Kam

Gosh but this was a FUN read! Wasn’t entirely sure what to expect, but definitely fun regardless.

So this is supposed to be set in the same world as the author’s previous YA series, but I don’t think the reader really needs to read that series to enjoy this one. It does, however, have a very “sink or swim” approach to worldbuilding, which is something I enjoy when done well (as it was in this case), but some readers out there might not like that approach, which means they’ll have a harder time getting into the book than readers who are willing to just dive into the story and figure things out as they go.

In order to do that, though, and still have the book be enjoyable, the author needs to anchor the story in something that immediately grabs the reader’s attention - and in this case, it’s definitely the characters. The protagonists, Iari and Gaer, are thoroughly enjoyable to read about, not least because they’re a study in contrasts: Iari is the reliable and (mostly) steady templar, while Gaer is the clever, more mercurial diplomat/spy. Neither of them is human, but they’re just so damn charismatic that it hardly matters.

I’m also deeply fond of Char, the riev who’s one of the more important secondary characters in this novel. I won’t get into it too deeply because of spoilers, but suffice to say they anchor one of the novel’s major themes, and while they don’t get a lot of time front-and-center in this novel, I’m looking forward to seeing more of them in the next novel in the series.

Speaking of themes, there’s quite a few tackled in this novel - not as thoroughly or as deeply as I might personally like, but given the exigencies of the plot I think that’s understandable. One of the key themes is how war can be a driver for prejudice, both during and long after the war has ended. Another is about identity and personhood: both how prejudice can lead to dehumanization of anyone considered Other, but also how one defines sentience and humanity. There is also the theme of duty and ethics: those two things don’t always overlap, after all, and both Iari and Gaer spend a lot of time navigating between them in ways that both develop them as characters, and drive the plot forward.

Overall, this was a fun scifi mystery read with interesting characters and a plot that keeps everything moving and doesn’t overstay its welcome. While the “sink and swim” approach to worldbuilding will likely turn some readers off, those who stick around will find a story that keeps them hooked until the very end.

So: this was absolutely NIGHTMARISH, and absolutely FANTASTIC.

This is very much a cult novel, and my days spent listening to Cult Podcast meant that I was able to perceive most of the red flags of the Adder and the community on Altnaharra. While there were plenty of moments where the strange experiences Eve and Dinah went through COULD be viewed as genuinely supernatural, my previous knowledge makes me skeptical of the characters’ experience. But that knowledge did not, in any way, diminish my enjoyment of the slow, horrific reveal of what was happening in Altnaharra. Cults share many similarities in how they operate, but the specifics of what was happening in Altnaharra were slowly revealed in such a way as to keep me riveted to the story.

And the main thing that helped keep the story riveting were the characters of Eve and Dinah, and the way Ward used the first-person perspective for the narration. I know there’s been a lot of arguing online about whether first-person POV or third-person POV is better; I, personally, think the argument of which is better is silly. The choice of POV doesn’t make a book better or worse; it is simply a tool that an author uses depending on the kind of story they want to tell. And in this case, using the first-person POV to narrate the story (except during certain moments) was an inspired choice: it renders Eve and Dinah into truly unreliable narrators, forcing the reader to live in their heads and see the world from their perspective. Just as they are trapped in the clutches of the Adder and in the tangled threads of their faith, so too is the reader trapped inside them, witnessing everything that happens to them. Crucially, the reader also sees the way they try to RATIONALIZE what happens to them; the reader knows it’s all terrible, and if one is aware of how cults function then one knows just HOW terrible it is, but at the same time one can do nothing. As I said, the reader is trapped in their own way, just as much as the residents of Altnaharra.

The way the plot’s laid out also enhances that feeling of being trapped and confused. The timeline jumps around a little bit, and while Eve and Dinah are the main narrators there are moments when other characters tell the story. Some readers might find this too disorienting and therefore consider this a negative, but in my opinion, it enhances that feeling of disorientation that the protagonists regularly find themselves in. Fortunately, Ward has a firm hold on the narrative reins, and not once does the story become TOO confusing.

Earlier, I called Eve and Dinah unreliable narrators, and while some people think that’s a negative, I think it makes them spectacular characters: imperfect, broken, and above all, survivors. Ward does not stint in showing how life in a cult can change the way a person interacts with the world, how absolutely DAMAGING it is, and those moments are some of the hardest to read. Even more disturbingly, the story unveils these moments slowly, in bits and pieces, so that the reader must piece them together to form the complete, horrific picture. Both Eve and Dinah do terrible things, many of which will make the reader flinch, but once one grasps what is really going on, it’s hard not to feel even the tiniest bit sympathetic.

While there are many themes covered in this book (especially the ones to do with religion, faith, and the lies we tell ourselves for the sake of survival), the one that really stood out to me was that of sisterhood. For all that they could be terrible to each other, the relationship between Eve and Dinah remained a beautiful, heartbreaking focal point. Their relationship forms the emotional heart of the novel, an anchor against the unrelenting horror of the Adder’s actions.

Another theme I picked up is one that I also noticed on Ward’s other novel, Sundial: that of monstrosity and transformation. In both Sundial and this novel, the protagonist grapples with the idea that they may be monstrous, or becoming thus, because of the way they were manipulated by authority figures. The theme is more prominent in Sundial than it is in Little Eve, but the fact that it is present in both novels suggests that this may be an idea that Ward likes exploring - and, in truth, does very well.

Overall, this was a truly nightmarish horror story, one made all the more horrific by the fact that cults do exist and manipulate their members in some way. This is definitely not for the faint of heart, but can be rewarding for anyone who can engage with it.

So: a slow read, but not without tension. Just takes a while for the plot to develop.

