johnny dangerously.

It's a Bernard Cornwell novel (narrated by Jonathan Keeble, which automatically makes it one of Cornwell's best novels) and knows exactly what it wants to do, and it does it. Yet it's not really boilerplate Cornwell– it's notable as a Cornwell novel because it speaks to his skill as a writer, at knowing exactly what his goals are and accomplishing them.

Notably, this is a murder mystery with political themes and a keen interest in sports. There are some action scenes, but no battle scenes, which (as I've said in previous reviews of Cornwell's novels) are some of his strongest and most able writing. No one writes huge battles like Bernard Cornwell. Comparitively, this novel is borderline Austen– but not really. The romance is actually mostly offscreen, another unusual choice for Cornwell, who loves to make his leading heroes writhe and pine (or lust) over the women they desire. The political animus of the novel is surprising as well; it goes out of its way to be about the evils of capital punishment, and how government-sanctioned death is abhorrent.

And it all totally, completely works, because Bernard Cornwell knows exactly what his strengths are, and he plays on them without hesitation. The historical research is lovely and vibrant, the characters are interesting and their interactions are fun and frequently funny. The main character is an ex-soldier with financial problems and a temper, something that's not altogether unheard of for Cornwell or fiction in general, but the way that he fights against his worse nature creates fascinating tension. I'll read a book about a man fighting against his own internal toxic masculinity any day.

If you like Cornwell, you'll like this book. If you like murder mysteries, you'll like this book. If you'd like a less marriage-and-tea-parties focus on the Regency Era, you'll like this book. If you like cricket, you'll like this book. And if you hate the death penalty, you'll like this book. I couldn't recommend it to everyone, but if you want a nice, lush bit of historical fiction that is relatively light (though very much not a comfort read, it's not cozy by any stretch of the imagination), this is an excellent choice.

While this novel is searingly raw, absolutely none of it is undercooked. A testament to the work, considering how many incredible risks the writing takes, not just with form, but with content. This is a very specific book, about a very specific time, and a very specific experience. I don't know how people will understand this book if they're unfamiliar with how the internet treats trans people– the TERF ‘movement', mumsnet and #IStandWithMaya and trans widows and 4chan Nazis and sissy hypno. All of these things are real. All of these things are not parody. The book is about these things. Which is to say, fascism.

This book is a slap in the face from someone who loves you. Maybe you can forgive the violence. Maybe you can't. That's your choice. It might be the only choice you have.

I took my time getting around to reading this, which really says that the 1st book in the trilogy didn't leave an overwhelming impression, but I finished this book in a day, which says something about its hold on my attention. (I've been finding it difficult lately to keep my mind on a book long enough to finish it, but this one had me in a stranglehold.) The book is freakishly compelling, shocking not least because it's got very uneven pacing (90% of the action happens in the last 20% of the book) and the prose style is clear verging on bland– and sometimes jarring due to its choice to be in present tense. Still? It works, and it works much better than the first book, which also undeniably worked.

The story itself is exactly what you'd expect from the first, but also more. While I enjoyed The Wolf's Den, my major takeaway from it was how many punches it pulled. Don't get me wrong; I understand why the story chooses to never depict any SA graphically (even when it happens ‘on screen', no actions are ever descripted; it's all glossed over and implied). This book is clearly being marketed to the Madeline Miller and Classical Mythology retelling crowd, a microgenre that is YA adjacent and largely uninterested in portraying the darkest aspects of the Classical world in sharper detail. But this book has a lot more in common with Pat Barker's Silence of the Girls, tonally and thematically– it wants to talk about the degradation and misery that antiquity was built on. But, from the cover art to the book lists this series ends up on, it's slotted again and again next to books where the SA that is part and parcel for the Classical world either doesn't happen, or is so vaguely alluded to that you can miss it entirely.

Should fiction that focuses so solidly on characters who have experienced incredible abuse be written in a way that means readers never have to actually see these acts perpetuated? I can't answer that question, but it is a question this series invariably raises. Do I think the book would pack more of a punch, be more memorable, and have more of a coherent message if those acts were more solidly (if not graphically) laid out? Yes. Do I think it would have sold as well? No.

