Review: Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s ‘The Beautiful Ones’

★★★★☆

This 290-page novel is a romance with a pinch of fantasy thrown in. Though it deals with themes of deception, betrayal and heartbreak, it is nevertheless a dose of pretty-people-in-pretty-places escapism.

Nina Beaulieu, 19, is new to Loisail, where she is experiencing her first Grand Season. The glamorous parties of the city’s wealthy and beautiful were supposed to be a chance to find her Prince Charming, but her rustic ways have made it difficult for her to fit into the cosmopolitan circles that her guardian cousin and his elegant wife frequent. Nina also has her ‘talent’ to contend with, which sends crockery flying across the room and shakes books off their shelves whenever she loses her composure.

Hector Auvray also has a telekinetic ability, one so perfected that it has taken him around the world as a touring performer. A rags-to-riches success story, but heartbroken, he has come to Loisail in search of his one true love, the beautiful woman who promised she would wait for him, then didn’t.

Young, trusting and naïve, Nina is ill-prepared to navigate the passions and pains of falling for a man with a complicated, unresolved past, but each passing day tangles Hector deeper in his own web of romantic deception. Will Nina’s love steer him from disaster, or will he remain caught by the spell of the woman who has always held him in her power, and who wants him to break his young friend’s heart?

“You said you wrote me a letter,” he told her. “What did it say?”

“Nothing important.”

“Nina, please,” he said knowing instinctively that it was important. And there was a coldness to her eyes, which had been gentle and honest. There were seeds of disappointment in the curve of her mouth, melancholy in her movements where before he’d only ever found a vibrant joy of the world.

Hector knew what she’d written. Not the words but the meaning. It was engraved in the space between them.

Though not particularly complex, The Beautiful Ones is a touching, heartfelt love story. It is fairly chaste (kisses and cut-to-black), but no less passionate for it. Together with the setting, the focus on manners and matters of honour lends a charming, old-fashioned vibe. If you enjoyed the writing style in Mexican Gothic, this book is similarly gorgeous to read. Like Noemí, though not as forthright, Nina is a passionate woman who lives life true to her heart. The two books are very different in tone, however – The Beautiful Ones lacks the darker, horror element that gives Mexican Gothic its edge.

Towards the end, I did find myself wishing that this book had a few more teeth. I liked its conflicts and the characters’ growth, but I found the ending a bit too tidy, and there are few passages of hammy description that lose some of the novel’s power as an illustration of the bittersweet perspective that comes from heartbreak.

I also think the book would have been a better one had Valérie been a more complex and well-rounded antagonist. As Nina’s rival in love, she is a naturally unsympathetic character, but I don’t think it was necessary for her to be written as such a pantomime villain. Particularly in the chapters that show us Valérie’s thoughts and motivations, things feel a little cartoonish.

Overall however, I did thoroughly enjoy this book. Far too much to rate it any lower. I absolutely love the lush, verdant quality of Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s writing, and will definitely continue to work my way through the rest of her books.

Review: John Wiswell’s ‘Someone You Can Build a Nest In’ (ARC)

★★★★☆

My reviews are always unbiased, but in the interest of transparency please note I received a free copy of this book ahead of its publication (DAW – 2nd April, 2024).

We’re barely out of February, but if this book isn’t my weirdest read of the year, I’ll need to spend some time reflecting on my life choices. A highly unorthodox fantasy romance, Someone You Can Build a Nest In is a thoroughly enjoyable, accomplished debut. Equal parts humour, sweetness and gory bloodthirst, this 300-page romp in the woods delivers a love story as strange as it is delightful.

Shesheshen is an amorphous, shapeshifting monster who survives by eating humans and using their bones and organs to sculpt her body into whatever form best suits the search for fresh prey. Born inside her father’s corpse, which she ate, together with her two siblings, who she also ate, Shesheshen is merciless, and motivated by nothing besides her insatiable appetite for human flesh.

Even the most terrifying monsters have their nuances, however. Catch Shesheshen at the right moment, and she might leave your eyes in your skull, at least for the moment.

Homily, a passing human, is lucky enough to stumble upon Shesheshen whilst our creature of darkest nightmare lies half-dead at the bottom of a gorge, too weak to attack anyone. In this unsuspecting (and juicy-looking) woman, Shesheshen has her first encounter with a human whose qualities include some basic humanity. After some tended wounds and TLC, Shesheshen takes the path of gratitude, choosing not to immediately devour this strange new acquaintance. And they say romance is dead.