Thematically it’s very interesting, especially how it shows that power can twist and subsume even the most noble of ideals to serve its own purposes. It doesn’t matter if one risks one’s own life and limb in the pursuit of a truly noble ideal; the powerful can and will find a way to twist that to their own ends - and there’s no escaping it. This is further exacerbated by social inequality: those with money and power can get away with whatever they want to do, while their lessers can only go along for the ride and hope against hope that something good comes out of it all, somehow.

As for the plot, it’s also quite good for the most part, but has the unfortunate tendency to ramble in ways that get in the way of the pacing. The chapters themselves are short, which kind of makes it feel like this book is moving faster than it actually is, but in truth things don’t really get going in any appreciable way until the novel’s latter fourth. Before then, it’s a bit of a slog, as the novel gets a bit bogged down trying to create opportunities to show off 17th century London. It’s almost as if the novel’s trying too hard to immerse the reader in its setting.

Sadly, this means that it can feel like the book’s more interested in the world than the characters, which is unfortunate because some of them are potentially interesting. But they don’t feel as fleshed out as I would like them to be. This is especially true of the women, who feel like they’d potentially be more interesting to read about than the menfolk, if they’d only been given a chance to truly shine.

Overall this is a middle-of-the-road read: interesting setting and plot might be interesting, but the whole is sadly bogged down by characters who are only barely brought to life. This was mildly entertaining, but forgettable once the reader puts it down.

So this story definitely sucked me in, but MAN is it creepy, in the best way possible.

The first thing that happened while I was reading it was that I started comparing the situation in the novel with actual history. The novel isn’t set anywhere in the real world, but it reminded me of some pretty infamous sieges in history. In particular, I was reminded of the Siege of Montsegur and the Siege of Carcassonne, both of which occurred during the Albigensian Crusade. Actually, I was strongly reminded of the Albigensian Crusade as a whole, even though this is set in a fantasy world. I think part of why I was stuck on that is because the novel uses the place name “Carcabonne,” which really isn’t that far off from “Carcassonne”. SImilarly, religion playing a crucial role in this story not only emphasizes the medieval feel of the setting, but drives home the parallels between this story and the Albigensian Crusade. The intense faith of the people in Aymar reminds me of the Cathars who were the reason for the sieges on Montsegur and Carcassonne in the first place.

Into this awful pressure cooker emerges the novel’s protagonists: Phosyne, the “madwoman” who can produce miracles; Ser Voyne, the king’s right-hand knight and hero of the Siege of Carcabonne; and Treila, a servant with a VERY interesting secret. Initially Phosyne and Voyne are of greater importance to the way the story progresses, given their proximity to people like the King and the Lord of Aymar, Ser Leodegardis, but as the story progresses Treila comes into her own, offering the readers a view of what life in the besieged castle is like for the ordinary folk.

Phosyne, for her part, is fascinating because of her desire for knowledge, quite apart from her ability to produce “miracles”. She may also be neurodivergent, though the specific nature of her neurodivergency isn’t entirely clear. Regardless, the pressure on her to produce a miracle to save Aymar, in contrast to her hunger for knowledge, make for a very interesting internal dynamic.

And then there is Ser Voyne. At first she comes across as the dutiful knight, but it soon becomes clear that her relationship to duty isn’t as straightforward as it appears. Instead, it is a complicated, almost bitter thing, even as Voyne relies on duty to give structure to her life and help her make sense of an increasingly incomprehensible world.

Through these three characters the novel’s themes are revealed and explicated. The most obvious one is related to hunger and consumption. As starvation threatens the residents of Aymar Castle, the sudden miraculous appearance of the Saints and the Constant Lady, who are supposedly intent on saving them, leads to a much darker path that isn’t really salvation at all, but damnation. Because the Lady and her Saints do not just sate physical hunger: they sate other kinds of hunger, other kinds of desires, too. As the Lady and the Saints interact with the protagonists, for example, they reveal what those characters really want: Phosyne’s hunger for knowledge; Voyne’s hunger for purpose; and Treila’s hunger for vengeance. The Lady promises to sate those hungers, but they all come at a cost.

That’s another thing this novel tackles: the power of obligation. “If you ask for something, you must give me something in return” is a theme frequently seen not just in this novel, but notably, in folk stories about the Fae - and in stories about making deals with the Devil. Being obliged to someone is a kind of power, and this novel looks at that power closely. Obligation also comes with a kind of hierarchy: the more favors one is owed, the more powerful one is. The novel explores this hierarchy to a degree - but also explores the flipside of it. After all, if one is owed, one also owes. Favors are not one way; they are reciprocal. Why should one be obliged to someone who uses their power over oneself in selfish ways, or to harm others? Why should one allow oneself to be used in ways that run contrary to one’s beliefs, only for the sake of obligation? This question is relevant not only to the characters in the novel, but also in the contemporary world, and it is a question that needs to be asked a lot more often, and a lot more loudly.

And then there is the question of survival. Boundaries are vital, as are morals, but when survival is at stake, how far should one go? Because at its core, this novel is about survival, and the lengths one is willing to go to in order to make it out alive. What gets sacrificed first on the altar of survival? The body? Morals? When does one compromise become many? When does many become too much? In the novel these lines are blurred, and the reader is forced to consider: if backed into a corner, what is one willing to sacrifice in order to get out? Is one willing to become something other, a monster, if it means being able to live (however one might define that)? Or would death be better? The novel does not offer any sure answers, except that one will never know for certain which choice one will take, until one comes to the crisis point.

Overall, this novel is a fascinating and disturbing read about the lengths people will go to in order to survive, or to get what they most desire. It makes clear that in moments of true crisis, one will be forced to make sacrifices, and in so doing may become the thing they never wanted to be. But the question is: is it worth it, so long as one survives, or gets what one wants? Is survival, or the achievement of one’s desire, truly worth the sacrifices one makes for it? It is a dark thought, but this novel asks it in such a beautifully gruesome manner, that the reader cannot help but think, for a moment at least, that maybe becoming a monster is, indeed, a good price to pay.

