Book Review: Miserere (Revised Edition) by T. Frohock

The revised version of T. Frohock’s Miserere is a major overhaul of the author's debut novel, more than a decade afterwards.

Disclaimer up front and personal: In the process of this rewrite, the author asked me for my advice and suggestions for some of the Latin she uses.

Miserere was a 2011 debut novel by Teresa Frohock (who goes more these days by T. Frohock. Part of the wide ranging net that Night Shade books attempted to cast in those halcyon days, I read the original back in my relatively early days as a reviewer.

This new review is of the 2025 edition and focuses primarily on how I feel about the changes between the original and this version.

The basis chassis of the story remains from the original. Our major characters are four. Lucian is a Katharos, a holy warrior in the service of God, but he has been banished for abandoning his lover, Rachael (another Katharos) in an an attempt to save his sister, Catarina (who is basically a fallen Katharos at this point). Our fourth character is Lindsay,a young woman drawn to the liminal world of Woerld where Rachael, Lucian and Catarina live to be a Katharos herself.

The major conflict revolves around Lucian’s attempt to oppose his sister, who has truly turned to the dark side, the side of demons and evils. Lucian sacrificed his career, life and the trust of others to try and save his sister, but his sister had made her choice, now, to side with the demons seeking entrance from hell into Woerld (whereupon they will go to Earth, and thence to storm heaven, raining destruction in their wake).

Mixed in with this is that Rachael is being possessed by a demon that is slowly eating her alive, Catarina needing her brother to execute her plans to open these gates, and Lindsay, recently arrived to Woerld and a good source of “How does this all work?” just wants to go home, and find her brother (also caught in the same event that brought her here) in the process.

The subtitle for this novel is “An Autumn Tale”. And the original was indeed a dark story. It felt then and felt now like something you’d read in early November, as Autumn truly takes hold, the shadows get longer, the ground gets colder. The relative barrenness and harshness of the liminal world of Woerld encourages it. But this new version of Miserere feels more like a *late* Autumn tale, on the verge of but not quite winter. This new version makes both Catarina and Rachael more active characters.

To the positive of having Rachael as a more active character with more action on the page, this does make her a more heroic and less passive character. Frohock does this on the line level, and with her scenes from her point of view as well. The former version was very much a hand-wringing Lucian caught between his sister, and his ex. This new version has Rachael much less passive, much more active in this broken relationship and the relationship is all the better for it. Rachael’s trust of Lucian, broken at the start of the novel, has to be earned strand by strand and it is not easy. Her relationship with the demon that’s inside of her is also a more active sort of fight that she is having on a minute by minute basis.

Next up is Catarina. I thought Catarina was a dark force of nature in the original version, a memorable villain with dark goals and a dark relationship with her brother. This new version of Catarina is even more toxic, even more active, even more dangerous. Catarina has a very dysfunctional relationship with her brother in this new version. She uses, abuses and manipulates Lucian every moment she gets, all the way to the end. Hers is a tragic story, someone who has grasped for power, and grasps no matter the cost. Her scenes with Cerberus, as she bargains for ever more power, for ever greater costs, are well written and sharp.

But overall, in terms of writing and style, the additional scenes, removal of scene, and rewrite, especially early in the novel puts it a couple of shades of darker fantasy than it was originally. Is it horror? Not quite, because I think horror is a mode, and Frohock is not going for horror here. But it is a dark world, dark things happen and the overall aspect of the book can be, despite the hope and the light in it, rather dark and oppressive. I say in all seriousness this is not a book to read when you are in a dark place, mentally.

So let’s switch gears and talk about Lindsay. Lindsay and her brother Peter, fleeing a conflict with some local toughs, get caught in the veil and are brought to Woerld. The original version didn’t make it quite so clear, but this newer version clarifies just how and why this works. It’s a call to service, basically, from the godhead, to come and oppose evil on the front line of Woerld. I have some more questions now, but a lot of the roughness from the first novel is cleared up now. Lindsay asks a lot of questions and gives us a ground level introduction to some of the basics that Lucian and Rachael take for granted. And she is an unsullied beacon of light and innocence in the novel, as opposed to the far more world weary Rachael. And, of course, Lucian.

And so there is the heart of the novel, Lucian. He’s right there on the cover, flanked by Catarina and Rachael. At the start, he is in exile from the people he has served every since coming from our Earth, from the woman he loves, living as a house prisoner in the house of his sister. His is a painful journey, the realization that he cannot save his sister, his escape, he encounter with Lindsay, and the extended chase/journey as he tries to get Lindsay to safety. Lucian is full of doubt, throughout the novel, and needs the help of both Lindsay and Rachael, and needs to both convince them to help him, and accept their help when it comes. There is a whole lot of redemption that Lucian needs if he is going to survive.

Or not just redemption, but mercy. Hence the title of the novel, Miserere. The mercy that Lucian tries to show his sister. The mercy that Lucian himself *needs*.

This new version does add some worldbuilding and fleshes out more detail on Woerld, something that I had mentioned in my original view. This newly rewritten version, especially with the more active Rachael as mentioned above, and other changes does address some of the worldbuilding deficiencies that I saw in the original novel. I think on that the balance, the world of Woerld feels more complete in this world and I have a better sense of how and why it works. I would still like to see more of the world and get a better sense of it, but I do think this new version is an improvement.

I thought then and I think now that the theology of the book might turn off some readers. It’s not Christian apocalyptic fiction like Left Behind, but the theology of Woerld, despite being described as being very pantheistic, is, thanks to Lucian, Rachael, Catarina and Linday being Christian, strictly Christian. We get a full on exorcism, a lot of use of Latin, and so on. The real comp for Miserere that I can think of, and its a stretch even so given just how narrow and unique Miserere was then, and is now, is the RPG In Nomine. In In Nomine, you play minor angels (or devils) in a world where Christian theology is real, and you are trying to support your side, your own power and promotion, and trying to get along in a world where there are some very scary characters indeed. But that unique sort of world, theology, setting and characters is what drew me to the novel in the first place.

I think overall this version of Miserere is an improvement over the original on all axes, but it may have narrowed slightly the market for its readership by its somewhat darker turn. The stronger female characters do it a lot of credit and make it a much better book, without question, but this is a book that is most definitely not for anyone. But if you want to read a book were heroic men and women stand in the darkness against demons, and wrestle rather grimly with their own personal ones (including a literal one), and don’t mind and embrace the Christian theology of the book -- Miserere is the book for you. For those who might be curious about Frohock’s work but don’t feel this is quite the spot to read it, that’s understanding. The Los Nefilim novellas and novels and stories, which have a race of beings between angels and devils, might be a better fit for you than Miserere.

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Highlights:

• Revised and Expanded Edition: But Darker, too
• Stronger set of characters
• Better worldbuilding, stronger overall

Reference: Frohock, T., Miserere: An Autumn Tale, Revised and Expanded, [Nightshade Books, 2025]

POSTED BY: Paul Weimer. Ubiquitous in Shadow, but I’m just this guy, you know? @princejvst

Book review: The Wolf and the Wild King by K. V. Johansen

A high fantasy story of two men caught in the tendrils of justice, invasion, heroism, and dark recurring magic

Mairran is the son of the Dragon Queen, and her bloody agent. Bloody in the sense of covered in blood; an agent of the Queen’s command, Mairran is sent when justice requires the edge of a sword. Or sometimes something less noble than justice... and just the command of his mother the Queen.

Meanwhile, in another time period but in the same area, Lannesk is a bastard son, along with his younger brother Anzimor. Theirs is not an easy life, especially with trouble brewing in the north from dragonkin. His is a story of growing up and surviving in a cold, unforgiving land.

And both Mairran and Lannesk are going to be confronted by a mysterious figure from the forest, one whose power holds fate and secrets for them both. The mysterious and eldritch and titular Wild King.

This is the story of The Wolf and the Wild King by K. V. Johansen.

Johansen’s adult fantasy novels, particularly that of the Caravan series, are full of old gods, demons, devils, and dark magic that is definitely not of the Sandersonian school of comprehensible and documented “scientific magic.” Mysterious beings of power, landscapes evocative, rich and immersive. Complicated wheels within wheels of plots, characters whose motivations and true intentions only slowly reveal themselves. Complex and multi-varied characterizations of protagonists.

The Wolf and the Wild King is no different in this regard.

