the baker and the bard

This June one of our local bookstores, One More Page Books, offered Sur-PRIDE boxes – you could pay $25 or $50 for a personally curated surprise package featuring queer books, goodies, and chocolate. You could even share a little bit about yourself and your reading preferences to guide the booksellers in putting together the right box for you. It sounded really fun, so I ordered a box! Fern Haught's fantasy young adult graphic novel The Baker and the Bard was one of the books in my package – and I was glad to see it because I’d been eyeing the cover art for a few months on other bookstore visits. 

 

Juniper and Hadley have a good thing going in Larkspur, spending their respective days apprenticing at a little bakery and performing at the local inn. But when a stranger makes an unusual order at the bakery, the two friends (and Hadley’s pet snake, Fern) set out on a journey to forage the magical mushrooms needed to make the requested galette pastries.

Along the way, Juniper and Hadley stumble across a mystery too compelling to ignore: Something has been coming out of the woods at night and eating the local farmers' crops, leaving only a trail of glowy goo behind. Intent on finally going on an adventure that could fuel their bardic craft, Hadley tows Juniper into the woods to investigate.

What started as a simple errand to pick mushrooms soon turns into a thrilling quest to save some furry new friends—and their caretaker, a softspoken little fey named Thistle—who are in danger of losing their home.

The Baker and the Bard’s subtitle “A Cozy Fantasy Adventure” definitely lives up to its billing. This brief volume clocks in at just under 150 pages, and it follows baker June and bard Hadley as they go on a brief journey and solve a mystery to save the day (or really, find a rare ingredient to make some fancy pastries on time for a rich patron!). The world they live in is vaguely medieval, and contains all sorts of mythological creatures – June is a faun with pink hair, and Hadley a blue elf (?) with a snake sidekick named Fern. Their adventure is basic and easily solved – there are no bumps or snags in the road here – just some mild misunderstandings. The book as a whole is beautifully illustrated, but feels like the definition of “fantasy vibes” instead of a fully-fleshed out adventure.

That isn’t to say it isn’t gorgeous, or worthy – it just has more vibes than plot! Part of its appeal is that there is no conflict… but plenty of beautifully illustrated scenes with interesting landscapes, gorgeous clothes, colorful creatures and people, and of course tasty looking baked goods. As characters, June and Hadley’s motivations are fairly clear from the outset: June would like to start her own bakery and be with Hadley, and Hadley would like to go on an adventure, get to know her own queer identity a little bit better, and be with June. And the townspeople would like to find out what is destroying their crops, and… well, I won’t spoil that last bit. Readers will find a lot to like here if they don’t mind a bit of meandering and focus on the incredible art over text and plot.

Let’s talk about that art! Haught works with digital tools to paint a gorgeous, fantastical world filled with landscapes, meticulously-detailed tailoring, and bold color choices. Part of the “cozy” feel of the book comes from the art itself: its pastel-adjacent palette, the interplay of line art (which mimics colored pencil or crayon), coloring and shading style, and character design. The peaches, pinks, greens, blues, and purples *feel* magical, and dovetail nicely with the actual magic depicted in the book (such as snapping to give Hadley and Fern matching deerstalker hats as they investigate the local mystery). The visual art is what maintains interest in the book, and it is worth a read for that alone.

In all, The Baker and the Bard is a low-stakes fantasy with a mild and cozy aura. It can be read in one sitting, and would pair nicely with a cup of tea and a pastry of your choice.

Recommended for: fans of The Tea Dragon Society series by K. O’Neill, and anyone who likes the look of the cover art. Suitable for ages 9+!

under the whispering door

I love the idea of cozy fantasy. Like, genuinely love it – after all I am a snuggle-in-bed-with-a-book sort of person in my downtime (or during the summer, a reading-under-an-umbrella-while-sipping-on-seltzer sort of person). Reading books that match the vibe sound objectively wonderful. But. BUT! Sometimes, a book that has been billed as cozy does nothing for me. And unfortunately, that was the case with T.J. Klune's Under the Whispering Door. You may remember Klune as the author of hit fantasy The House in the Cerulean Sea. Or from several of his other books – he’s really hitting the fantasy mainstream these days. Unfortunately, after holding onto this book for three years (!!!) and making a good faith effort, it was a DNF (did not finish). I’m reviewing it anyway at the behest of my friend Huck, who said “Write a review anyway! People need permission to stop reading books!”