Well, this was a really charming read! And I can’t think of a better word than that to describe it, all things considered.

A lot of that charm comes from the writing. The language reads as quite modern, which is great given that this is, at its core, a heist novel, and the writing helps maintain the story’s forward motion. But while the language is modern, the descriptions and the characterization all fit in with the setting: the world of the Mediterranean countries in the eleventh century. There is a kind of lushness to it that I really appreciated, especially given the time period and the subject matter.

The nature of the heist is also interesting: a mission to steal the bones of St. Nicholas (yes, the same Saint Nicholas who inspired Santa Claus) from his resting place in Myra, and bring the bones back to the Italian port city of Bari. This is an actual historical event, often euphemistically called “The Translation of the Relics of St. Nicholas of Myra to Bari”, with the term “translation” doing some heavy lifting in that title. At the time, acquiring relics (the body parts and/or items related to a saint) was a big thing for both religious, political, and economic reasons, and many cities hoarded as many as they could find. There were faith-based reasons for doing such a thing, of course: in the novel, for instance, Bari’s people are falling ill with a pox, and it is believed that having the relics of St. Nicholas in the city would help cure the populace - not least because the bones of St. Nicholas were said to exude an ichor that, when used topically or ingested, could cure one of any disease. But there were other, far more secular reasons for taking the relics. Any city that had a relic was usually a place that was visited by pilgrims looking for a miracle, and those pilgrims often spent quite a bit of money along the way and upon arrival at their destination. Relics, therefore, were a powerful economic driver, and could turn an otherwise sleepy backwater trading port into a major tourist destination.

Relics were also not just for making money; they were often also used as a means of gaining and shoring up political power, too. Part of it was economic, certainly: the more relics in the city, the more pilgrims would visit that city, and therefore that city would make more money. But in the medieval period, relics could also be used to signify a city’s political legitimacy, or to project power in a region. If a city holds the relic of an important saint - say, Saint Paul, for instance - then that city might be considered more powerful than another city holding the relics of a less famous saint.

Now, while all of this is clearly secular, faith does indeed figure into this whole thing. Many people really did believe in the power of relics, but they also held those beliefs alongside the much more earthly reasons I’ve already mentioned. One would think that the concerns of the divine are distinct from the concerns of the flesh, but in the medieval period these two were not so distinct - even among the monastic orders, many of whom supposedly isolated themselves from the rest of the world in order to maintain a “purity of spirit”. The relic trade, therefore, illustrated how, even in a supposed age of miracles, the sacred could be, and very frequently was, commodified: made into a tool for wealth and power. This is something that readers will surely recognize still happens today in the form of the American Heresy, the prosperity gospel, and the alt-right.

This duality of and connection between the divine and the secular is also illustrated in the two main characters, Nicephorus and Tyun. Nicephorus is a Benedictine monk, whose dream of Saint Nicholas provides the “spiritual” impetus for the entire heist - this, despite his skepticism regarding the interpretation of his dream by the bishop. Tyun, on the other hand, is a self-labeled relic hunter, whose sales pitch to the governor of Bari makes the heist actually happen. These two are each other’s foils: where Nicephorus is driven to tell the truth even to his own detriment, while Tyun is a con artist who doesn’t hesitate to lie, even when everyone knows he is lying. It is through their interactions over the course of the story that the novel’s themes are given shape.

And those themes are actually quite serious, despite the seeming lightheartedness of the main plot. The novel asks: is faith enough? Throughout the novel this question is asked in a variety of ways: is faith enough to justify a theft? Is faith enough to cure a plague? Is faith enough to make miracles? Despite the existence of a song that seems to imply that believing is sufficient for the creation of miracles (it was from a little movie called The Prince of Egypt, in case anyone needs reminding), this novel chooses to approach the question with a greater dose of nuance than a straightforward black and white answer. This, I think, is a good thing, as the question of faith is always something that individuals need to figure out on their own.

Overall this was a pretty fun read, with a fast-paced heist story built up around a fairly serious theme. The writing is a pleasure to read, the characters are intriguing, and the theme at the novel’s heart is something that is still relevant today, despite the novel being set in the medieval period. Definitely a book for readers willing to be surprised, not just by plot twists, but by the thoughts this read will likely inspire.

Okay so: my opinion’s kind of divided on this. It started okay, but then there’s some aspects that kind of tripped me up.

The first thing was the romantic subplot. I have nothing against romantic plots in any of the stories I read, but the execution has execution has to be done well, and in this case, it was not. I’d be more willing to buy into it if it had been allowed to develop slowly, across the rest of the series, but that’s not the case here. As a result, the romantic connection feels very under-developed: a pity, because given more development, I might have been willing to buy into it.

The second thing was the way the plot developed. While I understand wanting to keep certain information from the reader to give the big reveal at the climax more impact, the necessary foreshadowing to lead up to that big reveal just didn’t feel very well-executed in this novel. In fact, there was a certain disjointedness about the the plot was developed and the foreshadowing delivered, so that while there was SOME impact at the big reveal in the novel’s climax, that reveal didn’t feel very earned. Instead, it felt like something that was dropped in there just to bring everything together and provide a plausible-seeming explanation for everything that had gone before.

The third thing was the characterization. The characters are fine, for the most part, nothing that’s utterly terrible about them - even though quite a few of them could stand to have their sense of humor aggressively adjusted with a wrench, given the egregious racism and misogyny on display, though I also understand that it’s a reflection of the real world. But even if I put that aside, I think the characters are just FINE: functional and mildly interesting, but nothing more than that. They’re middle-of-the-road: good enough to keep the story chugging along, but without any standout moments that helps them stick out in the reader’s mind after one has finished the novel. I think this affects the romantic subplot too, because if the characters are “meh”, then there’s hardly any urge to be invested in whatever romance they’re involved in, is there?