Our setting is a northern taiga near the coast, but the main feature of the area is an enormous lake, large enough to be a sea with islands. This is a wild and hard country, where winters are long and hard, and growing and warm seasons brief, intense, and all too short, and life is unending toil for anyone from the Queen (or local Earls) on down to the peasants. It’s of a piece with previous novels by Johansen, but this is a land that we haven’t directly seen before in the narrative. The landscape is winningly evoked on the page, and I could almost feel the chill whenever the story turned to winters that even a Minnesotan or Canadian would respect in their ferocity. The lake itself almost feels like a character, the center of a lot of the action and the plot, and we get to see it in multiple seasons as well. It feels like a large Lake Superior, but with an outlet to the ocean, and kingdoms, earldoms, castles, villages, towns and more all huddled around its shore.

It’s no wonder that Mairran, son of the Queen, and Lannesk, a poor bastard son clawing his way through life as best he can, don’t have the most pleasant of lives. There is also a strong and abiding sense of stubborn independence in the people of this land. The Earls chafe under the rule of higher nobles, such as the Queen, which is where Mairran and his justice come into play. The commonfolk are cold and stubborn and often look out for themselves. Lannesk’s life on the road with Anzimor, once they are forced by circumstance, is not an easy one.

One interesting puzzle that pulled me through the narrative was just what was the relationship between Mairran and Lannesk, both as characters and when they were aligned in time and space to each other. Johansen layers her worldbuilding and exposition with rich detail, and I enjoyed the puzzle of picking up the pieces to try and make sense of the narrative. There is a real sense of fantasy history in her novels, a history told in songs and stories rather than tomes, and the contradictions and complications of historical narrative comes across. The characters, especially Lannesk, really inhabit this sort of thinking and mindset.

Another interesting series of choices is in Lannesk’s narrative. Lannesk is a mute, and in fact, aside from a couple of attempts at music, all of his communication, especially with his brother, is nonverbal. In order to accomplish this narratively, Johansen breaks away from the intimate first-person PoV that we get in Mairran (whereby we really get into his head). Instead we get a third-person PoV, and no word or explanation that Lannesk isn’t speaking for some time, something for the reader to discover and then reveal the narrative possibilities of. It’s an excellent use of the craft and techniques of writing to better tell a story. This helps distinguish Lannesk’s story from Mairran’s and gives us an outside perspective on some of the events in the book.

I have not really detailed the meaning of the title, talked about the Wolf or the Wild Man. This is deliberate on my part, since who they really are, and what they are to each other, is another of the mysteries and past narratives unfolding in the book. Suffice it to say that there are a number of powerful immortal beings memorialized in songs and tales by the characters, and they do impinge on the plot itself. To say more would spoil some of the lovely surprises the book has. It’s a rich and well written story that entertained throughout for both narratives.

This does make the subgenre of the book an open question. It’s not quite a full-screen epic fantasy; the fate of the world or the kingdom isn’t quite at stake in either narrative. However, it’s not a narrow book, either. It is a secondary world fantasy, and it can be dark at times (Mairran is not really a hero, and Lannesk is just trying to survive). I don’t think this is quite grimdark, either. It’s brooding, lyrical, dark secondary world fantasy.

One major criticism I have for this story is that it is incomplete. The story is “to be continued” in the second volume, The Raven and the Harper. From a plot point of view, that means the story gives me an air of dissatisfaction, especially considering where Lannesk is left off at the end (Mairran is in a more stable situation, but his mission is far from done). While I do definitely want to read the second volume to find the conclusion of the story, readers who want a complete narrative in one volume will not find it here.

Highlights:

• Strong mythic narrative, with interesting plotting and worldbuilding puzzles
• Excellent use of setting
• Not a complete story in one volume

Reference: Johansen, K. V. The Wolf and the Wild King [Crossroad Press, 2024].

POSTED BY: Paul Weimer. Ubiquitous in Shadow, but I'm just this guy, you know? @princejvstin

Book Review: Asunder by Kerstin Hall

A disappointing use of interesting ideas that never manages to fully engage with the framework it lives within.

Some books' endings, I can look at them and go... well, this isn't for me, I don't like how this went, but I can see how someone might. I often find this with ambiguous endings. Sometimes they hit just right, sometimes they pass me by, but I get that they're someone's jam. You can probably see where I'm going with this. I hated the ending of Asunder. I left a few days between reading it and writing this review, letting my thoughts percolate, and the thing I keep circling back to is how everything is tied up at/after the big finale, and how deeply, frustratingly unsatisfying I found it. I struggle to see, in a way that is not often the case, how this would work for anyone. I'm clearly wrong and it does, because I've seen praise for it! So much praise! But it is beyond the scope of my comprehension. Which is a shame, because it all comes down to something that's worked through the entire narrative, something that I think has promise, that is clearly thoughtful, clearly deliberate, something that left me slightly wrong-footed (in a good way, mostly), and trying to figure out exactly where the story was going, and what is was going to be.

It all comes down to expectations.

I could talk about the worldbuilding of Asunder, I can talk about the characterisation (both fine, trending good), I can talk about the plotting (fine) and the pacing (mixed). But that's not what's interesting about it, as a novel, so I'm not going to bother. Instead, I'm going to focus on the thing about it that I think makes it stand out* - exactly how it interacts with genre conventions, and the expectations that the weight of the existing corpus impose on/instill in readers. More than anything, while I was reading it, I was constantly uncertain about exactly what sort of a thing Asunder wanted to be, a quality in a book that has the potential to deliver an absolutely stellar story... or a distinctly mediocre one. Take The City and the City by China Miéville, as an example. The way that it plays with your understanding of whether or not there are genre elements in play is key to the impact of the finale. Not everything has to do it to quite that extreme, but it's a great example of how subverting the expectations of the reader can deliver something wonderful. There's also The Brides of High Hill by Nghi Vo, for something more recent, or The Devil and the Dark Water by Stuart Turton. Books that play with exactly what kind of a story you're dealing with can deliver magic. Or... they can feel muddled, uncertain, unfinished things. I still haven't quite decided which one Asunder is, for me.

If you look at the fantasy genre, especially mainstream, tradpubbed novels, right now, and doubly especially ones with a female protagonist, it is very often the default for those stories to contain an element of romance. Not necessarily to quite the extent of romantasy, but a strong thread lying alongside the main plot, supporting the character development and helping to deliver a satisfying ending on an emotional level. It's another kind of payoff, another way for your hero(ine) to get their just deserts (or righteous comeuppance, or tragic crescendo, depending on how the romance plays out). So when Asunder gave me a female character who ends up stuck with a newly-met male character inside her head, having to become comfortable with that incredible, infuriating intimacy after a hard and lonely life... well, the cues were cue-ing, right? And then he turns out to be nice! But he has some mysteries... ohoho I know where this goes, yes? Except... it doesn't. It hints. It lets you wonder. But it also has the cute scholar she meets at the university flirt with her, help her more than she expects and ask her out to dinner. Is that just friendship or the start of something more? And then you meet someone from her childhood, and there are hints that maybe what they felt for one another was more than just friendship... or are there? No, really, are there?? Or am I just imagining it because I am so thoroughly, constantly used to seeing romance in my fantasy novels that I'm trying to figure out where it's going to come from, ending up jumping at ghosts?

That was my experience, for a lot of reading Asunder. Such hints as there are, for a good chunk of the book, are so gentle, so subtle, that I found myself second-guessing them and myself. And it wasn't just the romance. The story also sets up what seem like familiar structures, only to never quite grasp them and move onto something new instead, leaving behind a trail of brief encounters across the scenery of this imagined world. There are moments where the story veers political, and then drifts away again, just as it meanders towards adventures and heists and crime and magic and gods and empire, never quite committing itself to fully delving into any one box it opens. But nor do these disparate elements ever feel like their variety coheres into something greater than the sum of its parts. If anything, it reminds me of the structure of a myth, a fairytale, where events just sort of... keep eventing, until an unseen clock runs out and it's time to have a resolution now. A story unbeholden to the logic of the meta. I don't necessarily hate that. But I never felt like I could settle down into it either, I could never get comfortable enough to immerse myself fully into what it was giving me.

And then on top of all that there's a whole other bunch of expectations that don't quite have anything to do with the book itself. I came into this having seen a number of people talking positively, enthusiastically, nay even ecstatically about it. So, naturally, my expectations were set pretty high; I was waiting to be stunned. I never quite was.