 

Welcome to Charon's Crossing.

The tea is hot, the scones are fresh, and the dead are just passing through.

When a reaper comes to collect Wallace from his own funeral, Wallace begins to suspect he might be dead.

And when Hugo, the owner of a peculiar tea shop, promises to help him cross over, Wallace decides he’s definitely dead.

But even in death he’s not ready to abandon the life he barely lived, so when Wallace is given one week to cross over, he sets about living a lifetime in seven days.

Hilarious, haunting, and kind, Under the Whispering Door is an uplifting story about a life spent at the office and a death spent building a home.

Wallace is dead, and whatever he expected of the afterlife, it wasn’t this: a newbie Reaper named Mei picking him up from his own funeral (at which no one cried – the indignity of it all!), a tea shop called Charon’s Crossing that serves as a halfway house for the dead before they move on, and the motley crew of characters inhabiting that place, including Hugo, the ferryman. All Wallace wants is to go back to his job… but obviously the universe, life, and death have other plans for him. 

Klune asks you to take a lot on faith at the start of his books: that the person with the miserable job will find redemption, that the world that has been described only piecemeal and the characters bantering back and forth about nonsense will be comprehensible, or at least charming in retrospect, that the fanciful architecture he describes will not collapse on the characters’ heads, and that protagonists with old man names will be successful love interests. In addition to all of this, in this book Klune is writing about the dead, and so you know the whole thing will feel, at times, either heart-rending or emotionally manipulative (or both!). Listen, I’m not saying I don’t believe everyone who raved about this book and its coziness, but I am saying it took a lot of doing to finally pick it up (three years of “ehhhh… not right now”) and to get past the first six chapters. Another week of waffling and reading an additional chapter or two at a time did not change my feelings, and so I finally put it down.

Let’s talk about what Klune does well first. His writing is objectively masterful. He has a deft way of describing the little indignities and discomforts of life, and interactions that make you want to cringe and close your eyes. It is pretty amazing actually! I’m not sure I’ve ever read characters that I could feel were so clearly miserable as Linus in The House in the Cerulean Sea and Wallace in this book. Relatedly, Klune’s characters have authentic inner voices. Finally, I really appreciate his dedication to writing romantic arcs for queer characters, and for depicting mental health struggles and disability within his stories. Visibility for both groups in art is important! 

Unfortunately, the *charm* of Klune’s previous book did not kick in quickly enough, or at all (I admit to skipping ahead to see if I would enjoy the leadup if the ending was satisfying enough, and it wasn’t). I found myself frustrated at characters talking through or at each other, rather than with each other. I kept thinking that not enough grace was offered between characters, for the sort of book this purported to be. The constant confusion/frustration/anger that Wallace is experiencing as the narrator really comes through – perhaps too well. Also, I have some knotted and complex beliefs about the afterlife in general (thanks, American religious upbringing!). I think I could feel in the three years I waited to pick up this book that it might not be for me for that reason, and it was weird to be proven right. So, it was not for me. 

That said, there were some objectively lovely passages in the book, and this one, from page 81, where Wallace is speaking at the start, stood out to me for its honesty: “‘I can’t grieve for myself.’ Hugo shook his head slowly. ‘Of course you can. We do it all the time, regardless of if we’re alive or not, over the small things and the big things. Everyone is a little bit sad all the time.’” 

In all, Under the Whispering Door attempts poignant, quirky charm in a story about second chances and what happens after death, and it doesn’t stick the landing. If you’re looking for cozy stories about eccentric tea shops, let me direct you to Becky Chambers’ novella A Psalm for the Wild-Built.

