cow! way, but more of a too-dumb-to-be-true way. There's a note at the beginning that says that while all the events happened, the timeline has been compressed in order to make the story more coherent and cohesive. Perhaps my dislike of these parts come from this compression, but whatever the origin, my distaste for just about every person in the book, including Scheeres, made reading the book more of a chore than it should rightly be.

The events of the book are unbelievable, but the events in the first half (most of them) are unbelievable in a Homer Simpson kind of way, whereas the events of the second half are unbelievable in an oh-the-humanity kind of way, which I suspect is more of what the author was going for. In my opinion, the second half of the book, set in the Dominican Republic after Scheeres chooses reform camp rather than juvie, could (and should) have been the entire book itself. It is a much stronger story than the Indiana half, and doesn't contain the melodramatic idiocy that the first half does. There is more tension, more at stake, in this section, and it makes Scheeres sympathetic, without absolving her. This section also allows us to really get invested in her relationship with David, which is crucial to your enjoyment of the memoir. David, as seen through Scheeres' eyes, is the only innocent here, the one who keeps the dream of family alive despite the evidence of his own eyes. In the end of the book, it's revealed that ***SPOILER****SPOILER****SPOILER*** David dies, and that much of the material for the book was taken from his journals. In that light, the book makes more sense, and is more moving. As a memorial to David, it works well, a sort of marble angel in written form. It would be a compelling story either way, but since David was the only person about whom I gave a damn, his death gives more meaning to the act of writing. Without that conclusion, it would have been too distant from him, it would have become more about Scheeres growing up and growing wiser.

The religion in the book is, of course, appalling, disgusting, etc. etc. The manifestation of faith in many circumstances illustrates the depth of hypocrisy and possibilities for abuse. Organized religion (as opposed to disorganized? In the Venn diagram of life, can it really be called a religion if it's not organized? And no, the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster is not a religion) has been responsible for a lot of terrible things. Missionaries (and the reasoning behind them) have been responsible for a lot of terrible things. That these thigs happen says more about the believers than the religion itself. One of the mistakes of the book lies in the point-of-view. The restrictions of a adolescent girl's mind prohibits very thoughtful insight about this facet of the events. Scheeres' own opinion about religion is not discussed, and in a way, it's not relevant - religious fervor comes in many flavors and often has more to do with power than religion - but to leave it (and other discussions about belief) out entirely, when the book is called Jesus Land, is a miscalculation. All in all, a good book, good beach reading, and it sticks in your mind, even though I have no desire to read it again. I've read more powerful memoirs, but as a memorial, it works.

Speak

Speak, by Laurie Halse Anderson

From her first moment at Merryweather High, Melinda Sordino knows she's an outcast. She busted an end-of-summer party by calling the cops - a major infraction in high school society - so her old friends won't talk to her, and people she doesn't know glare at her. She retreats into her head, where the lies and hypocrises of high school stand in stark relief to her own silence, making her all the more mute. But it's not so comfortable in her head, either - there's something banging around in there that she doesn't want to think about. Try as she might to avoid it, it won't go away, until there is a painful confrontation. Once that happens, she can't be silent - she must speak the truth.

This book has been on my periphery for awhile, but it was still surprising to me that it has a tenth anniversary edition already - ten years ago this should have been exactly the kind of book I was reading. Maybe if I had, it would have had a bigger impact on me, like The Luckiest Girl in the World, which is all kinds of melodramatic and over the top but remains one of my favorite "serious topic" books. Reading Speak for the first time as an adult, long since gotten over any high school scars, there is less of an emotional impact, less forgiveness for mood over technique. In less obtuse terms, I just didn't buy into the plot. Back in the day, that wouldn't have been a problem - books that I connected with as a teen were put into continuous rotation regardless of minor flaws. But reading it for the first time, it niggles at me, and distracts from my enjoyment of it. And there is a lot to be enjoyed from Speak; it is a good book, an excellent book for young teens especially. Speak is about Melinda, and from a character development standpoint, it's an amazing piece of work. I truly believed in (almost) all the characters, as they were written very realistically, and the internal viewpoint style of the book lends itself well to a thoughtful look at Melinda's feelings and struggles. Having a less than perfect memory of my own high school years, I can't argue with the author's depiction here - although from my own perspective, few have managed puberty with the grace and goodwill that I demonstrated time and again in the face of everlasting ridiculousness on the part of other people.