Of course, love is never a story without a few challenges to overcome, and there are certainly some difficult conversations that need to be had when your species reproduces in the parasitoid manner of the Ichnuemon wasp (find a host, insert eggs, then watch one’s ravenous larvae devour said host from within). Also, there’s the small fact that Homily’s entire family are hunting Shesheshen, eager to stab out her heart. They are in for a disappointment if they catch her – the only organs she has, she stole – but still.

You would be forgiven for thinking that a book with such a bizarre premise is not worth taking seriously, but Someone You Can Build a Nest In is a more thought-provoking read than it might seem. It discusses the relationship between love and trauma in surprising depth. A fantasy (borderline horror) romance is not where I would have looked to find psychological complexity, but this book confidently tackles some challenging topics. Self-sacrifice, boundaries and bodily autonomy are all presented here with nuance. Though the narrative voice is more funny than philosophical, the author manages to convey some genuine wisdom about unconventional forms of love and what it means to be in a healthy relationship.

At 300 pages, this is a fairly short read. All very well, but it does lead to my one quibble, which is that I felt certain conflicts were resolved too quickly. To describe Shesheshen as inhuman is an understatement – Wiswell commits to a sense of ‘otherness’ on every level of his protagonist’s characterisation. Many would say that true love means loving a person for all that they are, but it is one thing to embrace a person’s little imperfections, quite another to take the murderous appetites of a truly monstrous predator in one’s stride. Personally, I felt Homily would have been a more well-rounded character had she struggled more (or at all) with the truths of Shesheshen’s nature. The ease of her acceptance made me wonder if she could truly see her strange lover, and whether she actually wanted to.

As a reading genre, I rarely have much luck with romance, so I was pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoyed this book. It is a little trashy, but mostly in a good way. I liked the dark humour and the genuine conflicts standing between Shesheshen and Homily and their happy ending – miscommunication is not the only thing these characters need to overcome.

Overall, Someone You Can Build a Nest In is a fun, funny and surprisingly moving novel. There is a lot more here than the novelty of oddness. It is weird read, no two ways about it, but easily one of my favourites so far this year. I will be on the lookout for this author’s next book!

Review: Daphne du Maurier’s ‘Jamaica Inn’

★★★★☆

Rating rounded up from 3.75 stars. Jamaica Inn (1936) is a deliciously atmospheric book. Though it can in some ways be described as a psychological thriller, this novel is also a piece of gothic fiction, a window into Cornwall’s dark past and, at a pinch, a historical romance.

It is the early 19th century, and Mary Yellan, 23, has been cast adrift by the death of her widowed mother. With the family farm swallowed up by debtors, and with no local relatives to rely upon, Mary has no choice but to leave her native Helford, travelling to live with Aunt Patience at her husband’s inn on Bodmin Moor. Upon arrival, Mary realises that her uncle’s establishment is not a respectable business, but a front for illegal smuggling, skulduggery, and worse.

Joss Merlyn’s abuses have reduced Aunt Patience to cowed misery, leaving Mary on her own when it comes to thwarting his criminal schemes. A large, intimidating man, inclined to drink and violence, Uncle Joss is a genuinely scary antagonist. As Mary pits herself against this volatile Goliath, we cannot avoid an acute sense of her young, female vulnerability. Du Maurier handles this tension with expert hands, building it with each interaction. Mary is brave and determined, but we are constantly aware that she stands on a dangerous precipice.

The man would not commit himself. “I don’t want to make trouble,” he repeated, “and I don’t know anything. It’s only what people say. Respectable folk don’t go to Jamaica anymore. That’s all I know. In the old days we used to water the horses there, and feed them, and go in for a bit of a bite and drink. But we don’t stop there anymore. We whip the horses past and wait for nothing, not till we get to Five Lanes, and then we don’t bide long.”

There is a harshness to this book. It has sharp edges. Even when it comes to love, the portrayal is rough and uncompromising. Mary’s romantic arc pushes and challenges her more than it comforts and heals. This does help her to grow, and there is a certain honesty in the relationship’s raw, human imperfection, but this is not a love story that offers its characters, or the reader, any sanctuary.

In the height of its smuggler era, Cornwall was no romantic holiday destination. Large parts of this rural county were a brutal wilderness, and the book reflects this on every level. One of the greatest challenges of historical fiction is making the sufferings of history feel real to a modern audience, particularly when that suffering has been heavily romanticised by fictional representations. I can think of few historic professions that have been given a more rose-tinted makeover than smuggling and piracy, but Du Maurier manages to summon a distant past with impressive potency. Jamaica Inn never indulges the notion that its smugglers are roguish knaves. Instead, the author uses these villains to conjure the unvarnished truths of a harder, more dangerous time, conveying a visceral sense of the era’s worst horrors.