So I can't really blame the author for making the choices she does. Shakespeare gotta get paid.

I will say that this is a serious improvement over the first in terms of characterization: the first book definitely has the problem of all characters save the protagonist and the villain being rational actors, with no real agenda beyond continuing to exist; they don't have plots and plans of their own, only vaguely sketched hopes and dreams. This book does an excellent job of making it clear that everyone has an agenda, has secrets and wants and needs that are totally hidden from the narrator. It makes the book far more interesting, makes the twists feel far more earned, and recasts the previous book in a different light: in the events of The Wolf's Den, was Amara just seeing what she wanted to see?

The themes of this book are by far more unique and vivid than its predecessor by virtue of being a ‘what comes after' story. What comes after you get your heart's desire? What comes after freedom, in a society that hates the freed? Can a woman be free, or will she only be ‘no longer enslaved'? Stories like the first book often suffer from a kind of ‘beating the system' narrative. Yes, obviously, we want to see the little guy beat wealth and landed power to achieve their dreams, but if that was possible for everyone with enough gumption, society would look totally different. This book answers that question by postulating that freedom in an unfree society functions on the backs of the unfree– Amara is only able to afford freedom (in every sense of the word) by utilizing the same systems that oppressed her, by taking on the same mindset of the man who abused her. I love stories about complex trauma, not just escaping it, but the difficulties of not perpetuating it, and this story falls right into that basked. I think the depiction of Amara's abuser, the main villain of the story, is probably some of the most skillful work the book does. Felix is complex, abused, traumatized, impossible to predict, drunk on power, all-knowing, flawed, mistake-prone, dangerous, and love-starved. He is complex. Abuse and enslavement creates neither heroes nor villains, just incredibly complex people who must decide, for themselves, to be kind. But if they decide to be cruel, nothing in their backstory, however tragic, excuses that cruelty. And it is a choice. I wish this book had focused on this theme more, but I don't think it's a knock against it that it didn't; it's just one of my favorite themes ever, so I always want more.

Likewise, I think this book much more than the last sets up an interesting sequel. Yeah, the main character is once again surging toward a new life, having both lost and gained everything, but she doesn't know what we know. Pompeii is about to explode. Capping off a trilogy entirely about choice, who has choices and who has choices made for them, who is allowed to steer the direction of their own life, with an event that no one chose, is a bold move and I can't wait to see how it turns out.

Fine enough. A cute little story that succeeds in having likable enough characters. It's got way too much going on to pay attention to all its parts and develop them equally, but I'd prefer novels bite off more than they can chew, I guess. Highly reminiscent of fanfic in that way, though; it languishes in implication rather than action. It doesn't show or tell, just kind of gestures. Still, it's a first novel, so that's understandable.

What really kills me are the crappy internet jokes that totally undercut the tension of important scenes, and the overreliance on visual cues. You can tell the inspiration for this novel is visual rather than prose (a webcomic and, I assume, from the way the fight scenes work, plenty of anime). The worldbuilding is good enough to stand on its own, but it feels like the author is strangely embarrassed of it unless someone is saying bizznach or yass kwneen. Extremely irritating.

Overall a good first effort, though, and clearly engaging enough that I read every word. Most of every word. I've read enough Naruto that my eyes glazed over the final fight scene.

I like zombie fiction, I like it a lot. I like the narrative of survival, I like the tense situations, I like the potential for worldbuilding and the way it can put character development at the forefront. But zombie fiction, like most post apocalyptic fiction, is inherently conservative, falling victim to a ‘come and take it' ideology that prioritizes hoarding, us-vs-them tribalism, and a particularly Evangelical flavor of paranoia about the future. It's the end times, after all, and in the Christian West, an event that has not ever happened, no matter how many times it's been predicted, is something that feeds into the constant background static of our culture and policy decisions.

But I still want to read zombie books and watch zombie shows and play zombie games. It's fun.