Recommended for: T.J. Klune completists, and those interested in contemporary fantasy with queer representation and found families.

the moth keeper

Author K. O’Neill may be familiar to graphic novel fans already as the author of The Tea Dragon Society series from Oni Press. I started reading O’Neill’s stories even before that, as webcomics! Now with a new publisher, The Moth Keeper is their most recent graphic novel, and a delightful one at that. The Moth Keeper is evidence of the evolution and maturation in O’Neill’s art, and as such it is a delight to behold, while maintaining the cozy charm inherent in their earlier works.

 

Anya is finally a Moth Keeper, the protector of the lunar moths that allow the Night-Lily flower to bloom once a year. Her village needs the flower to continue thriving and Anya is excited to prove her worth and show her thanks to her friends with her actions, but what happens when being a Moth Keeper isn’t exactly what Anya thought it would be?

Night after night, it is lonely in the desert, with only one lantern for light. Still, Anya is eager to prove her worth, to show her thanks to her friends and her village. But is it worth the cost? And yet something isn’t right. When Anya glimpses the one thing that could destroy what she’s meant to protect, her village and the lunar moths are left to deal with the consequences.

K. O’Neill brings to life a beautifully illustrated fantasy with lush, gorgeous art and intricate world-building. A story about coming of age and community, The Moth Keeper is filled with magic, hope, and friendship.

 

Anya lives in the Night Village, a small nocturnal community of animal-human hybrid creatures in the desert that depends on the Night-Flower and its Moon-Moths for survival. As the story opens, Anya is just starting an apprenticeship as a Moth Keeper. While it’s one of the most essential and important jobs in the village, it is also isolating and lonely – the Moth Keeper must be away from the community working during both the everyday and special ceremonies. Will Anya learn to make her peace with a life of solitude, or let her memories and the pressure of her new role overwhelm her?

 

While this heartwarming middle grade fantasy has many highlights, one of the most magical elements is its mythology. O’Neill has created a whole world, including a creation myth, festivals and rituals to celebrate important moments, an ecology and economy tied into the climate and nocturnal/diurnal rhythms, and characters with struggles and strengths, extensive backstories, and flashbacks. In other words, there are layers upon layers of history, care, and society in this graphic novel, and they are all skillfully interwoven and expertly illustrated. I particularly enjoyed how O’Neill revealed the history of the moths and the village’s dependence on them, and the moon-blinded ghost – those scenes were clever, poignant, and dreamy.

 

The Moth Keeper is a story told almost entirely in the visual medium. Dialogue is not missing, but on many page spreads is not the point – O’Neill asks readers to connect with the landscape, the dreams, and the multitude of details of Anya’s world through observation. Taking the time to fully take in the art is a must – this is not a volume to rush through. And the art itself does not disappoint!

 

Speaking of the art, the areas where I see the most evolution in O’Neill’s style are the linework, illustration of light (or lack thereof in a nighttime world), and in the illustrations of the desert landscape and ecosystem. In scenes where characters discuss the past or historical tradition, the linework is thicker and more smudged, paired with missing borders around each panel for a less finished look. This lends a dreamlike feeling to those images. In contrast, the rest of O’Neill’s artwork is contained neatly within hand drawn, black-bordered panels with a white gutter. Most pages have many smaller panels of varying sizes and shapes – there is a sort of magic in the studied irregularity throughout the book as a whole. Full two-page spreads are few and far between, and startling for that. O’Neill’s work with light – especially the bobbing lantern that Anya carries each night to lure the moths into following her, and the gradations of sunrise – is of especial note. I was enchanted following light sources from panel to panel (that might make me a special comics nerd, who knows!) almost as much as by the variety of creatures populating the Night and Day villages. At the end of the book O’Neill discusses her inspiration for the landscape and ecosystem of The Moth Keeper, and includes rough landscape and plant studies – these will help readers understand the many, many hours of work, research, and care that go into creating the details of a graphic novel world. The art as a whole is particular, full of depth, and at the same time dynamic and engrossing. It is an artistic feast.