In its gothic eeriness, Jamaica Inn certainly foreshadows Du Maurier’s most famous novel, Rebecca, which was published two years later. When comparing the two, few would dispute that Rebecca is the author’s true masterpiece, but Jamaica Inn is a surprisingly good read in its own right, making a strong display of Du Maurier’s talent for setting and atmosphere.

The main reason I am relucant to give this book the full fourth star is Aunt Patience’s anaemic characterisation. The book also feels a bit rushed towards the end, and I did not find its ultimate plot twist all that convincing. Despite this, however, I would still recommend this novel to anyone who likes gothic historical literature. With unusual characters, psychological relationships and evocative descriptions, Jamaica Inn is a distinctive, memorable read.

“Why are you sitting here beside me then?”

“Because I want to; because I must; because now and forever more this is where I belong to be.”

Review: Bonnie Garmus’ ‘Lessons in Chemistry’

★★★☆☆

Lessons in Chemistry is an incredibly slick, polished novel. Tastefully done and, as the cover says, stylish, the 390 pages slide down very easily. Set in the early 1960s, the narrative follows a gifted scientist, Elizabeth Zott. A genius, passionate about her work on abiogenesis (the theory that life spawned from nonlife forms), she has no shortage of talent and drive. Career success is no easy feat for a woman navigating a man’s world, however, and Elizabeth’s love for science is often challenged by the sexist derision of her male colleagues.

A confident homage to second wave feminism, Lessons in Chemistry is a reminder of everything this movement fought for. Nowadays – at least in most of America and Europe – equal pay for equal work is a given. In much of the West, it is no longer remarkable for women to have careers, nor for men to play an active and enthusiastic role in childcare. Looking back on a time when this was far from the case shows us how women’s rights have progressed in the last half-century. Elizabeth is not based on any historical figure in particular, but she embodies the courage of a generation of women who dared to push for fundamental changes to the status quo. In this sense, the book is an uplifting, triumphant read.

Unfortunately, the narrative is made rather shallow by the fact that Garmus does not explore the reasons why second wave feminism has had its day. Indeed, the book papers over the common criticisms of the movement (chiefly, its failure to recognise that sexism is not experienced by all women in the same way) by borrowing some ideas from third wave feminism, which did not take off until the 90s. This creates the impression that Elizabeth is something of a time traveller, sent back to fight racial discrimination, even fatphobia, in an era when most white feminists did not consider these issues part of the conversation.

“Look,” he said, “life has never been fair, and yet you continue to operate as if it is – as if once you get a few wrongs straightened out, everything else will fall into place. They won’t. You want my advice?” And before she could say no, he added, “Don’t work the system. Outsmart it.”

She sat silently, weighing his words. They made annoying sense in a terribly unfair way.

Lessons in Chemistry is well-written, and has one or two scenes that pack a gut-wrenching punch. I do think at this point we as a society are having much more nuanced conversations about feminism than Garmus engages with, however. The way that Elizabeth is always right, and the way any man who challenges her is presented as a complete pig, feels blunt and reductive. And that is without mentioning the novel’s graphic rape scene, which is ghastly. There is an argument to be made that sexual violence is a topic worth writing about, but this book handles the issue with all the sensitivity of a mallet to the teeth.

The book also struggles with the idea that people can be more than one thing. Elizabeth is a scientist, but there is no need to remember that, since the book reminds us in every conversation she ever has. Our protagonist has no other character traits or interests. After a while, it feels like Elizabeth simply embodies the phrase ‘anything he can do, she can do better’. This extends from eviscerating all men on an intellectual level to one-upping male athletes at their own game without even trying. Naturally, Elizabeth is also drop-dead gorgeous, despite having no interest in her appearance – the book seems to fear any ‘girly’ behaviour would somehow damage her feminist credentials. Always composed, always correct, always perfect, she is like all protagonists who have attractive quirks instead of actual flaws: tiresome.

It is probably just as well that the book features the perspectives of some other characters. This includes Elizabeth’s wunderkind daughter, Madeline, and the observations of their dog, Six-thirty. Madeline is four, but written like an extremely mature ten-year-old. Exceptionally intelligent and perceptive on both an intellectual and emotional level, she understands and empathises with her mother’s struggles, no need for a conversation. An adoring mini-me is a cute idea, but anyone who has ever spent any time around children will recognise this as a wistful fantasy. Personally, I think it would have been more true to life, and far more interesting, to see Elizabeth challenged by a daughter with no interest in science, or by a tearaway son with no inclination towards feminist values.