This novella is fun. This novella is about zombies. This novella is also what we think about when we think about zombies– and the end times– and how we cast ourselves as characters within a grand narrative of apocalypse. This story is also very, very concerned with the post-truth era, the Trump administration, Brexit and fake news. All swirl together into a complex and bittersweet story of... zombies. And survival. And the truth. And what it means when we interact with any of those things, and how, if we touch one, we're almost always touching one of the others.

Absolutely excellent, this is my new reccomendation for anyone who wants an introduction or a review of the French Revolution. Unlike many books that cover this period, it isn't afraid of casting the obvious parallels between the events of the revolution and the modern era, showing how the French revolution was a first or at least codifying example of early socialism and early despotism. The book never forgets to track the progress of Haiti's independence, something that almost every review of the French Revolution conveniently ‘forgets', despite the fact that the two events are deeply intertwined. Popkin remembers the influence of woman and people of color in the movement, and how their lives were changed during different moments, how they contributed, triumphed and failed. The book isn't afraid to praise successes and criticize failings, treating all involved with an even hand, even when I, personally, would prefer it wouldn't. It gets into the grittier details with an agile ease, so those new to the period can follow along. A fresh and triumphant history overview of the revolution, I'll definitely be looking into Popkin's other works. Highly, highly recommended for any interested in the period.

I will be thinking about this book for a long time. I will be thinking about Shannon Moss. I will wonder at the possibilities in her life, the branching roads mapped out, hypothetical and real. This is the best time travel book I've ever read, the best mystery (simply because it has so many, unfolding like a rose), the best book about spaceflight and the apocalypse and sacrifice. Is anything really the end? The world keeps changing, blossoming, blooming. Everything is beautiful and simultaneously terrible. Time is an uroboros.

While this is undeniably a genre novel, it's also very much an adult contemporary novel, and I think it bridges the gap wonderfully, of interest for both crowds. If you like detective stories, stories about serious women solving serious crimes, this one's for you. If you like twisty pulpy benders with inexplicable unreality, this one's also for you. I am so glad I read this book.

I'll be thinking about the ending through all the recursions of my life, the echoes and the branching paths. Other reviews of this book compare it to Twin Peaks and True Detective. The prose does have a Lynchian flair for the bizarre, and the murder mystery is as gruesome, sad and violent as the first season of True Detective. However, it reminds me far more of the X-Files (in terms of setting, characters and location), Arrival (in terms of atmosphere), and perhaps the first season of Westworld (thematically, with its questions of personhood, the ravages of time, and the themes of impossible futures).

Yet the ending reminds me of nothing so much as Inception's ending-- something meant to be discussed, curled eternally in ambiguity. Yet unlike Inception, the entire book sets you up not to doubt every truth, but to experience and enjoy the multiplicity of endless conflicting truths, each equal and legitimate. In an age of 'mindfuck' twists and 'ending EXPLAINED' youtube diatribes, I find this extremely comforting. This book is not meant to be analyzed or picked apart (though not for lack of depth; the world of this story is as well-built and detailed as any of its more pulpy fantasy or science fiction contemporaries, while still being effortlessly understandable to anyone even glancingly familiar with the last 20 years of American history). The entire book could perhaps be seen as an effort to condition readers to accept dubiety; there are no easy answers. The journey is more important than the destination; time is a beauty meant to be experienced.

It doesn't matter if you're real. Be at peace. Keep going. Someone else would quit.

This book absolutely shines with promise, but its parts are greater than their sum. I genuinely loved large portions of this book, but they often felt stitched together and oddly out of place. The prose quality would go from sublime to sub-par between chapters. Plot developments were shocking and intriguing, but also frequently rushed and jolting. The characters are likeable and memorable, but often their most memorable moments are rushed, without enough foreshadowing or internal characterization to justify a change of heart. The novel expects us to know the tropes inherent in the genre and expect them in kind; it often fails to put in the elbow grease to explain, for example, sudden changes of heart beyond the fact that this is the part in the gothic novel where the heroine changes her heart.