It's like reading books for awards. The frame of reference you bring with you to the reading experience necessarily colours it. No one can read a text free from context. You can do your best, if it's something you want to strive for - I tend not to read proper, deep reviews of books I know I'm going to have to read with purpose (either for a review or for awards judging/voting), for example - but you can never truly free yourself from it. After all, something has to be the prompt to read the book, right?

And, just like many times where I've read an award shortlist, Asunder suffers because I'm holding it up to this unfairly high standard. It's not, for me, a stellar book. It's not world shattering, not emotionally devastating. It's fine. It's... probably a little unmemorable, but so are the vast majority of stories. It treads familiar ground in familiar ways, changing some of the aesthetics, the vibes, but ultimately delivering the sort of standard fare that the genre thrives on, because not everything can (or should) be a work of deathless prose that lasts through the ages. But much like the expectations the story framework set up around romance, around plot points, I am incapable of seeing past the expectations set by the critical response I've seen before reading - and it simply does not live up to either set.

For the genre ones, there are two reasons I could see for this - is it playing with my expectations and it's simply not working for me, or is it failing to craft them at all, and what I'm seeing is the baggage I have brought with me, unasked? I'm unsure to what extent it is which of those. If it is the latter, I do think this is something of a failure by the book - it's leaving something on the table that could be put to use crafting the story into something tighter and more thoughtful.

In any case, we now come back to the crux of the problem with how those expectations are crafted and managed throughout the story - the ending. For every genre, there are some assumptions about what the story's end might look like, whether as rigid as the happily ever after of true romance, or the less formalised but no less present mores about a satisfying wrap up of threads that tends to accompany traditional SFF. Asunder... neither meets them, nor convincingly flouts them in a way that feels deliberate. It instead does the secret third thing (confuses me). By the time we get towards the conclusion of the story, some of the less clear aspects of plot and interpersonal dynamics have been spelled out, and we begin to see the shape of what the ending might look like. There's a glimmer of some possible goal that maybe the characters will achieve, or maybe fail to achieve, but there could be pathos either way in that. And then the story drops into a big dramatic scene, one that feels perhaps longer than it needed to be, that is all action and tension and then... well. It's hard to discuss this without explicit spoilers, but essentially, neither the good nor the bad ending comes to pass, and instead various threads are simply dropped. We're robbed of the catharsis in either direction. There's a hint that resolution could come later, maybe? Sort of? There's a solid impression that things will continue in the next book. But what felt like a genuine framework had finally been set up, and then is entirely ignored in how things shake out. It was the worst sort of cliffhanger ending, rejecting any sense that the first book in a series needs to also function as a contained narrative, as well as a part of the wider whole.

Perhaps Hall has been playing with the reader's expectations all along, and this final subversion of the norms of story resolution is just the pièce de resistance? It's perfectly possible, I suppose. But if so, it entirely fails for me. Without some sort of emotional conclusion, even one that is less impactful and necessarily subordinate to the longer term one that will come in the sequels, the story feels unnaturally abbreviated. I see no benefit to the end state of things that has been brought by this subversion, and the cost is of any satisfaction with how events played out, just after I finally dared to hope there might be something to cling onto.

Especially when this is sat alongside what is quite a quotidien story in how it crafts a fantasy narrative, I find it hard to think it's just a clever decision that has passed me by. In something more nakedly ambitious in its approach, I might buy it, but it feels like "right at the end" is not the correct moment to unleash as-yet-untapped seams of narrative anarchy. Certainly, by doing it that way, the story seems doomed to please no one - those who want full weird, full subversion, don't get it for the vast majority of the book and so remain mostly unsatisfied, and those who wants the more traditional structure feel cheated of their conclusion. Who is this designed for, exactly? Who actually likes cliffhangers?

However much I talk like I know what I'm on about here, obviously I can't account for authorial intent. I'm not psychic. And also, frankly, it doesn't really matter (up to a point, at least). But the perception of intentionality matters a great deal - whether or not I enjoy a book is going to change enormously depending on whether it feels composed and deliberate vs just... a bunch of things happening with no particular coherent drive. It such a hard thing to quantify because it's something that so often comes down to "feeling". And whatever Hall was actually wanting and doing here, the feeling I get from it is a muddled one, of a story that hasn't quite been pinned down into a coherent place, nor with a clear signal of how the readers will interact with it. When you remove that, when you remove that clear sense of purpose, what remains is a bunch of perfectly fine ideas, characters and events, but without the soul that makes them into something substantial. It's a shame, because those ideas, characters and events are perfectly fine, but this is too big of a problem for any of them to overcome. They need tying together, and it simply does not feel like they have been.

*Being brutally honest, in those categories combined, I think this a perfectly fine but unexceptional book, the likes of which I have read a number of times before and will again. If you like trad fantasy but updated to more modern mores - great, have at it. If there's a downside to it, it's that the events of the story feel a little bit "a thing then a thing then another thing" rather than something with a definitive structure and drive. There's your tl;dr review.

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The Math

Highlights: interesting world, pleasant characters, cool pseudo-warlocky magical powers

Nerd Coefficient: 6/10

Reference: Kerstin Hall, Asunder [Tordotcom, 2024].

POSTED BY: Roseanna Pendlebury, the humble servant of a very loud cat. @chloroformtea.bsky.social

Book Review: A Sorceress Comes to Call by T. Kingfisher

 A familiar, soothing balm for the soul (if the soul doesn't mind the odd bit of murder thrown in for good measure).

In every story I have read by T. Kingfisher, there is a character of a certain... well, character. She is invariably female, often older, not always the protagonist, and has about her a particular spirit that is immediately discerned - when you meet her, you know her in a heartbeat. Her situation, her backstory, her motivations may change book to book, but her fundamental substance is entirely similar, and if you had them all meet up in some sort of extra-narrative liminal space, they'd all get on like a house on fire and probably organise a trans-universe insurrection so nobody gets imperilled for the plot anymore.

In case it wasn't obvious, I love her, this character. I don't think I'd keep reading the books if I didn't, because she's so integral to all of them. But she is ubiquitous and... well... isn't this a problem? Doesn't that mean the books get a bit samey?

Which is what I want to talk about here, in regards to A Sorceress Comes to Call, T. Kingfisher's latest novel. But first, the boring bit - I should at least tell you what the book is about before I go on a wild tangent about her wider canon. The story follows two women, one, Cordelia, fourteen years old and desperately alone, abused and isolated by her mother; the other, Hester, middle aged and comfortable, living a wealthy life in the manor house of her loving if daft bachelor brother. They come into contact when Cordelia's mother, basically a professional mistress, decided that Hester's brother Samuel is a prime target for marriage and a comfortable life, from which she can set Cordelia up for success and her own advantageous betrothal. No one else in the story, save the hapless Samuel, wants this to happen and does their level best to thwart it at every turn, in spite of the quite present danger. Because Evangeline is a sorceress, and a powerful one at that, who can hold someone prisoner in their own body, turning them to her will while they watch, powerless.

It is a story about power and powerlessness, and suffering, and surviving. It's about helping those in need, recognising cruelty in the world, and the lengths people will go to in harming those around them when they get in the way of their wants and desires. And it focuses very intently on the experience of being the victim of that, using the titular sorcery to emphasise it for anyone at the back who may not have been listening the first time.

So yep, it's a jolly one...

Except, it's T. Kingfisher, so actually it kind of is, despite the murders, mutilations and intense emotional and physical abuse. 

And this is what we come back to in the familiarity of a T. Kingfisher fairytale story, and its likewise familiar characters. The moment we meet Hester, this book's designated no-nonsense woman, we know it's all going to be, approximately, ok in the end. She, like her many brethren (sistren?), is so solidly practical, so absolutely sensible, that she acts as anathema to all the crazy shit going on around her. Sure, someone's been stabbed in a melodramatic fashion, but Hester is going to be reasonable about it all. Stolid, even. It's hard to maintain horror in the face of such down-to-earth pragmatism as The Character always has.

And for me, this is the crux of what T. Kingfisher does so well in her fairytale-retelling-style books in particular - she uses the sense of the familiar, and the intensely mundane, as a contrast to the darkness and grimness that goes with certain types of story, butting up against horror as they do. I would not call them cosy fiction, because they are nothing of the sort, full of, variously, moulds and murderers and abusers. But there is comfort there nonetheless. If anything, the darkness allows the creation of the comfort because it gives The Character something to stand in contrast against - she is a source of security because she exists in opposition to the fantastical (and less fantastical) evils of the world. She says "no more", and rolls up her sleeves and tells them to get lost because she has stuff to be getting on with thankyouverymuch.