While I am willing to believe in the character and life of Melinda, I am not willing to suspend all my disbelief (and a little bit of disappointment) in the plot she must navigate. It doesn't take a detective to read between the lines of the front cover flap, but in case you are easily startled the rest of this review involves a major ***SPOILER***SPOILER***SPOILER*** (although to be fair, it's only a spoiler if you've been under a rock since your early letter-learning days). The book begins at the beginning of school, maybe a few weeks after Melinda called the cops on a teenage party where she was raped, pissing off all her friends, and this is where my imagination begins to stretch. Since the book never covers this time period, we are left wondering why not a single one of her friends asked her why she called. I find it hard to believe that not one of her friends from who knows how long didn't stick by her, at least until Melinda had the opportunity to drive them away as she does someone else later in the book. It made me question just how valuable these friends are in the first place, if they can't forgive one summer faux pas against the years they knew Melinda. And yes, Anderson does try to make even older readers understand the depths of betrayal of the cop-calling (one student's sibling lost their job, or some such thing) but I think the more natural reaction isn't the flat-out hate that Melinda has to deal with, but more of an insidious lack of trust. I feel like the reactions of the other kids are so overblown that it becomes cartoonish, while a more realistic rendering would have been more powerful - trying to fight outright hate is (true story) easier than fighting smoke, the frustration of trying to prove the negative, that you aren't untrustworthy. The matter of Melinda's age also bugged me - it's such a small detail, but she's a full year younger than she should be as a freshman, which made her younger at the time of the rape, and the moment of reveal is done such that I feel like it's just to manipulate the reader, trying to add shock value, a look-how-awful-because-so-young! moment. The mere fact of the rape is appalling by itself, and even though I am sure Anderson didn't intend the age thing to come off the way it did, well, it did to me.

And while we're on the subject of unnecessary overexaggeration, I would like to get the matter of the rapist off my chest. WHY IS HE PURE EVIL? I mean, yes, of course, he is terrible, because anyone who does that to a girl is terrible, but why is he so dumb as to attempt to do it again after she accuses him and her friends don't even believe her? It is nice to prove Melinda's strength and healing after the course of the book, but how insane was that whole scene? To be fair, I was on the edge of my seat biting my nails just as much as the next person, but even while I was terrified for Melinda, I was thinking, "Oh, come on." Part of the reason for the book's endurance is the realistic treatment of teenagers and rape, and all of a sudden there is a too-perfect opportunity for Melinda to change her future the way she can't change her past, and I just don't buy it. I can't help picturing people who have their own struggles to conquer, reading this book and finding hope, but then being like, "Well, since I didn't get cornered by my rapist again and fight him and win and everyone believes me this time, it's not a good ending." Not only are there other ways to prove your strength besides ass-kicking your former rapist, those are much more common. I guess, in the long run, I would have preferred a book that took the hard way out, the way without a tidy bow, the way that has to accept that even without the opportunity to expose your rapist for the scum he is and prove your own strength and non-victimness, you can live without fear or shame.

So give this to every young girl you know, but give it to them before they grow up and become too cynical to read this books for all of its gifts, and none of its flaws. In short, mamas, don't let your babies grow up to be cowboys.

The Turn of the Screw

The Turn of the Screw, by Henry James

The story starts with friends sharing ghost stories 'round the fire on Christmas Eve. One of the guests tells about a governess at a country house plagued by supernatural visitors. Only the young governess can see the ghosts; only she suspects that the previous governess and her lover are controlling the two orphaned children for some evil purpose. The household staff don't know what she's talking about, the children are evasive when questioned, and the master of the house is absent. Why does the young girl claim not to see a perfectly visible woman standing on the far side of the lake? Are the children being deceptive, or is the governess being paranoid?

I hated this book. Novella, story, whatever. I am relying on my (not always reliable) memory because if I never read another word of Turn of the Screw, it will be too soon. I have to work hard just to erase the memory that I do have of this book. It was, in a word, agony to get through. I cannot say this enough: I hated this book. Hate, hated, will hate. The story is not simple: a tale within a tale. The book, like Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew, begins with a group of people telling stories, in this case, ghost stories. Like Shakespeare, once we are thrust into the main meat of the book, we never return to the original storyteller and listeners. Had I been at that gathering, I would have a few choice words for the storyteller, not least of which would be a scathing indictment of the company they keep and their opinion in the "scariness" of their chosen tale.