None of this makes the book not worth reading. In fact, I recommend it! I'll be keeping an eye out for this author in the future. House of Hunger is a wonderful, energetic gothic horror novel with sparkling prose, an excellent plot, and tons of memorable moments. The incredibly lush descriptions, the world the characters inhabit, all of it easily makes a story and world you could get lost in. It just needs a little more polish before it can be truly great.

Also, to those reviews saying the twists were ‘obvious', I strongly disagree.

This is very much an awkward story, but the vibes are immaculate. The craftsmanship leaves something to be desired, but considering I read Starling's later, much better constructed work first, I may be judging it too harshly. There are a few too many eleventh hour revelations, and the ending feels vaguely pasted on, but I really respect the commitment to not giving characters an easy way out, or readers an overly detailed play-by-play. Ultimately, this story does all the good things I expect every Caitlin Starling story to do: make me scared, make me happy, not let characters off the hook, and make me briefly question the nature of existence.

I've read a lot of books with ‘Lovecraftian vibes', books that posit themselves as ‘Lovecraftian remixes', but they never quite catch the soul-sucking horror of The Statement of Randolph Carter. There is something horrible in the unknown, yes, but there's something further horrific in the fact that we are small players in a game where the rules are in a secret and unknowable language. The horror is precisely that, in the grand scale of the universe (for lack of a better term:) we are NPCs. Very few Lovecraftian updates seem to get this, but The Worm and His Kings really, really does. It's not trying to be uplifting, but if you find it uplifting (and you really might!) that's okay, because existence is a matter of perspective, time is casual, and the only constant is the burning of indifferent stars.

In general, I try to keep reviews short and not get too far into spoilers, but the deeper themes of this novella revolve around some revelations that are only revealed in the latter half of the story. There are no direct plot spoilers below, but I do discuss themes that will cause some reveals to be more telegraphed, and easily guessable, than if you're going in blind (like I did).

A cautionary tale on dating cis people, or a cautionary tale for cis people about how to not perceive trans people: it's both. This book is a resounding indictment of the idea that trans people are inherently so strong for being trans. It warns of the way in which cis people, in helping trans people, can often center themselves in their stories and in doing so harm trans people. It is a story about trans people that is about more than basic representation; it actually engages in all the messy, painful, deeply important parts of being trans. Self-love and acceptance is not enough. The sharp and painful parts of you do not need to be exorcized in order for you to be valid. No one can validate you but you, and that's a hard, painful lesson to learn, a difficult journey to make, not a soft and cuddly tale full of hugs, kisses, and the beneficent approval of the right cis person.

Thematically, this book makes a trilogy with Gretchen Felker-Martin's Manhunt and Maya Deane's Wrath Goddess Sings, though I think this one is perhaps the most successful, possibly due to its brevity. This book is truly a 4.75 for me, losing that quarter star just because its ending is a little belabored, but that's fine. The Worm waits for us all.

I really, really wanted to like this book, because medieval fantasy with excellent worldbuilding, an interest in nuance, and female main characters, is incredibly thin on the ground. Regrettably, the writing was just too clunky for me to get into. I don't mean that in the sense of prose, but in the sense of how mood and character was conveyed. The writing would tell me what to feel, rather than having the characters react to it. Despite the book being of a reasonable length to get lots of scenes of characterization, I was instead informed post-hoc what the characters were like. Genuinely disappointing for such a promising premise, with such an interesting focus. I desperately want more books that deal with the (well researched!) intricacies of medieval law, set on the backdrop of a fantasy version of the Carolingian Renaissance, dealing with the politics of warring Germanic city states. Incredibly promising! I may still read the sequel, just to find out if the writing has improved.

I am constantly bemoaning the lack of literary SFF, any speculative fiction, horror especially, that tries to grapple with bigger questions than ‘cool magic system' and ‘but what if the hero was actually... a bad guy'. I only ask for a crumb, really, just tiny evidence of forethought.