“I know,” Madeline said, swiping her hand under her nose, “but that’s why I’m sad, Mom. Because you belong in a lab. But instead you make dinner on TV and… and… and it’s because of me.”

“No,” Elizabeth said gently. “Not true. Every parent has to earn a living. It’s part of being an adult.”

“But you’re not in a lab specifically because of me.”

The novel’s overall tone is bold and upbeat, celebrating women’s often undervalued contribution to STEM. There is a certain arrogance, however, particularly when the book discusses issues beyond the sphere of gender rights. Most noticeable is the high-handed stance on religion. Lessons in Chemistry presents Christianity as a corrupt syndicate of narrow-minded bigots who only need a good dose of logic to be cured of their silly delusions. There is no acknowledgement that religion offers some people a place of emotional refuge in times of desperate suffering. The book also seemingly fails to grasp the simple fact that whilst there are certainly intolerant people who ground their intolerance in religion, not all intolerant people are religious. Though I am no churchgoer, I found this book’s pro-atheism stance ironically preachy. Simply put, to tar all believers with the same brush is nothing but (pardon the pun) bad faith.

As Elizabeth is forced to give up her scientific career in favour of a TV personality role (the fact that she has zero enthusiasm does not stop her from being a huge success, of course), we feel her pain, and the pain of the thousands of women who have shouldered the brunt of parenthood at the expense of other life goals. Again, things are simpler than they should be, however, because the book holds itself back from tackling any difficult truths about parental responsibility and sacrifice in the context of single parenthood. Mighty convenient is the friendly neighbour who would be delighted to provide full-time childcare, for free…

To sum, Lessons in Chemistry seems stuck between hard-hitting historical fiction and romanticised fantasy. In a way the narrative channels both, but unhappily. A very impressive debut in terms of the quality of writing and clean presentation, it is nonetheless a bit thin on overall credibility. When it comes to the theme of historical discrimination in STEM, I think Hidden Figures offers much more to think about.

Review: Garth Nix’s ‘Terciel and Elinor’ (#6 The Old Kingdom)

★★★★☆

At the close of Goldenhand, my sentiments towards the prospect of another chapter in this series were lukewarm to say the least, but it seems I had enough space in my heart for one final visit to the Old Kingdom. Terciel and Elinor is another prequel, taking place a long time after Clariel, but still some years before the events of Sabriel. Given that Sabriel’s mother remained dead and nameless throughout the rest of the series, and we never got to know her father beyond his role as an Abhorsen on the way out, it seems fair to say that no one asked for a book about our favourite necromancer’s parents. Yet, here we are.

Weighing in at just over 400 pages, Terciel and Elinor tips its hat to the other books in the series whilst remaining arguably the most standalone among them. True, it utilises the established world-building, and there are Easter eggs for attentive readers to smile at, but the lack of meaningful connection to the characters we know well allows this final installment to breath a last gasp of new life. At book six in any saga, the fatigue of familiar faces and places can be very real, so I was pleased to see the pitfall of familiarity avoided.

Whether you will like this book depends a lot on your expectations. Given Terciel and Elinor’s shared destiny of parenthood, it was inevitable that their story would serve to explore their getting together and getting down to business. I went in with considerable trepidation, since we know very well that Garth Nix’s many talents as a writer do not include the ability to write a good romance. It is a relief that romantic love is not this novel’s focus, or even a major theme. Moon-eyed declarations and bedroom shenanigans are happily confined a few breezy paragraphs in the final act.

“I don’t remember the last time the wind came from the north,” said Elinor. “The servants all think it brings trouble, don’t they?”

“It does,” said Mrs. Watkins. She did not sound at all like her usual self. “I hope not here.”

The main themes of this book are Terciel and Elinor’s individual comings of age. Elinor especially, whose perspective weighs heavier throughout. Getting to know our 19-year-old heroine comes with the burden of already knowing her eventual fate, so there is a definite note of poignancy. Given Sabriel’s utter lack of knowledge about who her mother was as a person, it is a little sad to meet said mother and to find her a sweet and interesting person. It begs the question why Terciel never told Sabriel anything meaningful about Elinor. In hindsight, this withholding of information feels like robbery, and the reasoning behind it goes sadly unexplained.