But, to come back to our question earlier, doesn't this risk them all running together and feeling samey? Yes. It absolutely does. And, sometimes, they rather do. I am reasonably sure I have mixed up some of what happens in Nettle and Bone, Thornhedge and The Seventh Bride, now that I've put them down and read other things in between. It's what has held me back from nominating those books for something like a Hugo Award - they hold themselves back from the greatest heights of memorable and thrilling and engaging and [insert positive adjectives here to suit], because they set themselves up, and set up the reader, to fit so neatly into so many expectations. But, on the flip side, they do what they do with that comfort and those expectations so incredibly well, that I will never stop seeking them out to read. The ceiling may be a little low, but the bar is very high and so very, very consistent. You know, when you pick one up, that you will receive the experience you expect, and enjoy it, be pulled along by it, be unable to put it down. Often, that is all I want.

For this particular installment, I think it also exists right at the top of the "fairytale retellings" tier of T. Kingfisher works, ahead of Nettle and Bone pretty clearly. The way it uses the magic within the setting to talk about abuse and manipulation is done extremely well, and the two viewpoint characters offer excellent foils for one another, without totally outshining the relatively large cast of secondary characters. There are genuinely chucklesome moments, some really quite horrifying imagery, unexpected geese and a slightly nonsense strategem to solve a problem. It is intensely well-crafted within the space it has set up for itself, even as that space constrains it.

If it has any flaw aside from that, it's perhaps its slightly dated attitude to men - one I am predominantly used to encountering amongst women Of A Certain Age. Most (not all, but most) of the men in the story are slightly daft, hapless but well-meaning lumps who must be directed around the plot by the competent women who hold little official power but clearly actually do everything because those silly men, couldn't possible organise anything could they? Got to let them think they're in charge, poor dears, but we'd be lost if they were actually doing the planning. On the face of it, of course, this is a mildly droll inversion of patriarchy, right? Haha hoho, isn't it funny that the women are actually the competent ones? But as soon as you examine it any more closely than that, it starts to feel a little... off. The implications that one can spin out of its assumptions aren't pleasant, and it has the same lumping-together-ness that is half of the problem of the good ol' fashioned misogyny, tying one's usefulness as a person to innate characteristics of sex. It's something I observe in people the age of... let's say my mother and upwards, and ends up being what traps them into endless life admin and the mothering of the grown ass men around them, while also being rather insulting and infantilising to the perfectly competent men who then aren't being trusted to boil and egg or put away their own socks.

But at the same time, I know, in real life, women who are like this, to a greater or lesser extent, and they are also women I am rather fond of, in spite of it all. They are women who have had to be competent in that way, because of the men who likely merited the inception of the attitude they have held onto. They just haven't quite seen that it's not everyone around them anymore. T. Kingfisher alone is not responsible for the state of shifting feminist attitudes to men, and I'd be rather unfair to pin that on her and her alone. It's just a little niggle, a vibe I see in the world and sigh a little inside to replicated in characters of whom I am also rather fond.

And so I can overlook it, for the sake of reliable comforts of the rest of the story, done with the characteristic wryness and dryness that makes her narrative voice an eternal delight. All the characters speak with their own voices (even if their accents, so to speak, are the same as the characters of her other works), and have enough about them to feel real and realised, and with genuine relationships binding them to each other, of friendship and more. The setting doesn't get anymore time than it needs, but enough to feel like a world this story and these people absolutely could exist within. All in all, it's very well put together, and retains the heart, the down-to-earth-despite-the-literal-magic core that I hope for and expect whenever I pick up one of T. Kingfisher's books. I will absolutely be rereading this in the future, on a day when I need something soothing for the soul, but with some real darkness in it to make the comfort all the more present.

--

The Math

Highlights: the usual no-nonsense T. Kingfisher older woman character we know and love; funny and distinctive tone of voice to narrative and dialogue; well explored themes of abuse and manipulation

Nerd Coefficient: 8/10

Reference: T. Kingfisher, A Sorceress Comes to Call [Titan Books, 2024].

POSTED BY: Roseanna Pendlebury, the humble servant of a very loud cat. @chloroformtea.bsky.social

Novella review: 8:59:29 by Polly Schattel

Academia is hell—literally!

When I finished my last undergraduate final, I walked out of the room wanting to never take another test again, and so far I have kept to that vow. I have many friends, however, who went on to graduate school, and I try to understand the ordeal they have gone through; Bret Devereaux’s blog paints a bleak picture that makes me feel like I dodged a bullet. The widespread adjunctification of higher learning, combined with the slow transformation of secondary and increasingly primary education into college-oriented pressure cookers, must have been contributing factors to the rise of dark academia stories, where fantastic horrors are added to the real horrors of the academy. Here, Polly Schattel has made an odd but engrossing addition to this subgenre, 8:59:29.

The numbers that comprise the rather odd title are terms from filmmaking; this is quite appropriate, given that our protagonist is an adjunct professor of film at a university in the Appalachians that is clearly having funding woes and has seen better days. Her life is miserable; she lives in poverty with a department head who hates her, and her students don’t care about the material at all. Only one does: a local dropout who audits the class until he is forced out by the aforementioned department head. Out of anger, the two conspire to send him to hell.

Yes, that’s right. They find a demonic ritual on the dark web and start to plot not only his demise but his damnation. In this regard, this slim volume is a modern reimagining of the archetypical deal with the devil, adapted with great skill to modern conditions. It’s clear that Schattel has lived these conditions; this college is in what is clearly a dying town, ravaged by neoliberalism and outsourcing, and with no real sense that it has any sort of future worth sticking around for.

Stories of deals with the devil all revolve around, on some level, fervent hope that one’s circumstances could improve, a hope that rapidly spirals into desperation (K. J. Parker’s novella The Devil You Know is another take on it I liked). They’re about the desperation that leads people to fall for Nigerian prince scams, or get roped into multi-level marketing, or swear that essential oils will cure all their ills. It’s the rage of feeling that your future has been snapped out from under you, like being expelled from the course you’re auditing against the professor’s will. The professor once saw herself being successful, but has long since given up on it; the student sees glory in his grasp. When the future is stolen, they will go through hell to get it back.

There’s a grottiness here, not of the swampy fantasy inn, but of the all-too-real rust belt that soaks through every scene. The apartments are grungy and the souls of their inhabitants feel like they’ve rusted along with the factories. These feel like people who would make a literal deal with a demon just to feel something.

Befitting a horror story, it’s properly scary. The demons and the other accoutrements of hell are properly grotesque or otherwise eerie, with enough disturbing images to haunt your dreams for at least the next few days (being so short, it’s quite dense, and most of these are near the end!). But it is modernized in just the right way, to feel plausible for this century.

This book is also, in its own strange way, a love letter to film as a medium. It’s what I’d imagine could be the plot if Martin Scorsese directed a horror movie and was in a nasty mood about the modern economy. The two main characters both love their art, and their nemesis at least claims to (but perhaps loves his own ability to sneer at those with ‘lesser’ tastes more). These two are artists, aesthetes, aspiring bon-vivants who had the misfortune of not living in interwar Paris, two who want glory and fulfillment but are run through the wash by capitalism. By the end, you realize, this story could have only ended one way, and what a fitting ending it is.

8:59:29 is short, sweet, and to the point, and never overstays its welcome. It is a triumph of brevity, a paean to film, and a lament of the fate of Appalachia. I recommend that horror junkies and movie buffs read it post-haste.

--

Highlights: Grotty depiction of late-stage capitalism, also demons

Nerd Coefficient: 9/10

POSTED BY: Alex Wallace, alternate history buff who reads more than is healthy.

Review: Thornhedge by T. Kingfisher

A retelling of sleeping beauty that flips the original on its head.

T. Kingfisher has several modes in which she operates (I'm a big fan of "mocking paladins (affectionate)", though less keen on "horror, genuinely horrifying" because I am coward), and one of those is "fairytale retelling, but make it dark, vaguely feminist and contains at least one aggressively practical woman". Unsurprisingly, Thornhedge is an entry into that latter category.