The one thing I did find good about this book, though, was the concept. I thoroughly enjoyed the concept used for the antagonist, and I will freely admit that I enjoy urban fantasy stories involving regular folks suddenly being forced to deal with supernatural entities - especially given how GRUESOME this one is. However, this is where the plotting and the characterization pull things down, because if this concept had been employed in a story with a better narrative and stronger characters, it would have been a standout read.

Overall, this was an okay read: sufficiently entertaining, but could clearly have been a whole lot more fun if it had been polished more. If the romance had been better-paced; the plot better-developed; and the characters better-written, I think this could have been comparable to Ben Aaronovitch’s Rivers of London or Paul Cornell’s Shadow Police series, but it would have stood out compared to the other two because of its much darker and more horror-heavy tone. Sadly, that’s not the case, and the reader is left to contemplate what might have been had this story’s issues been addressed.

Ahh, why does this read like the last book in the series? Maybe it is? It wouldn’t be surprising, given how long this series has gone on.

But of all the ways this series could end, ending it on what is essentially Part 2 of Illium and Aodhan’s romance is probably one of the best ways to do it. There was a tentative beginning to them in Archangel’s Light, but between all the things that were happening in that book, both to them as people and to the world at large, there really wasn’t a lot of time for them to REALLY get into the healing process, especially Aodhan.

Fortunately, this book expands on that, showing how the events of previous books have affected the two main characters, both as individuals and as a couple. The story delves into the growth of their relationship, and how it has affected not only themselves, but the people around them - and, of course, the future. Everyone gets the ending they deserve, but this novel has a certain kind of bittersweetness to it because it’s a reminder that all of Raphael’s Seven (and Raphael himself) have survived, and are all happily settled.

Readers who have followed this series know of the kind of trauma Aodhan has faced, as well as Illium’s own troubles, and will probably have wondered how those issues will rear their ugly heads, and how that will affect their relationship. Well, in this novel those issues DO come up, but more importantly, the trust and love that Illium and Aodhan have in each other ensures that said issues do NOT damage their relationship in any way. It’s not an EASY road to take, and most of the characters who appear in this novel all agree that it is NEVER going to be easy, but what matters is that Illium and Aodhan have each other’s backs, no matter what. Romantic love doesn’t fix everything, but it certainly goes a long way towards helping someone heal.

Overall, this was a lovely way to conclude Blue and Adi’s arc: a love story that was pretty long in the making of the series. And with the conclusion of their story concludes (to some degree) the story of Raphael and his Seven. While there have been books in the series that have explored the stories of other vampires, angels, and archangels outside of Raphael and his confidantes, this book can pretty much be considered an end to the series as a whole. If more books come out, then they will be a bonus; either way, this entire series was a wonderful ride, and it’ll definitely be one of those I reread when I feel the urge to revisit the characters and the world.

Okay so: this was a pretty fun read for the most part: goes by pretty fast, and is largely engaging. Kean tells these admittedly gruesome stories with a good, engaging narrative voice that’s very entertaining, while still being very serious about the truly atrocious and awful events exhibited in the stories he narrates.

He also makes a very good case for his stand that ethics and science must work together in order for the latter to move forward, and for the latter to inform the former. Through the stories he tells, Kean makes a good case of the argument that, in order for science to be considered “good” science, then research and experimentation must be done with good ethics in mind, because sacrificing those ethics not only means pointless human suffering, but can also create bad data.

However, while he makes clear that a commitment to ethical research is important, he also takes the time to point out that it isn’t necessarily EASY, especially when dealing with data that was obtained in less than ethical ways, like the biomedical data obtained by the Nazis from their nightmarish experiments. While not all of that data is useful, some of it IS, and in many cases is the ONLY data of its kind. But because of who and how that data was produced, there is a reluctance to reference it or use it. What, then, must be done? Should the data be ignored because it was created by Nazis conducting experiments that tortured and killed people? What if that data could possibly help save other people’s lives? This, among other similar conundrums, is something Kean tackles across the book, tying them to the practice of scientific research as it is done in the present day.

While the stories told in this book certainly fit the goal that Kean is trying to achieve, I do find myself wishing that certain other stories had been included. For example: the story of J. Marion Sims, who conducted experiments on slave women and, thanks to his research, is now considered the “Father of Gynecology.” Or the story of Henrietta Lacks, whose “immortal cells” are vital to biomedical research. Those would have fit in very well with Kean’s goal of illustrating how women and minorities are very frequently exploited by scientists for their own ends - but I suppose that he excluded their stories because others had already told them, or were about to tell them. After all, Rebecca Skloot’s book The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks was published in 2010 and is considered to be one of the most popular books on Lacks and the case surrounding her. And though this book was released in 2021, it is likely Kean knew of J.C. Hallman’s book Say Anarcha, which covers J. Marion Sims’ role in gynecology from the perspective of one of the slave women he experimented on.

Overall, this book is a pretty solid read that’s entertaining, while still managing to convey the hard, harsh truth about the fallibility of science and scientists throughout history. This fallibility, Kean reminds the reader, is good to keep in mind, as it helps keep both laypeople and scientists accountable, and thus improves science as a discipline and a practice, to the betterment of all.

Ah, this was a lovely conclusion to the series! The author said she wanted to write a “fairytale for kidults” in the Author’s Note at the end, and that was certainly accomplished with this series.