Given that the book shies away from the complexities of parenthood and grief, I would argue that Terciel and Elinor is the most truly YA book in the series. I think we have to take it that way. Otherwise, it is all very nice, but difficult not to brand as downright lazy.

Again, I think my rating here has been bumped up by favourable comparison to Clariel, because again I do not have a lot to say. Certainly, Terciel and Elinor is not on Sabriel’s level, but it is another decent addition to the series. As a parting comment on The Old Kingdom as a whole, it seems worth remarking on the diminished quality of the newer releases. Generally speaking, the more a writer writes, the better they get at writing, but the especial magic of the original trilogy seems to be something that Nix cannot recapture, despite no lack of trying.

Review: Jane Austen’s ‘Persuasion’

★★★★★

Five stars for this excessively lovely book. Sweet, introspective and nuanced, Persuasion has to be my favourite Austen to date (I’m getting there, but I have yet to work through Mansfield Park and Emma).

We all love headstrong, fiercely independent female protagonists, but I do sometimes find myself lamenting a lack of quiet, introverted women who have a strength of character that is exercised with gentle subtlety. Having always struggled with shyness myself, female characters whose narrative journey is one of finding the courage to shape their own destiny are a type of character I cannot but gravitate towards, on the rare occasions they appear.

Anne Elliot is 27, and all but on the shelf. Neglected by her self-obsessed sisters and frivolous father, she takes little pleasure in her status, which cost her the happiness of her first, and last, flush of romantic love. Unable to weather the disapproval of her friends and family, a young Anne gave up the dashing Captain Frederick Wentworth for the sake of his being viewed by others as too lowly for her station.

Seven years later, and these two once-lovers meet again, only to find their situations reversed. Enriched by a successful naval career, Wentworth returns to shore as a worthy marriage prospect, but not for one such as Anne, the Elliots having fallen on harder times. Older, on lesser means and living with the guilt of having broken young Wentworth’s heart, what can Anne expect of such a momentous reunion? Nothing, you might say. Nothing at all.

I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever.

Persuasion deals with complex emotions. This is much more than a romance rekindled with an old flame, or an enemies-to-lovers arc. It is a story of self-knowing, frustration and regret. More mature than their younger selves, Anne and Wentworth are not lovesick puppies, but wounded individuals navigating the storms of their shared past, both haunted by the ghost of what might have been.

Were seven years of parting nothing but a terrible waste? Given that average life expectancy in the early 1800s hovered somewhere around 40 (source: Statista), it strikes as a particularly terrible blow, and no renewed tenderness can quite subdue the novel’s pathos. I think it is this which gives the book its exceptional depth. Anne and Wentworth return to love having felt the heartbreak of its loss, and with this knowledge comes a deeper appreciation and understanding.

The novel moves at no great pace, and I do think Anne’s terrible family could have been served a meatier slice of comeuppance at the close, but overall, Persuasion is a treat. Complex characters who live predominantly inside their own heads are fascinating, and hard to write well. Austen’s literary mastery in capturing so much feeling in so little dialogue cannot be overstated, and that scene with the letter (be still my heart!) makes this novel one of the most romantic romances of all time.

Review: Vikram Seth’s ‘A Suitable Boy’

★★★★☆

4.5 stars for quite possibly the longest book I have ever read. Weighing in at 1500 pages, A Suitable Boy is not only some serious reading, but a serious workout if it’s the hard copy you find yourself lugging from bed to bus and back again.

This Indian family/social drama, published in 1993, follows 19-year-old Lata Mehra, an English Literature student, as she endures her mother’s well-meaning attempts to hunt down a suitable husband. Set in the 1950s, during India’s early years of independence, the novel also explores the country’s first democratic election, as well as the complexities of post-Partition relations between India’s Muslim and Hindu communities.

With its vein of subtle humour and wealth of social commentary, there is no denying Seth’s style has a Dickensian flavour. A Suitable Boy is much pacier than the average Dickens novel, however, and I never found its vastness wearying. The author brings northwest India’s climates to verdant life with his descriptions, taking us through gardens decked in bougainvillea and the resplendent finery of fiery marigolds. It is a beautiful, evocative read, and though it is one of the longest single volume novels in history, it is surprisingly hard to put down!

Think of many things. Never place your happiness in one person’s power. Be just to yourself.

Another trait this novel shares with the meatier of Dickens’ works is the fact that there are a lot of characters. Lata is one of four siblings, two of whom have spouses, children, and a multitude of in-laws. Connected by friendship, there is also a Muslim contingent of at least ten further individuals. Then there are the politicians, the shoemakers, the university staff, and so on, until we have a list that stretches towards the forever. It might be easy to lose a reader in such a crowd, but Seth does an impressive job of keeping a rein on his extensive cast.

