Eduardo Santiago
It became obvious by page 3 that this was going to be a feel-good kind of book—no surprise if you’ve read The Music of Bees (and if you haven’t, please do yourself a favor and read that first. It’s not strictly necessary, but your love for and understanding of the main character will be stronger). What wasn’t obvious was how emotionally twisty it would be. Manipulative either way but I’m not complaining: I really needed this right now (2026) and would bet that maybe you do too. It’s a reassuring hug in dark times: good kind flawed heroes, including a deliciously relatable neurodivergent one; tough moral dilemmas; vile odious monsters who end up falling into vats of slow-acting poison-acid. (Sigh, not really, but let me remember it that way please?) Toxic masculinity defeated by more powerful quietness. Cooperation, community, growth. I closed the book and felt briefly at peace.
Garvin’s writing is—forgive me—mellifluous. Gentle, pensive, with awareness of all senses, scent and sounds and delicate touches. I swooned when reading “The grass susurrated against her pant leg”: a word I’ve always loved, fairly common in Spanish but so rare in English. And speaking of Spanish, the occasional idioms were perfectly apt; it’s clear she had it proofread by a native speaker. Those little details matter, and this novel is rich with details. And with love.
One weird aside: a (female) friend approached me yesterday and, seeing me read it, asked: “I got the sense this was a women’s book, is it?” I was taken aback, not really understanding the question. Still not really sure I get it. I don’t remember any parts of the book where a reader’s genitalia would affect their interpretation or enjoyment ... but then again by definition I wouldn’t. Do I have any friends willing to break the sistah code and illuminate me? If not, no sweat: my enjoyment and appreciation remain high.
It became obvious by page 3 that this was going to be a feel-good kind of book—no surprise if you’ve read The Music of Bees (and if you haven’t, please do yourself a favor and read that first. It’s not strictly necessary, but your love for and understanding of the main character will be stronger). What wasn’t obvious was how emotionally twisty it would be. Manipulative either way but I’m not complaining: I really needed this right now (2026) and would bet that maybe you do too. It’s a reassuring hug in dark times: good kind flawed heroes, including a deliciously relatable neurodivergent one; tough moral dilemmas; vile odious monsters who end up falling into vats of slow-acting poison-acid. (Sigh, not really, but let me remember it that way please?) Toxic masculinity defeated by more powerful quietness. Cooperation, community, growth. I closed the book and felt briefly at peace.
Garvin’s writing is—forgive me—mellifluous. Gentle, pensive, with awareness of all senses, scent and sounds and delicate touches. I swooned when reading “The grass susurrated against her pant leg”: a word I’ve always loved, fairly common in Spanish but so rare in English. And speaking of Spanish, the occasional idioms were perfectly apt; it’s clear she had it proofread by a native speaker. Those little details matter, and this novel is rich with details. And with love.
One weird aside: a (female) friend approached me yesterday and, seeing me read it, asked: “I got the sense this was a women’s book, is it?” I was taken aback, not really understanding the question. Still not really sure I get it. I don’t remember any parts of the book where a reader’s genitalia would affect their interpretation or enjoyment ... but then again by definition I wouldn’t. Do I have any friends willing to break the sistah code and illuminate me? If not, no sweat: my enjoyment and appreciation remain high.