I mean this as no insult at all, but you know what you're getting into when you start a T. Kingfisher novel. Maybe not in terms of the plot beats or events, nor the interpretation of the source material if it's a retelling, but in the tone. She has a very, very distinctive voice in which she tells her stories, and opening a new book from her is like greeting an old friend, because as soon as they open their mouth/you read the words on the page, you're back in a familiar, comforting place, even if they're telling you about their new partner you've never heard of, or the job you didn't know they had. In her own afterword to Thornhedge, Kingfisher protests that this book is sweet, despite it being filled with death and biting and curses - which... I agree, though it's not the word I'd use. I'd say "friendly" instead. Or "welcoming", perhaps. No matter how gruesome the murders, how many corpses are made to dance and how many demon chickens there are, a T. Kingfisher story is always a welcoming one, where the narrative voice is clear, and comforting and on your side while you watch the terrible things happen. In this, Thornhedge is entirely like her other fantasy works, and particularly her fairytale interpretations, like Bryony and Roses or Nettle and Bone. I think this is a wonderful thing, especially for an author with an extensive catalogue of work not in a single series or unified world. Once you know you like that voice - which, if it wasn't already clear, I very much do - you can dip your toe into anything in the back-catalogue that takes your fancy and know that, regardless of whether the plot is to your taste or the paladins sufficiently attractive and guilt-ridden, there will be something there, constantly, throughout the reading experience, that will make you happy. It reduces the risk inherent to picking up something new.

It then obviously helps if the story, characters and so on are well-constructed and enjoyable, but luckily she's got that covered too.

Thornhedge is a retelling of the sleeping beauty story, but one that asks "what if the briars, the sleep and the centuries of magic weren't to keep people out, but the sleeper in?". Our viewpoint character isn't the sleeper, but instead the godmother who put her into this position, who, through a mixture of flashback and present time slowly shares with us and a knight errant the series of events that led to her solitary vigil of a tower and a tangled hedge of thorns.

Because it is a solitary vigil, this is, primarily, a novella of few characters. We of course have our protagonist, Toadling, but outside of her, the time we spend with other characters, in memory and in present narration, is relatively brief, and most of them suffer a little for it. The minor exception is Halim, the knight errant, who manages to be endearing to the reader in almost no time at all, just as he is to Toadling. But even he could perhaps have done with some more space and time. We know a little of him, and we are charmed by him, but he lacks the depth many of Kingfisher's secondary characters achieve in other works, simply because he lacks the space to encompass it. Even Toadling is done a little dirty by this, and does not get the impact for instance Bryony does in Bryony and Roses. That being said, what we do get is incredibly sweet and wholesome, while never straying into the saccharine, so it's more a problem of wanting more, than an issue of what we actually get.

The balance between the flashbacks and the present time is very crisply managed, without feeling artificial, and the pacing is well balanced, so we come to the intersection of backstory and story at a very natural point. It never feels like we're being force-fed context and exposition, rather this is just how Toadling is thinking about her predicament. She's intensely inward looking - unsurprisingly, given her solitary situation - which makes it all the easier to achieve, but even so, it's nicely managed to give us those morsels of backstory sufficiently spaced out as to feel worth each wait to get to them.

There's also a pleasing brutality to the world - as is true of many of her books. It never feels gratuitous, like some of the Game of Thrones style attempts at historical "realism" that stray into torture-porn, but rather emblematic of a pragmatism that feels well situated in the period the story is from. Likewise, her fairies are deeply alien things, who do not behave, speak or feel as humans do, and this comes with a cruelty that links them into many of the traditional fairy stories. And yet, it always gets looped back to some essential piece of them, or their nature or their setting in the book, so it never feels forced. They are what they are, and that can sometimes be cruel, but it's never there simply for the sake of it.

And, as ever, there are some really cracking occasional lines dropped in without any warning - "thorns die from the inside out, like priests" hit me out of absolutely nowhere and I was thoroughly unprepared for it, and now it's stuck in my head, likely for the rest of the week. Some of this impact comes from the fact that, for the most part, she's not a prose-forward kind of author, so when you get those little snippets of gold (to horrendously mix some metaphors), they stand out all the greater. Or rather, to borrow Max Gladstone's phrasing, her work is primarily aerodynamic (though with its own, very distinctive style), but this means when it's got a little wing or spoiler or something that affects the flow, it's all the more distinctive for it. 

I'll stop brutalising analogies now, I promise. 

In any case, all in all, it's nice - more than nice, it's a very enjoyable read with some interesting and thoughtful choices about worldbuilding - and very much worth the time spent reading it, but it's not going to set the world on fire or be thrust into the awards limelight. Luckily not all books need to be that - it's a book for the fun of reading, one that you'll blitz through the first time, then put aside, and maybe come back to a few years later when you need something cosy and cheering. And those are just as important as the ones that break your heart or change the way you see the world entirely. Sometimes you need the downtime, the calm and the comfort, to leave you able to appreciate the bright and the brittle and the brilliant. And this is exactly that, done beautifully.

--

The Math

Highlights: lovable characters, enjoyable subversion of the fairytale tropes, fairies that are inhuman in all the right ways

Nerd Coefficient: 7/10

Reference: T. Kingfisher, Thornhedge, [Tor, 2023]

POSTED BY: Roseanna Pendlebury, the humble servant of a very loud cat. @chloroform_tea

Review: Underland by Maxime J. Durand

A cosmic horror setting without cosmic horror characters is a brilliant combination

You may remember that in 2007, Brandon Sanderson wrote that magic in fantasy stories should have logical rules that make sense, and later, in 2012, N. K. Jemisin wrote that the whole point of fantasy stories is that magic exists beyond all logic and sense. With all due respect to the inimitable quadruple-Hugo-and-quadruple-Locus winner, on this specific topic of fantasy literature the esteemed Ms. Jemisin is totally wrong and Mr. Sanderson is totally right. Magic is more interesting (rather, it's only interesting) when it has rules. And one demonstration of the wonders that can result from a strictly systematic magic system is Maxime J. Durand's dark fantasy novel Underland.

Originally posted as a web serial, Underland follows the quest of multiclass summoner/necromancer Valdemar to find a new world for humankind. Centuries ago, an evil moon blocked out the sun, dooming the world to the terrors of the night. Suddenly overwhelmed by unimaginable monstrosities, civilization quickly collapsed, and humans migrated to underground caverns where they'd be safe from the cold and the ghosts that roam the dead surface. Once resettled, humans discovered the magical potential in their own blood, and used it to rebuild a semblance of the stability they had before. Today the human territories are under the absolute rule of Dark Lords, immensely powerful mages with debatably compatible agendas. But other creatures already lived in the Underland before humans arrived, and some aren't willing to be nice neighbors. To be fair, too often humans haven't shown the noblest behavior toward other sentient creatures. What looks like peace conceals numerous tensions that may snap at any time.

But the worries don't stop at the mundane. In their study of magic, some have unwisely contacted extraplanar powers that can't be trusted, much less controlled. Such spells have been declared illegal, but that hasn't stopped the proliferation of clandestine cults that seek an escape from life underground. One cult in particular involved an entire family, the Verneys, who were exterminated by an order of knights dedicated to keeping those mysterious entities from invading the living world. The only survivor from the Verney family was Valdemar, back then a child, who now secretly experiments with planar travel to find a more inhabitable place for humankind to move to. Suspected of trying to continue his criminal family's loathsome rituals, he's been put under arrest, but one of the Dark Lords has taken an interest in his abnormally strong magical skills and has offered him the tools to finish his research... at an unspecified price.

Web serials are usually friendly bedfellows with fanfiction, and Underland unapologetically bears the marks of its self-published origins. The novel is evidently shaped by Dungeons and Dragons: its setting brings to mind the classic Underdark expansions; it is populated by the usual suspects—dark elves, dark dwarves, troglodytes, golems, and liches; some of the extraplanar locations namedropped in the text resemble those used in the game; and the plot is punctuated by quests, side quests, and downtime training. The rest of the worldbuilding samples liberally from Gnosticism, Kabbalah, and the Lovecraftian corpus to depict a setting precariously enveloped by unsuspected powers that are just one wrong incantation away from crossing into material reality.

The prose in Underland is effective at setting a macabre tone. Consider this chapter opening:

He dreamed of rats that night. They crawled in a grotesque pit dug in black oily stone, squeaking and gnawing on the flesh of the innocent.