The events of the story challenge Lata’s naturally staid, introverted character with the expression of deep feeling. Though she might be a subdued romantic, Lata’s story is a romance, nonetheless, and a complicated one. As she weighs the merits of her three wildly different suitors: the sensitive scholar, Kabir Durrani, the cynical poet, Amit Chatterjee, and the boldly dressed shoemaker, Haresh Khanna, our heroine must decide what she wants, and what she is prepared to sacrifice for a happy life.

I often find love triangles a struggle. Rare is the romantic narrative which can hide its ultimate destination, and this can render the unsuccessful love rival(s) redundant and pitiable. A Suitable Boy is a rare example in which there is no clear frontrunner. Kabir, Amit and Haresh all bring unique qualities to the table, and each has a different future to offer Lata, making her choice a genuine one, rather than a foregone conclusion.

The secret of life is to accept. Accept happiness, accept sorrow; accept success, accept failure; accept fame, accept disgrace; accept doubt, even accept the impression of certainty.

The novel also has a secondary narrative, which follows Maan Kapoor, the spoilt and irresponsible brother-in-law of Lata’s sister. I must confess, it was this narrative which dissuaded me from a five-star rating. Maan is fundamentally stupid and irritating to read. His idiocy dogs the course of the book, and his failure to learn from his mistakes makes it difficult to muster sympathy, or any sense of surprise, as he careens from disgrace to disaster. In literature, as in life, I consider a lack of character development one of the worst qualities.

That being said, Maan’s plotline does explore the religious tensions between Hindu and Muslim in greater depth than Lata’s story, and I found his friendship with Firoz suitably poignant, so I think my issue is with the character, rather than Seth’s writing.

Considering how long the novel is, it seems strange to say that I wish there was a little more detail, but there a few things I would have liked to see elaborated. In particular, there is a sinister interaction between Lata and her uncle, Mr Sahgal, which I felt the novel did not resolve. Also, Lata’s eventual matrimonial choice was a surprise to me. Given how sudden her decision seemed, I wonder if I missed certain cues, perhaps as a result of cultural dissonance.

To conclude, A Suitable Boy is most certainly a book worth making the time for. For anyone who has ever been to India, it is a welcome chance to revisit the country’s excitement of colours and culinary delights. For those who have not had the pleasure, this book is the next best thing, perfectly evoking India’s cultural richness. When Vikram Seth does eventually publish the sequel, A Suitable Girl (in the works since 2009!) it will be going straight to the top of my to-read pile.

Review: N. K. Jemisin’s ‘The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms’ (#1 The Inheritance Trilogy)

★★★☆☆

N. K. Jemisin is one of the big names in modern fantasy, and given that her triple-Hugo-award-winning Broken Earth series is one of the genre’s best offerings, it is fair to say that I had high expectations of The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms, which was the author’s debut, published in 2010.

Exploring a beloved author’s back catalogue can be risky. All too often, such digging leads only to works written when the author was far from the height of their powers. The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms is not without charm, but to say it does not weather comparison to Jemisin’s later series is an understatement.

Anaemic world lore and a butter-thin scrape of political intrigue cannot hide the fact that this novel is much less fantasy epic than dressed up fantasy romance – ‘romance’ being a generous description of what is essentially a string of carnal encounters. I always try to give YA a fair shake, but a real peeve of mine is when YA novels are bumped into the adult section solely due to erotic content. Emotionally superficial, lacking in psychological complexity, and in places rather lewd, this book more than fits that bracket.

“Whether you live or die is irrelevant. You are Arameri, and like all of us, you will serve.”

Our main character is Yeine Darr, a 19-year-old minor noblewoman who finds herself summoned to the Palace of Sky, where her dead mother’s estranged family reign supreme. Though she is the politically clumsy product of a sheltered upbringing, Yeine is not naïve, and arrives for a meeting with her grandfather near certain the only thing his gilded palace will offer her is death. It comes as a surprise, therefore, when she finds out she has been made heir. Thrown into a fight for the throne, Yeine must grow some claws if she wants to survive.

Though an underdog battling for the crown is nothing new, Jemisin’s handling of the trope does have a certain freshness which engaged my interest during the early chapters. Unusually, Yeine genuinely has no interest in the kind of power her family crave. The structures she stands to inherit are tarnished by their unconcealed cruelty. The family’s power stems from their role as the jailers of the god of darkness, Nahadoth, and his three children. Enslaved and stripped of the bulk of their powers, these divine beings are used by Yeine’s villainous cousins as sex slaves and torture playthings, their ever-healing bodies able to endure the worst abuses.