Adam Roberts has provided me with a philosophical feast, replete with complex and nuanced ideas about the nature of human love, God, indifference, and how we approach the universe. The solution to the Fermi paradox was not the friends we made along the way; perhaps the answer is that we are the aliens, because we make painful, artificial divisions between each other, and so we will never truly be able to reach farther than our own front gardens.

No review will do this book justice. The esteem I feel for it, like our limited perception of the universe, is limitless.

Ehhhh.

This book is very suspicious of and disdainful of AMAB people in the history of Aphrodite Venus, which is a little weird considering that historically the legacy of Aphrodite, Astarte, Innana and eventually Venus, has included masculine and trans feminine people basically forever. But then again, I came to this book looking for details on trans and nonbinary inclusion in these ancient cults, something the book is by and large uninterested in. Likewise, for all the book also talks about blood and war and death in Aphrodite's older cults, it's largely light on details, and very unfocused. The book is just a little too light fare for me, too pop to be satisfying on a subject of overwhelming depth and intensity.

It's also very weirdly negative on the idea that people used Aphrodite and Venus statues as porn, which is just kind of strange. I guess the idea is that if men were using Aphrodite / Venus worship to get off, it was taking away from the centrality of women? But then, what of the sacred prostitution the book earlier lavishes with praise? In general, the author's intent comes through as very... basic, very judgmental, when it comes to the goddess of unfettered desire.

At least it's short.

So, I inhaled this in one day.

Grady Hendrix keeps improving. This is the funniest book I've read by him. It's also the most focused. If The Final Girl Support Group was his most complex novel, How To Sell A Haunted House is him really drilling down on a few issues and knocking it out of the park. This story is about motherhood, and family, and death, and acceptance, and puppets.

So many puppets.

Absolutely stunning. Every book Hendrix writes takes out a chunk of my heart. He improves tremendously every book, and I deeply enjoy watching his career. This book is probably his most complex, but it's also his most complete. He's trying to address multiple different issues, from horror movies to how we treat women in society to true crime fanaticism to incels, and he weaves it all together in a strange universe of his own making. The world the girls live in is effortless and easy to imagine, real and wild, our own world writ large. If any book of Henrix's deserves a sequel (in 3D), it's this one.

In terms of genre, you will not read anything like this novel, but it's most accurate to call it an alternate history western and leave it at that. The major focus is on women's lives, and it uses the alternate history elements to tell a very modern story about women and AFAB people who have been marginalized by history. It has the rare hat trick of discussing very modern topics – mental illness, queer topics, the role of women in society– in a way that feels utterly true to the historical conventions it sets up. The characters don't know what the gender binary is, but the story is structured so no one is misgendered. The characters don't know what being bipolar is, but the story still treats these issues with care. The first person prose never obscures when it should illuminate; unlike many first person novels, it never takes the easy way out. Overall, an excellent novel that I recommend to anyone who loves stories of women who get their hands dirty.

Just kind of... eh. The split POVs mean you spend a lot of time with people who exist to die, and the last minute attempts to humanize them before they are brutally murdered. The plot is telegraphed really strongly before it kicks off, and it takes a looong time to kick off. I can't tell if this book is an indictment of... what, consumer culture? Reality TV? It fails as both.

This book very solidly delivers on a very simple promise: if you want a slowly unfolding mystery, set in a very cold place, dealing with domestic violence and a creature feature, you'll get it. And you know what, good, fine. It's not amazing, but it delivers on its promises very defly. The ending is obvious once you get into the meat of the plot– which is fine, really, except it's treated like a shocker throughout. The pacing gets a little stuck in the middle with the introduction of a character who feels like they're from an entirely different genre, and this isn't helped by the main character loosing the ability to speak for far too long during this period, but ultimately, I was satisfied? Ish.

This feels very damning with faint praise, which is a shame because the novel has a lot going for it in terms of character depth and atmosphere. However, the following (big spoilers!) knocked it down several stars for me, and really took the shine off the novel as a whole. But, yeah, the following really bugged me:

Extremely weird, though, that a horror novel that made the abduction, kidnapping and assault of a woman its centerpiece couldn't bring itself to use the word 'rape', though. It's kind of brought up and menaced throughout, but the book doesn't really have the engine power required to deal with that in full, and it seems to know. At the midpoint the book just kind of shies away from it, which makes it especially weird given the final revelation about the monster. Overall the novel really twists itself into a lot of weird shapes in order to let itself bring up the spectre of, and simultaneously avoid, the main character's long term traumatic sexual abuse and assault.