The author knew to keep the alluring aesthetic of cosmic horror without the worst ingredient of cosmic horror, which is its attitude. This is a world of gory witchcraft, unnatural transformations, painful rituals, obscene ruins, threatening dreams, widespread pestilence, boiling blood, imprisoned demons, moldy tunnels, abhorrent experiments, and costly secrets. And yet, the author is deliberate in his selection of focus characters. Even though the book's setting has all the recognizable signs of cosmic horror, its characters are very emphatically not cosmic horror characters. Even though nothing more than a thin veil separates visible reality from tenebrous chaos, the mages we meet in this novel don't adopt the attitude of helpless desperation that is so annoying in traditional cosmic horror. They don't believe that the hidden forces that control the universe are beyond human comprehension; they don't accept the eternal superiority of the ancient gods; they don't fear the mysterious; they don't tremble in awe at the unearthly. It's like walking through the tired grimness of Black Mirror and finding Ted Lasso living there. With a beautiful, admirable ethos of humanism, these characters approach the unknown and make it known. Instead of submitting to the supernatural, they study it, find its practical applications, deduce its laws. These mages may be gifted with fantastical powers, but their sharpest tool is human reason.

And here we arrive at the greatest pleasure of reading Underland: watching our protagonist use creatively the rules of magic to make up combinations of spells that are wholly surprising yet follow logically from the established facts. It's an irresistible type of nerdy catnip to inhabit the inner thoughts of a smart hero as he reasons his way out of impossible plights. Either with inventive solutions born from a desperate moment of improvisation, or with procedures coldly planned with meticulous care, Valdemar is an inspiring hero who understands the unlimited power of lifelong learning.

His impressive talents notwithstanding, Valdemar is far from a perfect person. The execution of his entire family has stunted his ability to form connections to other people, and in some scenes his unconventional moral intuitions come off as appallingly heartless. At the same time that he makes progress in the challenging techniques of advanced sorcery, he undergoes an equally strenous education in interpersonal contact. It has a moving effect to watch this formidable spellcaster, who is no stranger to commanding demons and transmuting his blood into an interdimensional portal, discover for the first time the simple joy of making true friends who support his dreams without judgment.

Although the text always highlights the moral questions where Valdemar's position has defects, it's worth noting that, as a whole, the society of Underland rests on some surprising assumptions that go against the grain of what fantasy literature has usually considered acceptable. In Underland, to seek immortality is not viewed as inherently evil. Multiple methods exist to cheat death, including soul receptacles, mechanical bodies, youth potions, and even undeath, which causes no scandal. It's actually taken for granted that everyone who can afford it will resort to one of these methods, and that it would be inexcusably foolish not to. This is another manifestation of the novel's underlying humanism: just as mystery is the enemy, and thus shall be overcome, death is the enemy, and shall likewise be overcome.

Underland is the first part of a duology that continues in Underland 2. The reader must be warned that this novel ends in a cliffhanger, but what a howling hell of a cliffhanger it is. Now, it may be argued against this choice of ending, and against the novel in its entirety, that the author relies too much on the fact that Lovecraft's œuvre has become public domain, and such an accusation wouldn't be without merit. The reader may also feel distracted by the repeated appearance of narrative conventions inherited from Dungeons and Dragons, which carry unwelcome baggage in the form of bioessentialism, territorial expansionism, and unquestioned monarchism.

Once these missteps are admitted, there remains plenty to enjoy in Underland. Its unusual treatment of the aesthetic of cosmic horror is a refreshing change of direction from the undue reverence that puny mortals are typically expected to profess for the darkness. Even in the deepest bowels of the earth, the undying flame of human reason lights the way.

Nerd Coefficient: 7/10.

POSTED BY: Arturo Serrano, multiclass Trekkie/Whovian/Moonie/Miraculer, accumulating experience points for still more obsessions.

Reference: Durand, Maxime J. Underland [Podium Publishing, 2022].

Review: Unraveller, by Frances Hardinge

Undoing the curse is only the start.

If you have ever stood by, quietly seething, swallowing down a boiling fury that cannot find an outlet because you are too powerless to express it, then this book will strike you with a deep resonance. It is, fundamentally, a ‘what-if’ for those people who have writhed in the grip of impotent anger: What if you had the power to express it, to defy social strictures, to channel your rage into an outlet that would make them pay? 

In the country of Raddith, which lives in an uneasy equilibrium with the creatures of the Wilds next door, the furious, wronged, indignant, or malevolent among us are granted that outlet. The gift comes from spiderlike creatures from the Wilds, known as Little Brothers because an affectionate, friendly name blunts—however ineffectively—people's fear of their terrible power. Little Brothers find people nursing a deep sense of wrong, and grant them a curse egg, which grows and matures inside the wronged, nurtured by their hurt and indignation, until they let fly, turning the target of their anger to stone, mist, a fishhook, a bat, a sentient harp, a murderous monster who must be cast out and ostracized from all she ever knew and loved. The shape each curse takes is dictated by the nature of the wrong that was committed, because a punishment is all the more satisfying when it fits.

Naturally, a nation plagued by cursers and cursed must develop an infrastructure to handle this. Institutions are constructed to lock up cursers—or indeed, potential cursers, because the best way to prevent a curse is to find the carrier of a curse egg and lock them up before they’ve hurt anyone. After all,

There were telltale signs of a potential curser, if you knew what to look for, so they could be identified. Some showed flashes of uncontainable rage or saw things other people couldn’t. No, it wasn’t fair to lock up an innocent person, but what else could you do? It would be like saying you couldn’t take an arrow from a drawn bow because it hadn’t hurt anyone yet.

Because, you see, everyone knows that if you have a curse egg, you will use it. And if you’ve had one, you will probably get another, because everyone knows that a curser will always curse again. Always. Everyone knows this.

Kellen, a teenage boy cast out from his family of weavers due to his uncanny ability to unravel any woven thing merely by getting too close, also possesses the ability to unravel curses. Together with Nettle, a girl who’d been cursed into a heron until he’d intervened, he travels Raddith, taking commissions from people who want their loved ones released from their curses. 

Unravelling curses is not a simple matter. The first stage of every investigation requires Kellen and Nettle to learn everything about the nature of the curse—who cast it, to be sure, but also why. Which means every investigation must begin with the question, ‘what did you do to deserve this?’ In this world, victims must be blamed, not because they are necessarily culpable (although, to be sure, many are a right piece of work), but because the nature of how curses work requires that the curser feel wronged and hard done by. The work is as much psychology as it is magic.

These psychological causes and consequences of cursing form the real strength of this book. The writing is equally sympathetic to both curser and cursed. Yes, if you’ve spent thirty years as a terrifying monster in the wilderness, luring people with your siren voice to a swamp where you drown them and eat them, you are not okay when the curse is unravelled and you must face what you’ve done as a human. But, similarly, if you’ve been wronged so deeply (or feel that you’ve been wronged so deeply) that you are willing to turn someone into a terrifying swamp monster, you’re equally not okay. Hardinge allows the cursers to speak their bit with their own voices, never losing sight of the harm that they’ve done, but also not glossing over the harm that was done to them that spawned their curse egg in the first place.

Throughout the book, we repeatedly run into the message that you must treat the harm—whether the original wrong that was done, or the aftermath of the unravelled curse—with as much care as you treat the technical unravelling of the magic itself. Kellen’s real skill lies in unravelling the curses, not ministering to the mental health of the uncursed and curser alike, but just because you’re not good at something doesn’t mean you get a free pass to neglect it. 

It’s a dark and difficult message. Indeed, many of Hardinge’s books have quite a grim undertone to them. Although her books are nominally YA, she does not give her young main characters the naivety or impetuousness that so frequently characterizes teenage protagonists of YA books. Kellen and Nettle are persistently distrusting of adults, and their distrust is usually well-founded. It makes for cynical story, but satisfying reading: A too-trusting character who gets duped is just frustrating, and that never happens in Hardinge’s books. Characters must earn Kellen and Nettle’s trust. At the same time, though, their perpetual caution and second-guessing of every decision regarding whom to trust becomes exhausting. Yet that exhaustion, that dilemma, is the very heart of the difficulty of their task, because trust is a key component in treating mental health. And as they learn at the end, the path forward is going to require a substantial amount of that. 

The world-building of this tale supports the story beautifully, starting with one of the finest prologues I’ve ever encountered. The Wilds, which constitute the source of everything dark and magical about the world, are shrouded in a veil of uninterestingness. People’s minds slide right past them; views of them from the sea make them look like a pathetic scrubby bit of nothing, hardly worth the trouble to think about, let alone explore. Yet within them are all sorts of magical beings: the spidery Little Brothers who grant curse eggs; the carnivorous marsh-horses who form bonds with humans at the cost of an eye and—effectively—a life; the Dancing Star, who detaches its hands to form a cage that traps and eat souls; the Bookbearers, who oversee and enforce all agreements, whether or not the speaker realizes that they’re entering into it at the time. (Magically enforced bargains that operate by rigid adherence to the wording, rather than good faith respect for the intention, are my favorite kind of bargain.)