Yeine is mixed-race, the offspring of her parents’ very different cultures, and the contrasts of her lineage give her character dimension and depth. I think more exploration of the family politics, both Darr and Arameri, would have done a great deal to elevate the book, so it is a shame these threads of plot are so underutilised. With its ragged plot holes, the world-building sometimes feels like an afterthought, but it never quite loses a sense of tantalising promise.

“There’s truth even in tainted knowledge, if one reads carefully.”

“Only if one knows the knowledge is tainted in the first place.”

Centre stage is quickly yielded to the novel’s main interest: Yeine’s interactions with Nahadoth. This is all very well, except for the inherent ridiculousness of their relationship. Spare me from plain, boring girls who inexplicably reduce beautiful, supernatural men to lovelorn pining! A god, aeons-old, finds the fulfilment he has been chasing down the centuries in a lustful 19-year-old who, is, by all accounts, unremarkable… Honestly, can we not?

I would mind it less, I think, if the erotic scenes were well-written. They are not. I shall substantiate this simply by sharing one of the more memorable turns of phrase: ‘I had no idea whether this was a penis or some entirely different phallus that only gods possessed. I suspect the latter, since no mere penis can fill a woman’s body the way he filled mine.’

A dramatic ending leaves plenty for the series’ next instalment (The Broken Kingdoms) to explore. I doubt I will read it, given that I have so clearly spoiled myself by reading Jemisin’s best works (to date) beforehand. It is fair to say The Hundred Thousand Kingdoms has deepened my respect for the author though. In light of the difference between this and the The Fifth Season, published just five years later, the speed of Jemisin’s growth has been nothing short of meteoric, so I heartily look forward to seeing what she will write next.

Review: Georgette Heyer’s ‘The Convenient Marriage’

★★★☆☆

Published in 1934, The Convenient Marriage is a historical romance set in the Georgian era. Written during the early years of her career, Georgette Heyer’s Georgian novels enjoyed modest success in their time, but they are less famous than her Regency romances. This is a pity, I think, since two (These Old Shades and The Masqueraders) count among my favourite reads. That being said, however, those looking towards The Convenient Marriage should perhaps be advised that it is one of Heyer’s rockier works.

A hereditary love of gambling has squandered the Winwood family fortune. Salvation, it therefore seems, when the wealthy Earl of Rule asks for the eldest Winwood sister’s hand in marriage. Alas! Poor Lizzie, due to be sacrificed on the marriage altar, is already in love with the upstanding but empty-pursed Lieutenant Edward Heron. Enter, Horatia ‘Horry’ Winwood. Our heroine is just seventeen when she asks the Earl to marry her instead. Succumbing to her precocious determination, Marcus agrees to this ‘marriage of convenience’ upon the promise that there will be no meddling in his affairs.

Mischievous and indomitable, Horry is one of Heyer’s more distinctive heroines. She also has a stammer which is, pleasingly, never used as a character setback. Marcus is an unflappable aristocrat, characterised by wry humour and gentle forbearance. On paper, they make a charming match, but as far as age gap romances go, oof. There are instances where Heyer has matched older men with younger women convincingly, but in this case? It’s a hard sell.

‘Before you came in my spirits quite f-failed. You see, my M-mama has not the smallest n-notion of my being here. But I couldn’t think of anything else to do.’ She gripped her hands together, and drew a deep breath. ‘It is because of L-Lizzie – my sister. You have offered for her, haven’t you?’

Slightly taken aback, the Earl bowed. Horatia said in a rush: ‘C-could you – would you m-mind very much – having m-me instead?’

Horry’s extreme youth sits queasily next to Marcus’ worldly ripeness at 35, and though the characters acknowledge this issue with their own doubts, I do not think the novel ever manages to shake the fact of the relationship being inappropriate. No force of character can overcome the fundamental immaturity of Horry’s adolescence, and the way that our heroine’s tender years are played to for plot purposes only emphasises the ick factor. Are such marriages historically accurate? Yes. Are such marriages a fact of history that should be romanticised? It’s a no from me.

Also, as much as I liked the stammer, the author’s decision to utterly commit, writing it phonetically throughout Horry’s dialogue, is questionable. At 270 pages, this is a quick read, but it is laborious. With a weaker secondary cast than many of Heyer’s other novels, and a heroine whose spiciness is matched by an unfortunate wealth of stupidity, I was soon reading this book only in search of its redemption.