The main character (I dare not call her "heroine") is the governess, sent to watch over two young children in the countryside, whose uncle and guardian can't muster up the energy to care for them himself, or to actually find a responsible caretaker for them. Instead, he settles on our erstwhile narrator, who begins as she means to go on: maudlinly, irrationally, and with the certainty granted to both lunatics and self-declared martyrs. All of which she is. A worse governess I cannot imagine. Were it only the governess whose character I despised, I might think that Henry James is actually a genius, able to write good stories without the benefit of the reader liking the main character. Not so. I hate the governess, the children, the housekeeper, the ghosts, the uncle, everyone. I hate the drary monotony of the story, and the absurdity of the plot and actions. It's like the stupid plotline, where the only way to get to the climax is to have every person behave as though they had a head injury, or a script. There is no reason (or at least we're privy to none) as to why anyone would act the ways they do. The sheer irresponsibilty of the governess begs the question of why she wasn't locked up after these events. The mere knowledge that this person was able to obtain work, and work as a governess after this strained and broke the limits of my patience and imagination. The whole situation was so crazy that I didn't even care whether or not the ghosts existed - the mere continuance of the governess in her role, and the fact that no one removed her to a padded call was such an annoyance that the whole ridiculous demonic children side story was only insult added to injury. The governess, upon deciding that the children are under the influence of their former servants, alternates between coddling them and shrieking at them like a priest in the grips of an exorcism. Then (and I don't care if this is a spoiler) she kills one of them. Or at least, that is what I like to imagine, since that would atone in some small part for my having read all the way through to the end.

I repeat: how, how, could she have gotten another job as governess after this? Who would have hired her?! It boggles the mind. The one bright spot is that at least my copy has this awesome 70s cover on it, which, while still producing feelings of appalled fascination, also provides unintentional hilarity to lighten the mood.

The Season

The Season, by Sarah MacLean

Seventeen year old Lady Alexandra is strong-willed and sharp-tongued -- in a house full of older brothers and their friends, she had to learn to hold her own. Not the best makings for an aristocratic lady in Regency London. Yet her mother still dreams of marrying Alex off to someone safe, respectable, and wealthy. But between ball gown fittings, dances, and dinner parties, Alex, along with her two best friends, Ella and Vivi, manages to get herself into what may be her biggest scrape yet.

When the Earl of Blackmoor is mysteriously killed, Alex decides to help his son, the brooding and devilishly handsome Gavin, uncover the truth. But will Alex's heart be stolen in the process? In an adventure brimming with espionage, murder, and other clandestine affairs, who could possibly have time to worry about finding a husband? Romance abounds as this year's season begins!

This is a relatively harmless little book. It's told from the point of view of one who is poised on the cusp (at the start of the book) of entering society. There were, of course, anachronisms in the book, it's hard to find a regency novel without them, these days. It's a delicate balance between admirable heroine and realism of the times. Certainly I doubt that any young lady went about "breaking into" houses, or even expressed half of the sentiments that Alex does, without much disapprobation. The trend of giving heroines nicknames which are boys names has always irritated me, as well. To me it seems to say, "she's feminine, because look, she's got a girl's name, but girls aren't as cool as boys, so we'll pretend that she's one of the guys with her nickname." I have the feeling this is a long suppressed feeling, which has only now had the opportunity to air itself. Perhaps if the plot or characters better satisfied me, I wouldn't take so much offense at the matter of her nickname.

The plot, such as it is (and my general malcontent may be attributed to a possible desire for a mystery/romance rather than a romance/mystery, as was the case) is not ill-done, giving us suspects who are so obviously guilty they have to be guilty, as well as those so obviously guilty, they must be working on the side of good. One of my peeves was that Alex was never really wrong in any of her assumptions, and didn't cause more confusion and misdirection than she solved, as I would generally expect of a seventeen year old girl in regency England. Not that I assume that all seventeen year old girls are stupid - although given my own behavior at seventeen that opinion wouldn't be baseless - but her circumstances don't inspire confidence that she will have magically attained clarity of insight into murder.

Well, it certainly doesn't sound as if I liked the book at all - and that's only partially true. It wasn't offensive to me, as some books have been. I wouldn't mind re-reading it, but only for those sweet sections which describe first, true love (and in these types of societies, the only one you get). The author seems to be setting the three girls (more on that later) up for a series of books, and I will probably read the others in the series as well, but I would wait to check them out first before purchasing, next time. The three girl friends are one of the most refreshing parts of the book. Too often the heroine is cut off from good, female friendship and advice, and the friends in this book more than adequately perform their duties in that regard. They are close without being confining, supportive without being foils. They are neither perfect nor merely a backdrop for Alex's own exploits. I wouldn't mind reading ten books with faults worse than this one, as long as they contained good friendships. So, could be better, could be worse, good if you're in the mood for a short, sweet chaste romance, with some adventure and balls thrown in.

And I mean "balls" in the "gala" sense, not the "frank 'n' beans" sense. Get your minds out of the gutter.