It is a wonderful instantiation of the wild and weird kind of magical realm, filled not with the twee twinkling Tinkerbell fairies, but the magical Other, akin to Pratchett’s Lords and Ladies, to Clarke’s Raven King and Faerie kingdom. It is a realm whose blue and orange morality is so far askew from human dimensions that people who live on the borders of the Wilds shut their doors at night and don’t let anyone in; while people who live within the Wilds themselves welcome everyone to their homes without question, because they vulnerable to terrifying punishment if they give the slightest offense to any of the inhabitants. Indeed, so satisfying is this kind of magic that it is rather disappointing when some of the Wilds creatures turn out to operate according to human standards of kindness. It is, to be sure, a relief to Kellen and Nettle, who have received precious little of it in their wanderings, but it felt unearned here, where kindness, and trust, and goodness, are granted grudgingly, if at all. 

But then, that trust in kindness must be granted if the curses are not just to be unravelled, but fully healed.

Highlights

Nerd coefficient: 8/10, well worth your time and attention

• An understanding of mental health, without getting bogged down in a Trauma Plot
• Weird and wild magical creatures
• Appropriately suspicious youngsters

CLARA COHEN lives in Scotland in a creaky old building with pipes for gas lighting still lurking under her floorboards. She is an experimental linguist by profession, and calligrapher and Islamic geometric artist by vocation. During figure skating season she does blather on a bit about figure skating. She is on mastodon at wandering.shop/@ergative

Reference: Unraveller. Frances Hardinge. [Macmillan Children's Books, 2022].

Microreview[Novel]: Juniper & Thorn by Ava Reid

 A dark reimagining of a fairytale that tries to show the real impact living in a folktale might have on those who experience it.

Cover illustration: Darling Clementine

Content warnings: discussion of sexual assault, child abuse, antisemitism and eating disorder

At what point does darkness in a book become less about realism, or stakes, or a sense of danger, and more about having all the horrible things simply for their own sakes? This is the question I am left with most pressingly after finishing Juniper & Thorn.

It's a retelling of The Juniper Tree - though a rather loose one, drawing on broader themes rather than necessarily any specifics, and filling gaps or making changes to suit the novel format. And indeed, not only is it doing that, but it attempts to interrogate the strictures and the form of the fairytale as it goes along. The protagonist is very aware of what genre of story she's in, and what that might mean for her and those around her. We follow Marlinchen, youngest of three daughters of the last wizard in Oblya, a city sprung up from the steppe, obliterating the magic that lingered there before. She and her sisters live with their cruel and cursed father, trying to get by without sparking his rages and scrape together a living with the few customers he considers worthwhile seeing. He hates the city and the modern world, and will not let them out into it for fear of what might happen to them, but the girls long for freedom and, of course, sneak out. At the ballet, Marlinchen sees a beautiful dancer with whom she is smitten, and everything begins to spiral out from there. We watch as Marlinchen begins to develop her taste for rebellion and escape, and exactly what she has to grapple with at home to reach for what she wants in life.

In the broad strokes, it definitely has that fairytale feel - three daughters, cruel father, a mother that was turned into a bird years before - but the difference lies in the detail. Fairytales, by their nature, don't tend to delve into the psychological reality of living with a cruel, controlling man in a world that is rapidly leaving him behind. But in Juniper & Thorn, Ava Reid does exactly that. As the book goes on, we see more and more of exactly what Marlinchen has grown up with. She starts the book seemingly just a mousey waif, but as we see through her eyes and her memories, it becomes much darker and more twisted. We learn about the abuses she suffered as a child from her father and from others that he knew about but didn't stop, some of it sexual in nature. But what we learn most is how she actually sees the world, and how it feels to be the third daughter in the sort of fairytale where the eldest is the pretty one and the middle is the clever one, and the youngest is simply the youngest.

And it's pretty grim. It's a world of being told she's not as pretty as her sisters. That she's plain, stupid, simple, ugly, fat, useless, and being ignored and pushed around. And because Juniper & Thorn is dedicated to showing what this might actually do to a person, we see how much she hates her own body and face, how much she's internalised the idea that her sisters are pretty and she is not. We see her forcing herself to throw up her food after eating so she can be thinner. We see her completely unable to comprehend that someone might find her attractive, let alone someone she think is as ludicrously beautiful as Sevas, the book's ballet star love interest.

Sevas is someone else whose insecurities and hardships are laid bare for us to see. While beautiful, he's also shown early in the narrative using alcohol as a coping mechanism, and then soon after to be controlled and abused both physically and verbally by his "handler" Derkach. While he knows he's beautiful know, he is obsessed with the idea that by thirty, he'll be too old and ugly for the ballet and thus worthless, and so he throws his life away in the now because what's the point of hanging onto it? We don't see the story through his eyes - we are very securely rooted in Marlinchen's perspective - but even with only what he tells her, we see the cruelty and harshness of being who he is in the fairytale (and also not-fairytale) world.

And it's an... odd world. Because you have the fantastical and the mundane lying so close side by side, with the wizard and his family representing the "Old World" from before the city came, there is a constant disjoint between people and ideas moving between the house and the rest of the world. We have penny presses and phrenology and day workers in factories alongside a wizard whose wife was turned into a bird and who has an old god satyr living in his garden. And no attempt is made to reconcile these two. If anything, the contrast is the point, because the contrast is the conflict - the magical and mundane worlds, at least to the wizard's eyes, are irreconcilable, and the presence and growth of the city is an active detriment to magic and those who practice it. Marlinchen has grown up with this worldview, and it is part of why her life is so restricted, to keep her away from the evil, encroaching, destructive, immoral city and all its problems and horrors.

Which brings us to one of the potential issues with the book. Marlinchen's father Zmiy is profligate with his hatreds; nearly anyone involved in or related to the city is likely to be the subject of his ire. However, because the world is one that is a thinly veiled copy of some aspects of our own, this brings up some slightly iffy points. The story itself is set in a fantasy Russia-esque place - we have references to the tsar, and the steppes that existed before the city encroached - but the city of Oblya is home to others as well. There are Ionik people mentioned at several points, clearly an analogue to the Greeks, but the group that comes up most often is the Yehuli, who are equally clearly an analogue for Jewish people. The problem comes with the fact that we only ever see the Yehuli talked about in the book by those who hate or distrust them. Zmiy hates them, and accuses them of all sorts of vices. But it isn't just him - Sevas is Yehuli, and his handler Derkach takes every opportunity to remind him that he is "only" a Yehuli boy pulled from the slums. A character who comes up at several points is a phrenologist, who is noted to have discussed how the Yehuli have prominent areas of their anatomy associated with capitalism which gives them an "advantage" at it, such that the leaders of the city have had to legislate to prevent them using this unfairly. None of the characters who espouse these views are people we are meant to like or trust, but at the same time, we see almost nothing of the Yehuli from the mouth of someone positive or even neutral towards them, let alone a Yehuli themself. Even Sevas only touches on being Yehuli briefly when talking about his mother. It is not so much that I wanted the story to erase the obvious historical antisemitism that is being evoked here - it was real, constant and pervasive and that obviously deserves its own page time - but when we had a Yehuli character so prominent, it seems a shame to have only the opinions of those who hate him on the page, never his own, especially when so many of those hatreds are so caricaturedly ugly. It would have been nice to have a little of his own experience of himself or his people, as a brief glimmer of contrast against all the bigotry.

But then again, it's not a book concerned with having nice things or happiness. Which is somewhat the other of its problems. On the one hand, that it shows the grim psychological reality of living with an abuser, and the mental toll it might take on someone to have lived that life, is to be praised. Fairytales and their retellings so often gloss over the nastiness, surprisingly so when many of the stories upon which they're based contain murders, cannibalism, gruesome transformations and more. But we're expected to believe that Hansel and Gretel cope fine after pushing the witch into the oven, because to deal with anything otherwise isn't the point of the story. And so it feels worthwhile to have one that explores this aspect of things, especially given that the tale it draws inspiration from is so dark, as a much needed point of contrast to many of the other versions that exist. 