The plot shifts into a frivolous comedy of errors towards the close. Horry’s charming but financially illiterate brother, Pelham, proves good fun. Unfortunately, however, this book is dated by its slipshod handling of an attempted assault, the tensions of manly rivalry and the value of virtue superseding any humane concern for Horry’s wellbeing. Within the context of the book’s age, I do not think there is anything here which screams offense, but under a contemporary lens, this is one of the author’s more problematic novels.

Forgive it its faults, and The Convenient Marriage is a fun dose of escapism, literary in tone, suffused with Heyer’s masterful attention to historic detail. However, this is one of the author’s shallower works, and I think enjoyment depends very much on the reader’s willingness to accept the book as a product of its time.

Review: Georgette Heyer’s ‘Lady of Quality’

★★★☆☆

It has been a long while since I last settled in for the afternoon with a cosy romance, but if I have a comfort author, it has to be Georgette Heyer. I just cannot stop myself. Her books are hard to beat when it comes to sassy banter, and her masterful handling of romantic chemistry always has me coming back for more.

Lady of Quality is the last of Heyer’s Regency era novels, published in 1972, just two years before the author’s death. A routine smoker of up to 80 cigarettes a day, it is quite remarkable that she lived to be 71! At less than 270 pages, Lady of Quality is one of her shorter works, set in the picturesque city of Bath.

Chafing at the boring confines of her position as a young spinster in high society, Annis Wychwood defies expectations by maintaining no interest in finding a husband, despite being almost thirty (gasp!). A chance meeting with Lucilla, a runaway heiress in distress, soon brings Annis to the attention of the girl’s uncle, Oliver Carleton, however. A roguish gentleman with an insolent and combative personality, he is nothing like any of the dullards who have fought to win Annis’ hand in the past…

‘I must decline to discuss him with you. I should suppose it to be extremely unlikely that you will ever meet him, but if some unfortunate chance should bring him your way I should be doing less than my duty if I did not warn you to have nothing to say to him, my dear sister! His reputation is not that of a well-conducted man.’

Like many a Heyer heroine, Annis is a headstrong woman whose abiding sense of the proprieties of her era do not restrain her to backseat passivity in charting the course of her life. She can more than hold her own against Oliver’s wealth of ‘dash’. As is almost always the case with Heyer novels, our leads are supported by an eclectic cast of secondary characters, and the author’s extensive knowledge of the Regency era is showcased in her elegant attention to detail.

This is a quiet romance. Annis and Oliver are both determined individuals who prize nothing more than their independence, but they do not have loud personalities, and Oliver’s rakish tendencies are tempered by an honest awareness of his faults. It is not the paciest story (Oliver does not even appear until we are 50 pages in), and reads more as a gentle meander than a breathless adventure.

If I had to choose a Heyer novel to recommend as a first dip into the author’s hefty bibliography, this would be a strong contender. Lady of Quality is a trifle tame, but it is still amusing. It also showcases Heyer’s talents without having too much of a flavour that distinguishes it from the rest of her works. This is quite obviously a book written when the author knew what she was best at, which is the novel’s chief strength.

Now, as she met those penetrating eyes, she saw the hint of a smile in them, and was conscious of an impulse to admit him, at least a little way, into her confidence. There was no one else to whom she could unburden herself, and she badly needed a safe confidant, for the more she kept her rancour to herself the greater it grew. Why she should consider Mr Carleton a safe confidant was a question that it never occurred to her to ask herself: she felt it, and that was enough.

The way this novel fits squarely in the middle of Heyer’s range as an author is also its weakness, however, as when compared to some of her funnier and more unique novels, such as These Old Shades, Venetia, and The Foundling, there is not much which distinguishes Lady of Quality. This is certainly a great one for those just getting into Heyer, but for more seasoned fans, it may feel like a rehashing of her better works.

I can no longer claim to be any stranger to Heyer’s romances, and I will not be shelving this one among my personal favourites. We might like a bad boy, but Oliver’s streak of arrogant meanness makes him difficult to root for. This novel also has a somewhat insipid conclusion that left me shrugging my shoulders rather than grinning with glee.

If you can forgive a slight lack of punch, Lady of Quality remains, overall, an enjoyable and well-written read. For those working their way through the entire Heyer catalogue, this is not one I would recommend as the author’s most triumphant work, but it is a textbook example of her writing style, and I would be doing this book a disservice if I called it a dud.