A Garden in the Rain

A Garden in the Rain, by Lynn Kurland

After her fiance, Bentley Douglas Taylor III, dumps her, then fires her, Madelyn Phillips attempts to salvage what she can from the wreckage of her life by going ahead with her planned trip to Scotland sans Bentley, only to find him twit waiting for her there in a misbegotten attempt to convince her to return to him. While trying to ditch Bentley, Madelyn bumps into Patrick MacLeod, the lethally handsome Scotsman who earlier almost ran her off the road. At that moment, Madelyn intuitively realizes that Patrick is her one true love, but she hesitates to communicate this inexplicable idea to him since she's puzzled by it herself. Even if Madelyn reawakens a long dormant sense of desire in him, Patrick knows telling her the truth about who he really is will destroy any chance of a relationship.

I suppose I should begin by saying that I was not best pleased by this book. I had high expectations, admittedly, since the description was so promising ("Ditched by her fiance!" "Taking her honeymoon trip alone!" "Love at first sight, but retaining at least a minimal sense of rationality!") but it began to fizzle about as soon as Madelyn's ex-fiance stepped onto the scene. His presence in the book is almost a mystery - he is so buffoonish, so cartoonishly old-fashioned evil, that while his presence serves to vex our heroine, her sufferance of him vexes me. True, she doesn't like him, doesn't like to be around him, but her acceptance that he is merely a jerk, and not, say, completely out of his mind insane, is bewildering. And he is insane. His reasons for sticking to her like a burr are so mwa-ha-ha-ha batshit crazy that he clearly wandered out of some gothic romance for impressionable young girls of the 1800s, and has but poor luck in making sufficiently convoluted and apalling schemes which fit the twenty-first century. Nowadays we are all about internet scams and drive-bys, young man.



While Bentley should have been living in the 1800s, Patrick MacLeod, hero of the piece, supposedly was. "Was" being the operative word. Like any good transplant from 1795, Patrick practices swordfighting and mooning about over old battlefields in his spare time. One of the best sequences in the book happens as Patrick and Madelyn first get a good look at each other over Culloden - each is struck by a nameless feeling, natch, and Madelyn, overcome, shouts over to him that they're soulmates. This intentional bit of levity was unfortunately, suceeded by a very dull and lengthy middle section - all about their various encounters, and their various encounters with Bentley (I will be fair - this is where we were introduced to Bentley's magnificently thought-out plot, which mocks, deservedly, any reasonable person for reading so far), wherein Patrick buys her lots of clothes and a new violin, she wonders, does he or doesn't he?, he mourns, I can't!, but then they can, but then they can't, secrets, love, angst, etc., etc., until finally, finally, Madelyn falls into one of those mysterious spots that were so oddly marked for her on a map of the forest. And thus begins our descent into hell.


This whole half of the book was like, whoa. Madelyn (and I hope this won't spoil it too much for you) gets peed on. Peed on. Repeatedly, over a course of about four weeks. Four weeks! As you can tell, I am still overcome by the memory. Four weeks! In a little bitty cage, learning gaelic from a conveniently placed piper. Meanwhile, our erstwhile hero gets to dress up with a sword and beat the shit out of everyone he meets (I exaggerate). There is, apparently, no humilation our dear author will not subject Madelyn too, which just makes me contrarily, no doubt, hate Madelyn all the more. This woman is so beaten down by recent events, that even were I to accept the ridiculous premise, the fact that she has no money, no clothes, no apartment, no passport, nothing of her own, literally, that she is completely dependent (as Blanche Dubois would say) on the kindness of others, would make me cry foul at her romance with Patrick. It doesn't feel like love so much as dependency, and a dependency which is prevented at every turn from becoming anything resembling independency. Madelyn may be the most resiliant person in the world, who has the will and ability to overcome all kinds of obstacles. But we're never given a chance to find out. Her every rescue, from perils both Bentley and otherwise, is performed by Patrick, which makes for a fairly one-sided match. That, I suppose, is my biggest problem with the book. The whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth, and if in the future I feel the need for a time-traveling romance I shall fall back on Outlander, whose heroine has both common sense and a sense of humor.


NB: As a special bonus, I leave you with these words, which the title frequently and amusingly brought to mind:

Someone left the cake out in the rain
I don't think that I can take it
Cause it took so long to make it
And I'll never have that recipe again!
Oh no!

The Sevenwaters Trilogy

Daughter of the Forest, by Juliet Marillier

As the only daughter and youngest child of Lord Colum of Sevenwaters, Sorcha grows up protected and pampered by her six older brothers. When a sorceress's evil magic ensorcels Colum's sons, transforming them into swans, only Sorcha's efforts can break the curse. A re-telling of the old fairy tale, set in Ireland as the older beliefs are beginning to be overtaken by christianity.