This is only the second danmei series I’ve read; the first one was Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation (Mo Dao Zu Shi/MDZS) by Mo Xiang Tong Xiu/MXTX, and I think I vastly prefer this one to MDZS. I say this primarily on the strength of the author’s worldbuilding: compared to the world of MDZS, the world of this series is much more detailed and thought out, and the plot certainly feels a lot more complex and expansive than the plot of MDZS.

As I’ve mentioned in reviews for the previous volumes, the way the plot interacts with the romance between Chang Geng and Gu Yun is done very well, though now at the end of the series I find that the characters are largely static in their development after events midway through the fourth volume. While there’s nothing wrong with characters not developing much past a certain point in a series, it does show that a lot of their romance is driven by things that happen to them. Fortunately this is a minor issue in the overall scheme of things, though I did finding myself raising an eyebrow at how often Chang Geng’s schemes seemed to fall perfectly into place.

Another concern that readers might miss is how the author portrays the Celestial Wolf tribes: that is to say, with very little nuance. Which, all right, makes sense when one remembers that the whenever the reader encounters a character or characters from the tribes they are often seen through the eyes of people from Great Liang, who are more likely to think of them in derogatory stereotypes because of the antagonistic relationship between the two nations. But if one considers this portrayal in light of the fact that Great Liang wants to colonize the tribes’ territories in order to gain access to its vast reserves of violet gold, that alters the character of that antagonism. From that perspective, the tribes can be viewed as indigenous peoples fighting to maintain their freedom and their rights to their lands, which are coveted by a foreign power who see those lands solely through the lens of resource extraction.

Unfortunately, this angle is not one that’s portrayed clearly in the novel, or at least, the Great Liang characters who talk about it don’t see anything wrong with their country’s colonial project. Similarly troubling is the utter silence at the end of series, implying the fate of the Celestial Wolf tribes and the fate of their lands. Readers who aren’t conscious of the nature of colonialism will likely miss this angle, but other readers - especially those who are aware of China’s aggressive activities in the West Philippine Sea - will pick it up fairly easily, and will view both Great Liang and the Celestial Wolf tribes through different eyes.

The same can be said for the portrayal of the people from the Dongying islands, which is clearly a stand-in for Japan. Constantly portrayed as conniving and treacherous, the lack of nuance for their portrayal is more stark compared to how the Celestial Wolf tribes are portrayed. Considering the deep cultural enmity between China and Japan as a result of Japan’s imperialistic stance before and during World War 2, I suppose it’s not difficult to see why they would be painted as the villains in this fantasy world.

However, even with these pitfalls in mind, this volume and the series as a whole are immensely entertaining and fun to read. While a lot of that is down to the author, credit must be given to the translators as well. I’m not entirely sure if they’re amateurs or professional translators, but either way they have done an excellent job. It also makes me wonder if the larger SFF imprints will eventually pick up danmei works and translate them; it’ll be interesting to see someone like Ken Liu, for instance, who is both a genre author and a translator, work on a danmei series and see what someone with more professional translation experience can do.

Overall, this series was a great read, and definitely a step up from my previous experience reading MDZS. It’s unfortunate that this series doesn’t get the same universal love as MDZS, since its strong worldbuilding and expansive and layered plot would definitely appeal to readers of more mainstream SFF, who might consider the romance a nice bonus but not the most important thing about the story. While this series is not without its issues, thematically, it is still a thoroughly entertaining experience and worth losing a few days of one’s life in.

Ahh, why does this read like the last book in the series? Maybe it is? It wouldn’t be surprising, given how long this series has gone on.

But of all the ways this series could end, ending it on what is essentially Part 2 of Illium and Aodhan’s romance is probably one of the best ways to do it. There was a tentative beginning to them in Archangel’s Light, but between all the things that were happening in that book, both to them as people and to the world at large, there really wasn’t a lot of time for them to REALLY get into the healing process, especially Aodhan.

Fortunately, this book expands on that, showing how the events of previous books have affected the two main characters, both as individuals and as a couple. The story delves into the growth of their relationship, and how it has affected not only themselves, but the people around them - and, of course, the future. Everyone gets the ending they deserve, but this novel has a certain kind of bittersweetness to it because it’s a reminder that all of Raphael’s Seven (and Raphael himself) have survived, and are all happily settled.

Readers who have followed this series know of the kind of trauma Aodhan has faced, as well as Illium’s own troubles, and will probably have wondered how those issues will rear their ugly heads, and how that will affect their relationship. Well, in this novel those issues DO come up, but more importantly, the trust and love that Illium and Aodhan have in each other ensures that said issues do NOT damage their relationship in any way. It’s not an EASY road to take, and most of the characters who appear in this novel all agree that it is NEVER going to be easy, but what matters is that Illium and Aodhan have each other’s backs, no matter what. Romantic love doesn’t fix everything, but it certainly goes a long way towards helping someone heal.

Overall, this was a lovely way to conclude Blue and Adi’s arc: a love story that was pretty long in the making of the series. And with the conclusion of their story concludes (to some degree) the story of Raphael and his Seven. While there have been books in the series that have explored the stories of other vampires, angels, and archangels outside of Raphael and his confidantes, this book can pretty much be considered an end to the series as a whole. If more books come out, then they will be a bonus; either way, this entire series was a wonderful ride, and it’ll definitely be one of those I reread when I feel the urge to revisit the characters and the world.

And the action continues! The siege of the capital might have ended, but now everyone has to deal with the fallout, as intrigue and betrayals come to the fore in the most interesting ways.

As always, Chang Geng and Gu Yun’s relationship is a main feature of this volume, but it almost takes a back seat to the extraordinary plot events occurring around them, most of which spring from actions either of them choose or do not choose to take. Other characters become prominent in their own way, with Shen Yi, Chen Qingxu, and Cao Chunhua all getting a chance to shine. These characters coming to the fore shows not just how expansive the plot has become, but also how Chang Geng and Gu Yun are not alone in their endeavors, and how they rely on their friends in all walks of life to help them achieve their goals.