 

On its surface, The Moth Keeper is a story about adjusting to adult responsibility, making peace with the past, and finding one’s place in the world. However, it invites deeper reflection and multiple rereads, and reveals more secrets and beauty each time, as only a masterpiece can. I adored it.

 

Recommended for: fans of K. O’Neill and the Tea Dragon series, Wendy Xu, Snapdragon, and The Witch Boy, and anyone looking for fantastical middle grade graphic novels with lots of heart and gorgeous artwork.

a prayer for the crown-shy

I am happy to report that Becky Chambers’ latest novella in the Monk & Robot series – A Prayer for the Crown-Shy – is just as affirming, emotionally complex, and thought-provoking as its predecessor, A Psalm for the Wild-Built. There’s more musing on the place of humans in community, as well as the essential nature of ecosystems, and the human place in them, but just as much love and belief. It’s a gem.

After touring the rural areas of Panga, Sibling Dex (a Tea Monk of some renown) and Mosscap (a robot sent on a quest to determine what humanity really needs) turn their attention to the villages and cities of the little moon they call home.

They hope to find the answers they seek, while making new friends, learning new concepts, and experiencing the entropic nature of the universe.

Becky Chambers's new series continues to ask: in a world where people have what they want, does having more even matter?

I called the first novella in this series a post-apocalyptic utopia, and I stand by that description. This is the story of two beings (one a tea monk, the other a robot, a remnant of an older, crueler time) wandering a world where humans have figured out their needs, how to meet them, and how to live sustainably within their natural habitat in the meantime. It’s a lovely place to escape into and imagine. Of course, as with any place (even a fictional universe!) where there are humans, there are a few more complexities. Sibling Dex, the tea monk, describes how their society functions without capitalism, and what they see as their individual role in the world – and how they are not fitting into it now. This internal unrest contrasts with visits to various people groups as Dex and Mosscap traverse Panga’s inhabited areas.

 

In this second volume in the series, Chambers spends less time describing small human comforts and wonders. Crown-Shy’s focus is instead more philosophical, as the robot half of the duo asks its essential question (What do humans need?) to the people they meet on the road. When not meeting people, Mosscap is obsessed with new trees, reading, and learning about the variety of ways that humans live in and interact with the world. As befits a creature who has existed only in the wild to this point, Mosscap focuses on mundanities and mysteries that most (including Dex) would bypass, or consider scenery, or leave unknown. The result is a volume that feels deeply rooted in nature, in harmony, and in a very human puzzling about purpose, loneliness, and unpacking our feelings.

 

A Prayer for the Crown-Shy is, quite simply, a joy. I hope for more in the series, but am grateful for these two slim volumes if that is all there is. Chambers has managed to create a feeling of contentment in book form – both titles in the series are lovely and heart-warming reads, especially for these restless times.

 

Recommended for: fans of Martha Wells’ Murderbot series and first-class science fiction and fantasy, and anyone who likes quiet, thoughtful, character-driven reading.

a psalm for the wild-built

One of the most soothing reads I picked up in recent months? Becky Chambers’ novella A Psalm for the Wild-Built, the first in the Monk and Robot series. I almost didn’t read it myself (I bought it to gift to my Dad for Christmas, as he liked the first Murderbot book, and is a big gardener), but the siren song of knowing what a book is about before I gift it was too strong to resist. Plus Tor novellas are notoriously readable, and Psalm was no exception. It’s an affirming, emotional cup of tea, and may be just the balm you need in these chaotic times. 

It's been centuries since the robots of Panga gained self-awareness and laid down their tools; centuries since they wandered, en masse, into the wilderness, never to be seen again; centuries since they faded into myth and urban legend.

One day, the life of a tea monk is upended by the arrival of a robot, there to honor the old promise of checking in. The robot cannot go back until the question of "what do people need?" is answered.