This book is kind of a mess, in terms of everything but pacing and plot. Considering how many authors struggle with those things, Hide succeeds aptly.

Overall, the book is much less clever and lyrical than it thinks it is, and the way it handles its characters and narrative feels kind of detached. Is it third person or omniscient? The prose tries to do the Stephen King thing of telescoping in and out of different perspectives, but doesn't quite manage the balance King's prose gives. The characterization starts out strong, but ends up thin. The satire is kind of forgotten mid-way through the book, if not earlier. Anyone with a glancing knowledge of mythology will immediately spot the twist.

For all of that, it's engaging? I read it all in under less than 24 hours, which can't be said for most books. It's the perfect length, and unlike many horror novels (which in my opinion have a tendency to just kind of stop and go ‘well the horror's over, now, everyone smile!') actually earns its ending. For what the book is trying to say, it does an admirable job.

I admit that some of my disappointment for this book stems from the cover. I was expecting a female character who fights and is powerful– a rare thing in fantasy– and I got a character who... fights eventually. I don't know, that's probably a Me problem.

I will say this novel feels a little half-baked, not least because it seems to exist without any breathing room. We're hurled from one plot twist to another, and the shock value seems to rely on preexisting understanding of tropes, rather than the events happening within the novel.

That said, all the characters act in ways that make complete sense for their world and background, and all the beats feel more or less earned. I just came to this wanting dark fantasy featuring a female protagonist, and got an endless series of rug pulls and Warhammer references. (Like, seriously. This book owes a huge debt to WH40k, I cannot even begin to tell you.)

2022 reread:

I've been fascinated by the Vorkosigan series for a long time, I think because it has all the elements of things I feel I should like, but I find all the books but this one irritating to the point of unreadability. Miles is not really someone I can stand in prose, and the female characters all feel toothless from his limited perspective. To a certain extent, I've heard this is subverted later in the series, this review isn't about those books. It's about this one.

When I first read Shards of Honor, after reading several Miles-focus books, I found it light and sharp in its perfection, at least in comparison to books I really disliked. It felt like this book questioned the premises I found so grating later in the series - the whole-sale veneration of monarchism and militarism, the refrains of ‘necessary evil' and ‘just following orders', the lackluster female characters - but reading it now, and judging the book on its own merits, I do see the awkward outcroppings of those failings that will only mount with time.

Does that make this book a failure? No. The entire series isn't required to hew to my political particulars. But it does mean I like it less, and all I have to do is justify that.

The most interesting thing to me, on this reread, is in contrast. The text purposefully contrasts Beta Colony with Barrayar. Beta Colony is well-meaning but laughable, a parody of American liberalism (and, I think, America's complicity in wars while pretending not to, though this particular spike isn't driven hard enough to be more than a fleeting idea, briefly entertained). Barrayar is brutal but honorable, and you never really get the sense LMB thinks this brutality is bad beyond the abstract tally of bodies the two protagonists discuss. Barrayar eats its children, we're told, but constantly we are shown its virtues though Aral Vorkosigan, who is positioned as both exceptional and also the true heart of Barrayar. This is a lovely literary sentiment, but politically neutered. The true heart of any government or culture in military power - and in this book, all forces are very much defined by their military power - is what they do to others. Aral Vorkosigan feels bad about his butchery, but we, the readers, through Cordelia's sympathetic point of view, are asked to sympathize, because he feels bad about it and wants to stop.

This contrast is made even more explicit, in every sense of the word, by the villainous actions of Vorrutyer. Vorkosigan has Cordelia as his prisoner, but never harms her; Vorrutyer has Cordelia as his prisoner, and tries to rape and torture her. Vorkosigan has the soldier Bothari under his command, and tries to treat him well; Vorrutyer has Bothari under his command, and treats him poorly. This poor treatment ends in Vorrutyer's death. The wound cauterizes itself.