I have to be honest here, this book is horrifying. This book has so many terrible things happen to the people that we're supposed to like, it was a never-ending strain on my nerves, even though I know the old fairy tale well, and I should have been able to relax about the fate of our protagonist, Sorcha. Initally, I was unable to concentrate on the story because of my preoccupation with our heroine's name. It was a little too close to Sorsha, from the movie Willow, for comfort. All I could think of was that scene when Mad Martigan gets hit with that love potion, and they get into an argument, and she's yelling, "'I dwell in darkness without you' and it went away?" I really enjoy that movie, not least because of an early review of it, regarding Jean Marsh as an effective tool to force small children to eat their vegetables. (cf. If You Ask Me by "Libby Gelman-Waxner"). But soon enough, the ominous suggestions in the beginning are fulfilled, and Sorcha is called upon to save her brother through hard work, pain, and silence. I was already sucked into story by the time something horrible in particular (now I sound like I read too much Cold Comfort Farm) about a third of the way in, which was completely unexpected (by me) and therefore doubly shocking and, uh impactive, for lack of a better word. It was at that point that I realized that despite my foreknowledge of the ending, there could certainly be a lot of despair and horror before we reach that point, and that even once that point is reached, there is no guarantee that you'll get warm fuzzy feelings after turning the last page. And that realization makes the book more powerful, because you begin to experience events with the characters, and therefore know just how hard the task set before Sorcha is. The ending, which does end, as much as possible, happily (there are further revelations which serve to further depress the spirit, but they don't affect Sorcha directly, and at that point, I was willing to take victories where they lay) feels all the more joyful because of the sadness that preceded it. This is an excellently written book, a graceful and unique re-telling of the Seven Swans, one which may not be out of place among the so-called original Grimm's Fairy Tales, a la the Little Mermaid and her sea foam demise. It is harrowing, but the ability to make one scared for a character, even when you supposedly know the end to her story, is the mark of a good writer.


'Son of the Shadows (Book 2)

Liadan of Sevenwaters is the child of Iubdan and Sorcha (whose story was told in Daughter of the Forest) and she is granted the power to hear and see what others cannot. She is a healer of mind, body and spirit. It is Liadan's gift of healing that brings about a meeting with a mercenary considered to be the enemy of her family. Liadan names this man without a name or history "Bran" and soon realizes that the information she has been told about him (and the world in general) is not what it appears to be.

Okay, so, I was very excited about this one, because I read the first in the series and fell in love with the characters and the story. This one was, well, a bit of a let down. I think that's partly by virtue of the strength of the first entry in the series, and also partly because after the first one, I became somewhat inured to the almost ridiculously awful experiences that Marillier likes to puts her characters through (in this series at least - those in Wildwood Dancing got off easier). This was a good middle entry, although I personally didn't find the heroine, Liadan, as sympathetic as Sorcha. Liadan is a very different person than Sorcha, one who is not merely buffeted by the winds of fate and destiny (as is made very clear by her refusal to listen to the warnings of the Old Folk in the forest). SotS certainly sets things up for the third book, in more ways than one, set as it is about eighteen years after Daughter of the Forest and eighteen years before Child of the Prophecy. The tone of this volume is very different from Daughter of the Forest, possibly because it's not based on legend, possibly because it is more focused on very earthly problems, rather than the sorcerous and magical problems of the other books. It is well-written, but doesn't create the same sense of urgency and connection that DotF does. With the wisdom granted in hindsight, I would say that this is my least favorite installation in the Sevenwaters Trilogy et al. (although still not bad in and of itself). There are some very good sequences, such as when Liadan is kidnapped and asked to save a mercenary's life, and also an exciting escape involving fairly high stakes. These are only sequences though, and not the same as the continued strain of DotF.




Child of the Prophecy (Book 3)

The saga of the guardians of the forest at Sevenwaters takes up the story of Fainne, daughter of the former Druid Ciaran and the lost Niamh. Raised in the ways of magic, Fainne plans to become a solitary sorcerer like her father, but fate intervenes in the form of her grandmother, Oonagh, a sorceress with a penchant for cruelty and a desire to put an end to everything the Sevenwaters folks stand for. A prophecy tells of a way to preserve the old magic, and Lady Oonagh is willing to trick her granddaughter and torture her own son to break it. Though Fainne is forced to bow to her grandmother's will, the love of her family and her own strong ethics help her remember her true nature, as she learns about herself, her powers of sorcery and the part she plays in a prophecy that has tested three generations of women.