But the answer to that question depends on who you ask, and how.

They're going to need to ask it a lot.

Becky Chambers's new series asks: in a world where people have what they want, does having more matter?

A Psalm for the Wild-Built is the story of Dex, a non-binary devotee of the god of small comforts, who retrains as a tea monk (doesn’t that sound like a lovely vocation?). In doing so, they learn a lot about themselves (and humanity) – but still have a deep yearning to leave behind the expectations and responsibilities of society. They live in a post-apocalyptic utopia on Panga, where humans have mostly figured themselves out and live in harmony with the natural world. However, the echoes of a different era – a machine- and robot-centric era, where humans were NOT kind to the planet or each other, linger on in the margins. When Dex meets the first robot anyone has had contact with in hundreds of years, a different kind of communion begins. 

I hadn’t read Becky Chambers’ work before picking up this novella, but in truth, you don’t need to. It’s the start of a new series and an excellent introduction to her character-driven sci-fi sensibility and subtle emotion-filled writing style. I loved this novella quite a lot (for reasons I’ll get into in just a bit), and afterward I picked up The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet, her sci-fi debut from several years ago, and finished it almost in one gulp. Chambers has a talent for writing heart-truths, and this novella is no exception. In Psalm Chambers also plays with and muses on ideas of climate collapse and climate justice, robot/AI intelligence, and the value and definitions of vocation and personhood. 

I don’t want to share too much of what happens in this book, because it IS so short, but just to give you a sense of the vibes: I was reading it, thinking to myself, “this is soothing, I feel like planning a camping trip and preparing a big thermos of tea.” I was enjoying a novel, optimistic world and an interesting new pantheon of gods. Then all of a sudden I was sobbing and I had to put the book DOWN immediately, and even now, writing this at a remove, thinking of the little bits of wonder and raw feeling it evoked, my eyes are wet and my heart is clenching and I’m thinking: “My god, yes, I needed that. I am undone.” 

PHEW. Yeah so it’s an unassuming emotion-bomb ready to go off (and I mean that in the best possible way). Beware, good luck, I think you’ll adore it. 

“It is enough to exist in the world and marvel at it. You don’t need to justify that, or earn it. You are allowed to just live.”

Recommended for: fans of quiet sci-fi and fantasy (think: All Systems Red and The House in the Cerulean Sea), anyone who likes their reading with a dose of empathy, and for gardeners, tinkerers, and tea drinkers.

the house in the cerulean sea

This reading adventure began, as many do, with recommendations. The startling thing is that I followed through and read the book at all. In my life as an English teacher, I’ve learned that books are many, time is short, and during the school year I will get no reading done (unless forced). TJ Klune’s The House in the Cerulean Sea started popping up all over the place on Instagram first – and not just around its release date, but a swell of love and support over many months. That was fine, and I noticed it, but it didn’t prompt me to take action. Then I showed up to my book club’s Zoom meeting a couple of months ago and it was personally recommended by long-time reading friends. Their arguments were persuasive – I purchased the book then and there! And only 2ish months later, I read it all in one day. The House in the Cerulean Sea delivered on its promised cozy vibes, and reading it was a nice way to slide into summer mode.

 

Linus Baker leads a quiet, solitary life. At forty, he lives in a tiny house with a devious cat and his old records. As a Case Worker at the Department in Charge of Magical Youth, he spends his days overseeing the well-being of children in government-sanctioned orphanages.

When Linus is unexpectedly summoned by Extremely Upper Management he's given a curious and highly classified assignment: travel to Marsyas Island Orphanage, where six dangerous children reside: a gnome, a sprite, a wyvern, an unidentifiable green blob, a were-Pomeranian, and the Antichrist. Linus must set aside his fears and determine whether or not they’re likely to bring about the end of days.

But the children aren’t the only secret the island keeps. Their caretaker is the charming and enigmatic Arthur Parnassus, who will do anything to keep his wards safe. As Arthur and Linus grow closer, long-held secrets are exposed, and Linus must make a choice: destroy a home or watch the world burn.