However. The darkness in the story is so unrelenting and particularly some of the descriptions of it so lingering, so closely described, that there are, at times, moments where you feel that we've stepped out of simply exploring the emotional impact of fairytale happenings, and instead are maybe just here for the darkness for its own sake. There are repeated motifs, including one based on a character's trauma from preteen years of someone touching her inappropriately, particularly on her nipples. We see flashbacks of that scene multiple times, and there follows a recurring theme of her imagining nipples - her own and other people's - being chopped off with garden clippers. That the scene focuses so much on this image, especially the feeling of his hand on her skin, how it looked, could easily either be a testament to its lingering impact on her, or something less wholesome. When taken with so many other scenes in the book - which is generally quite concerned with the physical and bodily reactions to events - it is easy to be uncertain. Which way it goes is likely an individual decision for the reader.

My final criticism is one that can be laid at the feet of many books. Juniper & Thorn is described in many places as a feminist retelling, but in truth, I don't know that it is one. It is a retelling that centres a female experience, and one in which the female experience is an oppressive one, but beyond that? I'm not sure. Especially given the predominance of female perspectives in fairytale retellings, simply putting a woman in the front seat doesn't feel sufficient for a feminist label.

On the whole, Juniper & Thorn is a book of ambiguity. Much of what it does could land, or could utterly fail for any given reader just based on their particular take on it, their background and their own experiences. If it has a failing for me, it is that the doubt exists at all. And while I found some parts of it refreshingly original, others strayed too much into darkness that felt like it served neither character development nor plot, and simply existed to be able to say just how dark a book it was. That being said, it definitely earns the distinction of being quite unlike most other fairytale retellings, and that it attempts at several points a critique of the genre is definitely a plus. The moments of awareness by Marlinchen of being in a story, and what that means for her, were particularly interesting, and if anything could have been developed further into something more concrete. But they weren't, and in the end, while it distinguishes itself from the rest of the genre, the problems it has while doing so ultimately hold it back from truly excelling.

--

The Math

Baseline Assessment: 7/10

Bonuses: 

Penalties: -1 the grimness gets very, very overwhelming

Nerd Coefficient: 6/10

Reference:  Ava Reid, Juniper & Thorn [Del Rey, 2022]

POSTED BY: Roseanna Pendlebury, the humble servant of a very loud cat. @chloroform_tea

It was the wrong call to age up Wednesday Addams

The success of a character like Wednesday Addams depends on a very precise comedic style that does not pair well with contemporary young adult tropes

Tim Burton has only ever told one story: the outsider misunderstood by the world. This lifelong obsession has sometimes given spectacular results (Beetlejuice, Batman 1 and 2, Big Fish), and, at other times, regrettable embarrassments (Planet of the Apes, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Alice in Wonderland). So every time he announces a new project, the gods of art play Russian roulette. His new Netflix series, Addams Family spinoff Wednesday, is, much like Burton himself, an acquired taste. Like all acquired tastes, it demands a willingness for masochism. Imagine a chronically sedated Sabrina Spellman shambling confusedly into the nonstop glitter fashion gala of Monster High and you'll get an idea of the fundamental problem with Wednesday. Some stories succeed at straddling tonal ambiguity; this one ties narrative tone to a rack and mercilessly turns the pulley until it snaps.

Expectations were always going to be unfairly high for this series. In the 1990s, Christina Ricci set the absolute platinum standard for the role without breaking a sweat. This new version has found a talented performer in Jenna Ortega, whose perfectly timed microexpressions reveal just the right hint of vulnerability behind Wednesday's mask of aloofness, but she's been given bland, repetitive lines that quickly get exhausting and put the comedy in the wrong place. We're supposed to be moved to laughter by Wednesday, not at her.

A character like Wednesday needs to be handled like Marvin the Paranoid Android: it's best enjoyed in moderation. The film version was an alarmingly jaded child whose brand of humor worked so well because it was the pinch of spice in a varied recipe. Here, as the main entry, it's indigestible, all the more so because this Wednesday is almost a grown-up, but her characterization didn't mature accordingly. The absurdist glee of watching a 10-year-old play with knives is broken when it's a 16-year old doing it. Suspension of disbelief is a rebellious bird, especially in fantasy, and a hundred times more when the fantasy is set in our world. The same lines that caused a blend of shock and delight when delivered in the innocent-sounding voice of a child cause annoyance when heard in a monotone from an edgy teen who discovered goth four decades late and made it her sole personality trait.

This misfire in characterization extends to Wednesday's choices, which invariably clash with her peers' attempts at contact. In the films, Wednesday was never surprised by her emotions. She was fully at home in her dark psyche. Sure, she was a sociopath, but she was self-aware enough to tell when loyalty mattered. Netflix Wednesday is a sociopath, period. She's so busy denying her emotions that she fails to notice she's controlled by them. She accuses those closest to her of outrageous acts of manipulation while engaging in Olympic-level manipulation herself. In her quest to solve a series of murders and, of course, prove everyone else wrong, she never realizes that her own inflated ego is the biggest obstacle.

Wednesday works better when it's a detective story than when it's an angsty soap opera, which is a pity, because the mystery ceases to be mysterious halfway through the season, and the teen drama is Riverdale levels of insufferable. The script relies on so many clichés that by the middle of the second episode the viewer has effectively received an accelerated course in snarky comebacks. It must be admitted that the writing quality improves considerably in the episodes not written by the Gough-Millar duo. (Why on Earth would you entrust this franchise to the creators of Smallville, who also happen to be the same guys who sincerely believed The Sword of Shannara could ever be adapted into something decent?) In particular, writer Kayla Alpert does an admirable job with her scripts for episodes 3 and 4. However, the show is generally more interested in aesthetic than substance.

John Scalzi has described this show as "Spooky Daria Goes to Gothwarts," and that would suffice as a review. However, it's important to delve into why Wednesday doesn't work. Let's make an effort to suspend disbelief and forget about the most blatantly broken parts. Let's forget for a moment that you can't hurt swimmers by dropping piranhas in the pool because chlorinated water gives fish blood poisoning. Let's forget that Nevermore Academy has so many special day events that basically no studying ever happens. Let's forget that the Nightshades super-hidden room loses all its aura of secrecy and becomes a regular hangout spot like the town cafeteria. Let's forget the extraordinarily offensive portrayal of mental illness. What, exactly, is missing in this formula?

The key to the humor of the Addams depends on the contrast between their weird customs and "respectable" society. The fact that the series presents a "Nancy Reagan High School," only to throw it away before the opening credits of the first episode, shows how much the creators missed the clear opportunity of showing Wednesday where she would stand out the most. Instead, they dilute her uniqueness by putting her in a whole school of monsters, but at the same time dilute the monsters because otherwise they'd outshine her. We're expected to just believe that the place houses hundreds of vampires, werewolves and assorted magical misfits, but we get to see almost none of that.

Another crime worth noting is the waste of such great actresses as Gwendoline Christie and Catherine Zeta-Jones. As the school headmistress, Christie looks adequately professional and in control, but the routine of the responsible adult exasperated by the meddling kid gets old very fast. For her part, Zeta-Jones is exquisite as always, but the character of Morticia is properly defined by a mischievous joie de vivre that is nowhere to be seen here. Mercifully, Christina Ricci is given a part worthy of her acting powers, and it's a treat to watch her channel Goldie Hawn in Death Becomes Her with such uncanny ease.

The problem with Wednesday is that it commits the cardinal sin of trying to be cool but obviously trying too hard. It's only saved by the murder mystery, which provides enough misdirections and credible suspects to maintain interest, but that is a plot that didn't have a reason to happen in the Addams world. The Addams Family requires a fine-tuned ear for dark comedy, an elusive lightning that has only struck twice. This attempt feels like yet another generic magical school filled with horny teenagers, with the aggravating factor that a severed hand manages to express more emotion than the protagonist's resting bored face. We're constantly told that this family likes macabre games, but in the end, the only one being tortured is the viewer.

The Math

Baseline Assessment: 7/10. Meh, good enough.

Bonuses: +1 for Danny Elfman and Chris Bacon's music, +1 for a well-designed murder mystery, +10 because it's always a joy to watch Catherine Zeta-Jones in anything.

Penalties: −1 for dull dialogue, −1 for wasting literal hundreds of monstrous characters we never see being monstrous, −1 because the makeup for Zeta-Jones is far too lazy, −10 because it's past time horror stories stopped taking so many liberties with mental illness.

Nerd Coefficient: 6/10, and just barely.

POSTED BY: Arturo Serrano, multiclass Trekkie/Whovian/Moonie/Miraculer, accumulating experience points for still more obsessions.