This is a strong conclusion to the trilogy, neither my least nor best liked. The plot concerns the journey of Fainne, who travels from Kerry to Ulster on the orders of her father and grandmother (although each has different reasons for so ordering). The Lady Oonagh, back from the first book, pops up, although she doesn't have the same air of menace that she did in DotF. Although I was tempted to be frustrated with Fainne by her lack of self-confidence and willingness to obey her grandmother's dictates, there are good reasons for her behavior and mindset, as Marillier adequately explains her circumstances so that her actions are completely reasonable for someone in her position. The resolution of the trilogy fell a little flat to me, because after all this build up, after all the tension between Fainne and Oonagh, after the big battle at the end for the island, it seemed a little. . . easy . . . for them to defeat the threatening evil. I was, perhaps through no fault of the author's, sucked into believing that Fainne's decision would directly impact the outcome of the battle, influence and direct the flow of it, and that didn't happen - the battle was fought and decided without her interference at all, and her purpose in the larger scheme of things is revealed only after the sorceress is well defeated, too. I did really like the evolution of the love story here, I found both Fainne and her sweetheart to be delightful in their mutual wishes to protect the other (I am kind of sucker for that). A bittersweet ending to the saga, but an appropriate one, and satisfying in a way that DotF couldn't be, by tying up sundry loose ends.




Heir to Sevenwaters (Bonus Extra Book)

Clodagh, the third daughter of the lord of Sevenwaters, is the practical one who keeps things running while her aging mother awaits the birth of a male heir. At her sister's wedding, she meets rude, closed-off Cathal, one of her cousin Johnny's personal guards. Shortly after, when the Fair Folk replace the newborn heir with a changeling creature, Clodagh and Cathal put their lives and sanity on the line to rescue the child.

This is my second favorite of the bunch. Here, Marillier returns to a more patterned story, this one modeled after various changeling and fairy folk-related tales. The plot is fairly straightforward (not something which can be said for others in the series), wherein Clodagh, a normal, unmagical girl, is thrust into the position of having to traverse the Otherworld to bargain with Mac Dara, the new (and quite villanous) Lord of the Fey. He is so bad, in fact, that one almost wishes he had a moustache to twirl as he discusses his dark deeds. The tone of Heir is much lighter than that of the previous three, which was a relief since I read them all in a row, and after several days of this particular Series of Unfortunate Events I needed some good clean romance and fantasy without all the doom and gloom attached. There is, naturally, still some doom and gloom (otherwise it just wouldn't be a Sevenwaters book), but it is restricted to warnings for the future rather than present misfortunes. Marillier really evokes the world of her characters, and never is it more apparent than here, where the changing landscape and the attendant pitfalls play a big part in the plot.

ETA: I was re-reading the books and re-read this entry to see what I used to think about them, and I realized that I didn't remember the fourth book at all, except for that twig-baby. How creepy was that thing?! And it like, moved and cried like a baby, too, didn't it? Can you imagine a heap of twigs crying like a baby and waving little stubby branches around? Because I can, and it is horrifying.

Just a heads-up.





Throughout each book, there are common elements and themes - for our heroines, they may take the message away that love suceeds in the end (although those poor souls who aren't the main characters may not trust so easily to this). There is, oddly enough, in each story the counterpoint of a young (usually) man who also genuinely loves the heroine, and in some cases puts himself through extreme privation in order to be with her. In any other book, this would make him the hero, but here they have naught but disappointment and/or death. The presence of these characters serves to remind us that love is a tricky thing, and cannot be forced but only freely given. It's a nice touch, and meshes well with Marillier's desire to bring down even the most well-earned happy endings. Another theme is that of the frailty of life, and way of life. In later books especially, is the idea that sooner or later (sooner) the old ways and beings will pass from this earth. It may be appropriate to the time period (and Sevenwaters is far from the only book to touch on this topic, ever since Peter Pan told us not believing in fairies killed them; Veil of Gold echoes this feeling of widening separation between reality and story) but it lessens the importance of the characters' actions. All in all, a wonderful series.

Billy Budd

Billy Budd, by Herman Melville

Aboard the warship Bellipotent, the young orphan Billy Budd was called the handsome sailor. Billy was tall, athletic, nobel looking; he was friendly, innocent, helpful and ever-cheerful. He was a fierce fighter and a loyal friend. All the men and officers liked him...

All but one: Master-at-Arms Claggart. Envious, petty Claggart plotted to make Billy's life miserable. But when a fear of mutinies swept through the fleet, Claggart realized he could do more than just torment the Handsome Sailor...He could frame Billy Budd for treason...

Herman, Herman, Herman. What are we going to do with you? I'll be honest here, I am not Melville's biggest fan, unless by "fan" you mean "someone who badmouths his writing style every chance she gets and constantly bemoans the wasted hours she spent struggling through Moby Dick, which is, let's face, pretty much the textbook example on why ignorance is bliss". Let's just say I was happier not knowing every minute detail of how, say, the hump back differs from the razor back from the sulphur bottom, and on and on, until I have lost not only the thread of the plot, but my sanity as well. However, now let me speak of Billy Budd, handsome sailor and all-around pretty boy.