And in Chang Geng’s case those goals are quite lofty: nothing less than the total transformation of Great Liang’s society, from top to bottom. Most of this has already been hinted at in the previous volume, but it is only on this volume that Chang Geng reveals the true scope of his goal - and, importantly, his primary motivation. While it’s true that his desire to change his country for the better comes from a genuine love for his people, there is another, more personal reason driving him forward that the reader has probably already guessed from previous volumes, but which only really gets articulated in this one.

Despite their individual prowess, though, Chang Geng and Gu Yun’s relationship does meet challenges in this novel. From the viciousness of court politics and the strictures imposed on both of them by society at large, there is also the danger of war, and their own individual, physical afflictions. Gu Yun is still trying to deal with the physical effects of the poison from his young adulthood, while Chang Geng has the wu’ergu to contend with. All of these things come into play in this volume, and create drama and friction between the two lovebirds even as they try to hold the country together. This is the kind of romantic story that I, personally, find most entertaining: when the development of the romance is integrated into a larger, overarching plot, while also having to deal with interpersonal turmoil.

One thing that did somewhat trouble me, though, and which has troubled me in previous volumes, is the way the Celestial Wolf Tribes are characterized. Most readers will likely see the parallels between the Celestial Wolf Tribes and the Mongolian peoples, and it’s quite clear that the author is not exactly painting them in the most flattering light. There is some nuance, but it is clear that some (state education-ingrained?) biases remain. All authors have biases, regardless of where they are born and how they are educated, but in this case, it is good for the reader to keep in mind who the author is and where she is from, and considering the kind of education she may have received regarding the native peoples of Mongolia.

Overall, though, this volume was just as fun to read as the previous ones. As the plot expands, more and more characters come to the forefront and get their time to shine, even as that same plots brings tension and turmoil to Chang Geng and Gu Yun’s relationship. Given the conclusion of this volume, though, it’s clear that all these events are the beginning of the end, and it is highly likely that the final volume will be explosive - and, hopefully, have a happy ending.

Well, THAT was quite the ride, for sure. The novel’s not exactly what most people would think of as horror right off the bat. It IS a horror novel, don’t get me wrong, it just takes a while for that horror to present itself in a clear way. For most of the novel the horror exists as a kind of constantly present unease, usually shown in little details that the reader might gloss over unless one is paying attention. But if the reader is paying attention, all the little details coalesce into something that lingers just out of reach until the end of the novel, when it all comes together in a way that isn’t scary, per se, but chilling. Which is something I enjoyed, personally, as that feeling tends to linger after the story has ended.

None of the above would really work, though, if it weren’t for the quality of the writing. I know I’m reading in this in translation, since the original work is in Polish, so it is VERY much to Lloyd-Jones’s credit as translator that the prose reads as beautifully and compellingly as it does. It really shows why Tokarczuk was awarded the Nobel Prize: the way the writing flows in some places, and lingers in others, work to capture luminous moments of beauty - but also, to create moments that disturb the reader too, creating that sense of foreboding that really drives home that this is a horror novel. The beauty of the prose also helps to hold the narrative together, especially when it becomes seemingly fragmented and a bit hard to parse.

The beauty of the prose comes through not only in the descriptions, but especially in the characterization of Mieczysław Wojnicz. He reads as passive for the protagonist, maybe TOO passive for some readers, but his passivity feels interesting, almost relatable in some places. The relatability comes through most strongly as the reader comes to understand his past, which is told via flashbacks scattered throughout the narrative, showing the kind of upbringing he had and how that contributes to his reluctance to get into conflicts of any sort.

However, this desire to avoid conflict doesn’t mean that Wojnicz is spineless; quite the opposite in fact, as he has some deeply-held convictions that he might not put out as strongly as the other, more forceful characters do, but he holds onto them nonetheless and finds ways to live by them as much as he can, given his circumstances. His way of pushing back against the world in more subtle, less forceful ways was something I found enjoyable to read about.

As for the other characters, most of them were used as vehicles for depicting the absolutely HORRENDOUS sociopolitical views that permeated the cultural milieu of 19th to early 20th century European thought - traces of which, sadly, are on the rise in the current period, especially misogyny. There were MANY moments when I wanted to strangle several characters for their beliefs, which they go over repeatedly throughout the novel using some very high-flown language that, in the time period in which this novel is set, would have made those views sound reasonable and logical, even though they (hopefully) ring utterly false to the reader.

Which leads me to the novel’s themes. There are plenty that the reader might be able to tease out of this novel, but the big one definitely has to do with the nature of misogyny, and how deeply it distorts the worldview of those who subscribe to it. While this idea might not be anything new, the way it is iterated and framed in this novel is very interesting, especially when tying it into the historical period in which the novel is set, as well as when it addresses just how DEEPLY misogyny runs in Western culture. This is most clearly shown in the other characters around Wojnicz: not only in the things they talk about, but in the lies and hypocrisies that they try to hide, but which are eventually revealed. Because if misogyny is anything, it is a philosophy built on hypocrisy and lies, and not on anything resembling truth.

Sadly, it is also a worldview that runs deep in not just European, but in all of Western culture. In the Author’s Notes the author lists down the sources of all the misogynistic ideas put forth by the characters in the novel, and the list reads like a collection of the Western world’s most influential thinkers and writers. Unless this reality is acknowledged and addressed, it will continue to remain a feature in Western culture, much to its detriment.