An enchanting story, masterfully told, The House in the Cerulean Sea is about the profound experience of discovering an unlikely family in an unexpected place—and realizing that family is yours.

 

The House in the Cerulean Sea is the story of Linus Baker, a government worker in a fictional (and nominally magical) world who is desperately lonely, but keeps himself too busy fulfilling his job according to the draconian Rules and Regulations to think very deeply about his dissatisfaction with his life. The only bits of happiness he has are the sunflowers in his garden, his cat Calliope, and his record collection. Linus’ internal monologue is immediately hilarious, but his life overall is sad and dreary. This metaphor is extended even further in tragicomic fashion: Linus constantly misses the bus (or it is late), forgets his umbrella on rainy days, and engages in light self-hatred (about his weight), along with holding a seeming life-long goal of blending in with the wall paint. Luckily, the business of the book is to make him happy. Author Klune accomplishes this by delving into the fantasy portion of the novel, when Linus must make an unusual casework visit to a whimsical island and observe the family who live there. Over the course of his visit, Linus (or Mr. Baker, as he goes by at the orphanage he is “investigating”) slowly develops his capacity for happiness, and by the end of the book all’s well that ends well.

 

What I knew going into reading the book: magical house/school, cozy vibes, quiet read, LGBTQ+ characters. What I got in the first several chapters: an absolutely miserable main character in an awful desk job that gave me flashbacks to some of my own worst working experiences. Let’s just say there was some whiplash between expectations and reality. I almost put the book down about 5 times in the first 5 chapters. I kept going because of the promised payoff from the recommendations of others. So, with that off my chest, I can say… this book IS lovely in many ways, as is Linus, but they both require a bit of patience from the reader to uncover their strengths and treasures.

 

Author Klune’s task in this novel is a complex and delicate one: to start with a character that the reader can immediately identify as unhappy, unambitious, and with low self-esteem, and expose them to a combination of plot and character elements that will thoroughly change their outlook on life, actions, and future, all without seeming “out of character.” It is a masterful character study, but it doesn’t feel contrived – it instead is a story suffused with homey, magical details, and I think that is why it is so beloved. 

 

So, that’s the book. I think it was successful on its own merits, and a feat of engineering! And obviously, cozy vibes and quiet reads are nothing to shake a stick at. BUT DID I ENJOY IT??? That is a tough question, and one I’ve been asking myself over and over again in the last 12 hours or so since I finished the book. And I think the answer is, to use one of my favorite words, complex. On one hand: yes. I can appreciate the underpinnings that make this book art, and I appreciate the aura of it all, and of course I love magical stories. But one thing about being in the head of a character with such low self-esteem, and such a dreary outlook on life, is that is hard not to get trapped in the emotional transference. Other people in the book kept telling Linus he was worthy and delightful, and yet… on his side, he couldn’t see it. And thus, in a way, the reader (or at least THIS reader) couldn’t see it. As I said, complex. I feel satisfied that I didn’t waste my time reading the book, but it’s not a favorite, or even a “keep it on my shelf” book. It’ll go live instead in my classroom library at school!

 

I do appreciate LGBTQ+ characters getting to live everyday lives, and being the centers of cozy books. I also appreciated that, while the book is marketed to adults, it will be very popular with younger readers and those who read YA and crossover titles. Because of the novel’s focus on children’s lives and children’s well-being through Linus’ line of work, the feel is quite innocent and light, even when it deals with heavier themes and subject matter like prejudice and child abuse. 

 

In all, a perfectly satisfactory summer read, and one for when you need a dash of whimsy and warmth in your life.

 

Recommended for: fans of Katherine Addison’s books (especially The Angel of the Crows, which I read and also enjoyed in a complex way last summer), those who enjoy quiet fantasy with hints of Diana Wynne Jones and/or Robin McKinley, and anyone who wants to see more LGBTQ+ representation in science fiction and fantasy!