This book is certainly mellifluous - if nothing else, Melville does know how to string a pretty group of words together, often at the loss of any sense, but still. The introduction to my book states that towards the end, Melville become increasinly upset at the inability of readers to understand him. I can only say that those readers have my utmost sympathies, because Melville seems to have written Billy Budd in some maniacal fit of pique, with an outdated thesaurus, carefully running on all sentences and obscuring all rational ideas with bizarre word choices and startling similes. Here's a sample:

From his chief's employing him as an implicit tool in laying little traps for the worriment of the foretopman - for it was from the master-at-arms that the petty persecutions heretofore adverted to had proceeded - the corporal, having naturally enough concluded that his master could have no love for the sailor, made it his business, faithful understrapper that he was, to foment the ill blood by perverting to his chief certain innocent frolics of the good-natured foretopman, besides inventing for his mouth sundry contumelious epithets he claimed to have overheard him let fall.

So, it's not quite enough to be mad babbling, but it is enough to make you wish for Melville in person, so you could shake him and scream, "Get to the point!" The story itself is pretty straightforward: Billy the Handsome (there is a fair amount of gay subtext in this novel, not the least of which appears to stem from Claggart's jealousy of Billy for being too. . . pretty. For real.) is accused of mutiny by the master-at-arms. Billy's method of dealing with the accusation is about as sensible as Melville's writing style, i.e., garaunteed to end in misery. There are good themes hidden in the story, of the battle between the letter of the law versus the spirit of the law. Compounding Billy's dire situation, and my headache, Melville treats us to an exhaustive (not extensive, perhaps, but certainly exhausting) treatise on the circumstances surrounding the plot - a period of dangerous unrest and mutiny in the British Navy. The atmosphere lends itself to urgency, while the players are left in the end to the worst fate of all: living with their own actions. Thought-provoking, but skimming will do just fine.

Trust Me

Trust Me, by Brenda Novak

Attacked four years ago at home by rapist and murderer Oliver Burke, Skye defended herself and put him behind bars. Inspired by her own struggle, Skye began the Last Stand—an organization focused on helping survivors and teaching self-defense. She is also wrestling with an attraction to the detective from her case, David Willis. When Burke cuts a deal, the fiend is out on the street, eager for revenge on Skye—who has been the focus of his continued obsession.

This isn't a bad book by any means - simply not a stellar one. The premise is, indeed, quite creepy, even if parts of the plot stretch the imagination at times. Skye is working on losing the fear that plagues every moment, something which has suddenly become much harder with the news that her attempted rapist and suspected murderer is being let out of prison early. No sooner does she get the bad news than disturbing events begin taking place. Skye is a good protagonist, one who puts her money where her mouth is, so to speak. Her actions, while they may initially appear extreme, aren't so unreasonable if you consider the trauma that she's been through - one of the most effective tools that Novak uses is the chilling possibility of this ever happening in real life. Novak is fairly skillful at presenting the helplessness and terror that arise from knowledge of your own vulnerability to stronger outside forces. Skye's struggle with her feelings for the detective are also relatable - rather than pine away for what he refuses to let happen, she makes the decision to move on. For the sake of my own peace of mind, I am ignoring the awful plot device which has the power to completely alter Skye's character, to the extent that within two days she suddenly gains the power to forgive and forget, despite three years of nonstop dwelling. The quick (and somewhat alarmingly cheery) wrap up at the end made my head spin, and yet for all that I wouldn't mind reading another by her.

The Hollow Kingdom Trilogy

The Hollow Kingdom (Book I), by Clare Dunkle

Kate and her younger sister, Emily, are orphans, sent to live with great aunts at remote and mysterious Hallow Hill. Hugh Roberts, their guardian, is a surly and somewhat sinister cousin. One afternoon, the girls come upon some strange people and an abnormally huge cat in a clearing. One of these folk, Marak, is a goblin king. He needs Kate to be his human bride, for goblins may not marry their own kind. When Emily disappears, Kate assumes that he is responsible and agrees to marry him in exchange for her sister's freedom.

This is a pretty fascinating book - this is a lot darker than normal fairy tales or romances. The underground kingdom, over which Marak rules, is not forgiving to new brides. The first section of the book is taken up with Marak's pursuit of Kate, and with the introduction of the world of goblins, as Dunkle imagines them. This book is, I think, the best of the trilogy, since although we are told that Marak is quite grotesque, we are still presented with his actions regarding Kate and Em, which redeem some of his flaws in character and appearance. The romance is, of course, problematic: he's an older goblin, whose first (captive) wife died insane, she's a young (late teens) girl with a sketchy guardian and a brash younger sister. Marak makes no bones about the fact that Kate is, basically, an unwilling captive, the latest in a long line of abducted young women and elves. Luckily, Dunkle doesn't ask us to suspend belief that Kate will be easily reconciled to her lot. However, the last section of the book deals with events about a year and a half after the beginning of the book, and I think that one of the greatest weaknesses of the story is that (for length purposes, I assume) we're not given a glance at how Kate's opinion has slowly undergone alteration, as it so clearly must have. This is a vastly gripping story, and has the power to both disgust and unsettle, while still maintaining sympathy for all characters - not an easy feat.