Does this mean, then, that the novel offers feminism as a solution to the aforementioned problem of misogyny’s hold on Western culture? Not necessarily: the novel doesn’t present feminism as an antidote, which I think is a good thing given how it is too easy to slip into a dangerous radical feminism that is no different from misogyny in the first place. Instead, the novel advocates an embrace of the feminine, as opposed to rejecting it. This is illustrated primarily in Wojnicz’s story arc; I won’t go into it here due to spoilers, but suffice to say that Wojnicz embracing the feminine alters the trajectory of his life for the better - and the rejection of the feminine leads some other characters to suffer some rather dark fates.

Another idea the novel puts forth is the value of nuance. In a conversation between Wojnicz and another character, the author basically uses said character as a mouthpiece for the idea that trying to comprehend the world through a more nuanced lens, and then accepting that complexity, is the key to all the good things that a person might want out of life and the world at large. While it does feel a lot less subtle than everything else the author was trying to accomplish with this novel, it DOES show just how important this idea is that the author basically had to spell it out for the reader. While I, personally, don’t think this was necessary, since trying to approach anything with a nuanced view SHOULD be the default, I can’t really say the author’s wrong about spelling this out. With the rise of a certain type of reader (and by this I mean: anyone who engages with a story, no matter the medium in which that story is presented) who cannot seem to draw the line between fiction and the real world, basically dictating to them that nuance is important might actually be the way to get it into their skulls, especially given the kind of content this novel has.

Overall, this was a pretty amazing read. It is very much a horror novel, but one that goes by slowly, focusing more on atmosphere to create a sense of building dread for the reader and building up on it until the novel’s climax. This is accomplished through the novel’s exquisite prose, which not only breathes life into the characters and the setting, but also sets the stage for a pointed indictment of misogyny, and how that most miserable of philosophies destroys everything it touches, from individuals to entire nations. Some readers might be put off by the pace and by the truly odious rantings of some of the characters, but those who push through will be rewarded with some interesting food for thought about how they view the world and how to approach it.

Oh my gods, but this was H O T! I have a marked preference for historical and urban fantasy/paranormal romances because the people who got me into the genre recced those kinds of books to me first, but I thought I'd give contemporary romance a shot to see if I'd like it. Since I already adore Singh's Guild Hunter novels, I figured giving a series written by her would be a good way to dip my toes into this corner of Romancelandia.

And wow. WOW. I wasn't sure what I was getting into when I decided to pick this up, but I am SO GLAD i chose to give it a try! Fox and Molly's story was squeeworthy and blush-worthy (whoo boy, was it ever!) but I kind of found myself wishing there was a bit more insight into the music industry than was depicted in this novel. TBF though, that's probably just because I'm coming from a historical/urban fantasy frame of reference for this sort of thing, so that's not a huge problem. Of greater concern would probably be how controlling Fox is depicted as being in this novel. Nothing truly objectionable happens, but there were moments that had my eyebrows going up a wee bit. But apart from that, this novel is smoking hot and I'm going to have to get the rest of the books in the series because WOW.

Okay, so. Not a very action-packed (so to speak) read, which is perfectly fine given what the story’s about, but a story that is very rich in TENSION. This is created by having the story told entirely from the perspective of one character (Lomeli), whose head the reader inhabits for the duration of the novel, so that the reader only knows what Lomeli knows, and sees their inner thoughts and concerns. It also helps that Lomeli’s primary characteristic - at least for a huge majority of the novel - is doubt. I actually like that his primary characteristic is doubt: of himself, his fellow cardinals, the dead Pope, the Church, and sometimes even God, though he’s quick to scold himself for that last one. It makes Lomeli approachable, if not necessarily relatable.

I also really liked how the novel showcases the Church as a bureaucracy in its own right, along with ALL the problems that come with being a bureaucracy - especially one as far-reaching and, frankly, MASSIVE as the Catholic Church. Throughout the novel Lomeli tries to believe that the Church serves God and is guided by God, but is constantly smacked in the face with the reality that, while this MAY be true to some extent, the Church is also a very human organization, with very human concerns.

That’s one of the things this novel does best, actually: portraying the Church as HUMAN. Sure, it can be great, and it can be a force for good, but it’s also got some darker aspects to it, and depending on the people running it, it can be a force for evil too. This is most clearly portrayed by Lomeli (who doubts, and doubts, and doubts), but also by the initial leading contenders for the papacy, as well as some of the other cardinals: Tutino, for instance, who was caught in a scandal for expanding his apartments. Or Courtemarche, the French cardinal who is also a fucking Holocaust denier. The Church is diverse, yes, and it is both a weakness and a strength.

Speaking of diversity, the way that’s represented in the novel is interesting. It’s clear that the cardinals come from all different parts of the world, but it’s also clear who holds the most influence - and it is NOT the Third World cardinals, despite their congregations being larger in terms of population. Tedesco points this out in the novel’s first third, in what I call his “Why Rome?” dialogue, and he does have a very good point about the representational imbalance - even if his overall point is to consider this imbalance a hostile attack on Rome’s supremacy, instead of a problem that may need to be addressed.

Which leads me to something I think was missed in the novel, but has lingered on the edges of my mind while reading: the WHY of the Church’s diversity. All the non-European cardinals are from countries that were colonized by European powers, and then forced to accept Catholicism; apart from the North American cardinals (who are, incidentally, mostly white), the cardinals from Asia, Latin America, and Africa all have less power in the Church. I can understand why this wasn’t addressed directly in the novel, and frankly I wouldn’t quite trust the author to do it, given that he is a white British man, but it’s definitely something more readers of this book and viewers of the movie might want to think about.

There is also the question of gender representation in the Church - and by that I don’t refer only to the most obvious one when it comes to this novel, but also to the way women are portrayed and discussed in the story. From the “invisible” nuns functioning as cooks and housekeepers for the cardinals, all the way to the female victims of gang wars, actual wars, and rape who are Cardinal Benitez’s primary flock: the relationship of the Church with women is something that runs as an undercurrent throughout the novel, and, like so many things about the Church, isn’t quite addressed. There is a moment in the novel when Bellini contemplates how he might address this if he becomes Pope, and is quickly shot down by his supporters, who say that putting forward such “radical” ideas will ruin his chances at the papacy. The fact that his view is deemed so radical it could damage his reputation is something that more readers can stand to think about - and, given the current political climate, one that’s very relevant to the real world.