This contrast between ‘old, bad' Barrayar (in Vorrutyer) and ‘good, honorable (new?)' Barrayar (in Vorkosigan) is the biggest failing of the book, I feel. Ostensibly, the theme of this book, beyond the romance (which is very, very good; the themes of love and longing in this book are impeccable and earn it every star I give it), is about the horrors of war, and if we can keep our ‘honor' (which here I will define as empathy and mercy, but the book fails to explicitly ever define) during these horrific events. Much talk is dedicated to numbering the dead, giving them their due, the casualties and the innocent bystanders, the needless waste of human life. Yet we only see the war from Cordelia's perspective, and she never encounters any of these losses, save one at the very beginning. As far as books about war go, this is a fairly bloodless choice. There is no time to consider that maybe Aral Vorkosigan feeling bad about himself isn't enough to redeem him, if we never see his atrocities on the page, only hear about them from a deeply sympathetic perspective.

(And how are we to judge Barrayar's worst horrors, when the closest we get to them - in Vorrutyer's menacing and brief single appearance - is fixed by a Barrayaran who he overlooked and mistreated? The problem will fix itself, the text inadvertently says. So too with monarchism, and the coup. This is not something to confront. This is something to accept.)

So, maybe it's better to focus on this book as a romance. That is what it is. But it tries to float higher ideas, the contrast of cultures, the horrors of war and trauma, and at that, I think it really, really fails. But it's still the best book in the series by far.

2017: How is this book so much better than literally every other book I've read in this occasionally mediocre, occasionally godawful series? I'm so sad the entire series can't have this feeling of political weight, tension, and heft, but at least this book does.

Perfect perfect perfect.

I had a whole thing I was going to self-consciously write here, but honestly I feel like I already put all my thoughts down in the notes section. Basically: I want more of this, and less self-congradulatory pastelcore YA nonsense. This book is a gift.

EDIT: Actually, no, a thing I want to say real quick.

I have been waiting a long time to read a book that tells me I am capable of harm. Not because I want to cause harm, but because the ability to cause harm is the hallmark of a thinking, fully-realized person interacting with any meaningful social environment. I am a person, therefore I am capable of harming other people. I do not want my representation to exist just to educate or comfort cis people, or exist only to educate or comfort in general; I don't want to be told I'm naturally good, or pure, or that I exist only to be hurt and rise above it, forgive, or choose not to.

I want to be held accountable, because that is the only way to be a good person: to choose to be better, knowing there is an alternative where you don't. This book accomplishes that, and for that it will always be deeply meaningful to me.

If you want to know how to write trans people for trans adults– rather than for the benefit of cis people or the comfort of weary teenagers– read this book.

An excellent work of historical fiction, showing the lives of the Roman underclass. I wish more books were written about people history would rather forget, especially since the lives of slaves and prostitutes were unusually well-documented in Roman history. All the characters are real and varied, and the author deftly avoids a lot of the worst tropes associated with this sort of story. My only complaint was feeling the ending was a little rushed, but the last chapter more than makes up for it.

This isn't a story about slavery, it's a story about white guilt, which I don't personally find a very worthy topic. A story about slavery should be centered on slaves, but this one takes it's sweet time glamorizing the life of rich slave owners and how they can come to regret– but not end– their participation in the slave trade. All the slave characters– genetically enhanced humans– are portrayed as mysterious others with inscrutable goals. The fall of the slave-holding planetary government is written as tragic.

Two stars for competent prose.

A very excellent book, though the ending was a little abrupt for me. Highly recommended for fans of light horror, folk music, and folk... horror? Is that a genre? It feels like it should be. The horror that comes from lush forests overgrown with myths and legends, that sound behind you you're not sure you really just heard- that's the kind of horror this book lends itself to. Several scenes are reminiscent of the stories you told in middle school sleepovers, without an ending or a proper beginning, but a rich and terrifying middle.