Close Kin (Book II)


As a human who has always thought of goblins as exciting and exotic creatures, Emily enjoys spending her days with the many goblin children in her care. She has no thought of marriage until she unintentionally rejects the awkward proposal of her best friend, Seylin. Devastated, he decides to leave the kingdom to search for his elf ancestors. Once Emily realizes that she is the cause of his departure, and how much she cares for him, she sets out to find him, accompanied by the curmudgeonly goblin, Ruby.

This book takes place seven years after the first, a time jump necessary to the plot of the story, although it does make one wistful for a more in-depth take on the intervening years for Kate. Both sisters have settled in more or less happily, until Em accidentally sets in motion several quests: her friend Seylin's quest to find elves (from who he gets his vast good looks), and Em's quest to find him. I hope it won't ruin too much of the story to say that both succeed. The elves that Seylin finds are unlike any elves that I've ever read about in fiction though - Dunkle's elves are desperate remnants, stealing food and living in filth and abject misery. This middle book has a lot less action in it - through most of it, the two lovebirds are simply wandering the wilds of England. This book feels like, and is, a set-up for the third in the trilogy. There is just not a lot to this book, although we are presented with the very deep mistrust and hatred that the elves have for goblins.



In the Coils of the Snake (Book III)

Marak, the goblin king, is dying, and his son, Marak Catspaw, is taking over the throne. Miranda, the human girl whom Marak has raised to be Catspaw's wife, has come to the underground goblin lands eager to start her role as King's Wife. When a new elf leader arrives and offers Catspaw an elven wife, Miranda's destiny disappears. She escapes the goblin kingdom and is captured by the elf leader, Nir. Meanwhile, elven Arianna, Catspaw's new Wife, is deeply unhappy with her underground life. In the end, both girls play a role in choosing a new life for both elves and goblins.

This one takes place about thirty years after the second book. I have to say that had they all been like this third book, I may not have finished the trilogy. There is a lot of subjugation of women in this one - both of the brides in itCofS are forced into marriage (literally - although there is less force in Miranda's case, probably because she was half out of her mind at the time) without warning or consultation. Unlike The Hollow Kingdom, the focus of this book is not on the relationship between the King and his bride, but rather on the coming war between goblins and elves (and I'm relieved to see that the elves in CotS have shaped up their personal hygiene habits). Thus, the readers are presented with a very ugly side of each race - both believe that the other is a barbarian, a fact of which, after itCotS, I had no doubt is true in both cases. Each king is domineering and suppressive, all in the name of protection and best interests, and it finally finally, just rubbed me the wrong way. I suppose, for Victorian England, the girls have actually done alright for themselves, but having to see what each bride endured didn't leave me with much sympathy for any of the characters - neither the kings, for being so crazy and harsh, nor the brides, for being so passive and accepting. Kate was a much more sympathetic protagonist, if only for the reason that she didn't stand around like a dumb tree while an elf put her through the marriage rites.


SO, my final verdict on these would have to be: excellently started, poorly finished. To be fair, the series stays true to the character of the world, which is never glossed over, nor prettied up. It is a harsh world in which every generation a horribly disfigured goblin kidnaps some young girl. And yet, the first book is so enjoyable because it does force Kate (and the reader) to evaluate Marak on more than simply the capture of his bride. The later books tread too close to Stockholm Syndrome for comfort. Although each husband is solicitous of his bride, there is very little to admire in the relationships that Dunkle presents at the end. The books are worth a read, if only to provoke thoughts along these and other lines - there certainly is a good deal about instinctual mistrust and prejudice of other races, which is played to good effect in both the second and third books - the second, by turning the common conception of elves on it's head, and the third by allowing us to see how little misunderstandings could result in larger wars. My only wish is that the later two books made me feel as torn about the forced marriages as the first book did - Kate and Marak's union had both positive and negative sides, while I saw only negatives for Miranda and Arriana. The fight between goblins and elves, although interesting, is resolved pretty quickly (also a problem in the second book) and neatly, leaving little to savor, since the personal relationships are given short shrift in exchange. I'm glad I read this series, since it's given me some new perspectives, and made me question some beliefs, but I feel like it could have been better - a longer, slower pace to give equal attention to personal as well as cultural battles would have done the trick.