As for the movie, I haven’t seen it, but I HAVE seen the fandom love for it, and it makes me wonder how much it differs from the book. I suspect that the interpersonal relationships between the cardinals are portrayed much more intensely in the movie, which would make sense given that the film audience can’t necessarily hear what’s going on in the characters’ heads the same way they can see into Lomeli’s thoughts in the book, so there’s probably a dramatic oomph there that the novel, sadly, doesn’t quite portray as well. I’m aware that the movie has altered characters and included scenes that aren’t in the book (like the turtle scene), but that it doesn’t otherwise deviate much from the book’s original intent and themes. It’d be interesting to compare the two.

Overall, this novel provides some fascinating insight into the inner workings of the Catholic Church during one of its most important events: the election of a new Pope. Through the eyes of the doubter, Cardinal Lomeli, the Church is portrayed as grandly good, deeply flawed, and very, VERY human. While I wish that some aspects had been explored more deeply (such as the relationship between the Church’s seeming diversity and Europe’s colonial history), what is indeed explored, or at least briefly tackled, is relevant not only to those interested in understanding how the Catholic Church works, but to anyone who wants to see how the world at large can influence an institution that claims to be guided solely by a higher power.

OKAY, so! This was a pretty entertaining read, at least initially. The author does a decent job of portraying Griffin as a genuine fish out of water in the modern world, and the details about medieval life that his character tackles seem to align with what’s historically known about the period, so: that part’s not half-bad.

As for the rest of the story, well… That’s where things fall apart a bit. The love story’s all well and good, of course, but it’s all pretty standard for this sort of story, and isn’t all that gripping. Not to say it’s a bad love story, it’s just…bland, I guess? Part of the reason might be that Emily and Griffin just aren’t very intriguing characters, which is kind of a pity because I can easily imagine them being so; they just didn’t feel as fleshed out as I think they could have been in this book. What characterization there is, is enough for a romance to happen between them, and for that romance to be a mildly entertaining read, but aside from that, there’s not a lot there. Even the moments of drama between them aren’t interesting enough for me to linger, so I just glossed over them quickly to get to the next bit in the story, and found I hadn’t missed much by way of plot or detail in doing so.

Which is kind of a pity, to be honest, because I wanted this romance to be interesting. I know I picked it up for a fun bit of escapism but it really isn’t the kind of romance to keep me hooked. I guess there’s a reason I put it aside so easily when Dragon Age: The Veilguard came out and didn’t really think to pick it up again until now: no compelling reason to keep on reading to see how the romance turned out.

Another sad thing about this novel is that everything else around the romance is pretty engaging, but it doesn’t get put front and center or developed beyond a certain point because that’s not the point of this story. Emily’s work at the museum, for instance, was something I read about with interest. I was also fascinated by her co-workers - yes, even surly Laurie. I was also intrigued by her boss, Jason, and the nature of his work. There’s a whole other story there, I’m sure, and it’s the kind of story that I’d enjoy reading. Even Aaron and his work would be fun to read about. But sadly, given that these are all incidental pieces to the main event that is the romance, there’s not a very high chance that those stories will ever get expanded on, which, in my opinion, is a pity.

Overall, this is a story that’s functional, but I wouldn’t call it a story that lingers with the reader. I didn’t get an urge to finish it until very recently, which might not be fair, given that it was competing with a video game from a franchise I absolutely adore, but even before I paused reading it in favor of playing Veilguard it already had a tenuous hold on my attention. As a bit of fluffy fun, it’s fine, but isn’t any more demanding than that. Many readers - even ardent readers of romance and romcoms - will likely put this aside once something else genuinely riveting comes their way.

My review of The Shadow of the Empire (Judge Dee Investigation #1) by Qiu Xiaolong is now live! Technically sound in that all the plot points work together fine, but lacks any kind of genuine flair that lets it stick in the reader's mind after finishing it. The quoted poetry is great though.

Full review here: https://kamreadsandrecs.tumblr.com/post/767450948900618240/title-the-shadow-of-the-empire-judge-dee

My review of Echo by Thomas Olde Heuvelt, trans. Moshe Gilula is now live! The narrative's a bit confusing at times, but it's otherwise a solid horror novel. Might also be a monsterfucker romance, where the monster is REALLY monstrous but that's just me.

Full review here: https://kamreadsandrecs.tumblr.com/post/766843858120212480/title-echo-author-thomas-olde-heuvelt-trans

Overall, this was a fascinating read, if occasionally confusing when names and timelines get a bit tangled. Despite that though, the story the author lays out shines a little light on the complexities of the antiquities trade, as well as the dangers of engaging in said trade without proper expertise or support. It also tackles the imperialist history of said trade, and how it supported theft on a grand scale of valuable cultural and historical items both in the past and into the present, and likely in the future as well. It also sheds some light on how American evangelical Christians are participating in the antiquities trade in order to shape a historical narrative more aligned with their view of the world - something which needs to be watched very closely and carefully, because if current US politics are anything to go by, these are the last people whom anyone would want shaping the historical narrative on ANYTHING.

Full review here: https://kamreadsandrecs.tumblr.com/post/765845558958194688/title-stolen-fragments-black-markets-bad-faith

A novel where the (admittedly entertaining) mysteries were more scaffolding around which the characters could be built, and upon which to articulate the novel's main theme: how money and privilege let the wealthy get away with (metaphorical and literal) murder.

Full review at blog.