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Living legends January 29, 2019

Posted by dolorosa12 in books, reviews.
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In some ways, 2019 had a most auspicious beginning for me, at least as far as reading was concerned: three of my most anticipated books of the year were published in consecutive weeks of January. This meant that each week began with a new literary delight appearing in my ereader for me to savour. By a strange coincidence, each book represented a different stage in a trilogy — one the explosive beginning, another the middle book, doing far more than just bridging the gap between introduction and conclusion, and the third the extremely satisfying conclusion to an extraordinary series. And each book, in its own way, built on a foundation of religion, myth, and fairy tales to construct something exquisite, powerful and page-turning.

First off the mark was Katherine Arden, with The Winter of the Witch, the final book in her medieval Russian fantasy Winternight trilogy. In this series, Arden weaves folklore and fourteenth-century Russian history with a sweeping, all-encompassing battle of good against evil. Her heroine, Vasilisa (Vasya) Petrovna, the eponymous witch, can perceive the ancient supernatural powers of the land — these range from pagan gods of death and winter to smaller deities of hearth and home and gateyard — and has found herself as entangled in their supernatural battles as she is in the more earthly political struggles facing the rulers of her land. Both temporal and supernatural Russia stands at a crossroads: there are tensions between the old religion and the new, the threat of invasion from the Mongols is ever-present, and indeed the region we now know as ‘Russia’ is only beginning to conceive of itself in this way, giving birth to itself amid war, fire and violence. Meanwhile, various supernatural beings are taking advantage of the chaos to fight battles of their own, while — as Arden has elected to go for an underlying mythology in which gods require belief in order to exist — struggling to survive in a world which increasingly denies their existence.

cover - winter of the witch

Arden is a master at balancing these grander, broader struggles with the more personal concerns of her heroine. As the story progresses, Vasya uncovers more buried secrets about her uncanny family history, grows in self-knowledge and confidence in her own powers, and embraces the role her magical mentor and protector Morozko envisaged for her: as a bridge between the earthly and supernatural, the old religion and the new, and the otherworldly power struggles of immortals and the violent birth of the Russian state. In previous books in the series, Vasya would have fled from such a destiny, protesting that her preference was for a quiet life roaming the forests with her beloved horse Solovey, but in The Winter of the Witch she has accepted the inevitable — and realises that she relishes the role of bridge-builder and protector. Part of this lies in accepting her connection with Morozko, and all that this implies, and the way that this renders her partly monstrous, and the old death god partly human is beautifully done and one of my favourite elements of the series. The result is a land protected on both supernatural and earthly fronts, leaving Vasya free to roam the stark, wintry landscapes, the line between otherworldly and mundane forever blurred.

We move from the ice and frost of medieval Russia to the deserts of the Arabian peninsula and the beautiful cities of Central Asia in The Kingdom of Copper, the second book in S.A. Chakraborty’s Daevabad Trilogy. To be more precise, these landscapes are the otherworldly equivalent of their real-world counterparts, inhabited by djinn and invisible to the human eye. The simmering political tensions of Chakraborty’s imagined world were on the brink of bubbling over, with various djinn factions jostling for supremacy and — being long-lived, if not immortal — unable to let go of long remembered grievances. In the previous book, we had left the trio of point-of-view characters in rather desperate circumstances: Dara, the murderous nightmare or courageous freedom fighter (depending on one’s political perspective) and Ali, the frustrated young prince locked in a fight to the death, and Nahri, the lost daughter of a legendary healer making bargains and compromises (including a political marriage) in order to survive the cut-throat power struggles surrounding her. After setting her pieces in place, Chakraborty jumps the narrative forward by five years, to see how the various split-second decisions made by these three characters are working out for them. For the most part, things are going disastrously: Ali has been politically and geographically isolated, Nahri, hampered by a chronic inability to trust and a genuine fear for her life, is unable to effect real change, and Dara is swept up in a rebellion which values him for his ability to deal terror and violence.

cover - kingdom of copper

Chakraborty draws deftly on Islamic legend and lore about djinn and other supernatural beings, as well as extensive historical research into Abbasid-era Baghdad, and the result is a tense political thriller in which the fantastical elements blend seamlessly. She is particularly skilled in showing how her characters’ personal weaknesses and blind spots hamper their ability to solve the larger political problems of their kingdom — Dara’s prejudices, Nahri’s wariness and suspicion of others’ skills and motives, and Ali’s dogmatism and inflexibility — and how, were they to pool their resources and compromise, the results were extraordinary. Ali and Nahri’s personalities are particularly conflicting, and for this reason every scene they had together was explosive and a joy to read, especially as the book hurtled towards its denouement. I cannot wait to read the concluding book in this trilogy to find out what happens next.

One of the subtler themes of the Daevabad books is the idea of appropriation — Chakraborty’s djinn profess to detest humans, and view them with contempt, but they relish human innovations from architecture and engineering to food and fashion. Where Chakraborty keeps this theme understated and metaphorical, Roshani Chokshi brings it front and centre in The Gilded Wolves, the first in a fantasy trilogy set in Belle Époque Paris. Hers is a world in which magic is concentrated in the hands of a few spectacularly wealthy families, who supplement their power with magical objects that they ‘acquire’ and make use of. Chokshi’s magical acquisitions are, like their real-world museum counterparts, more often than not looted, uprooted by colonial powers with no thought as to their cultural significance or the moral right of colonised people to retain ownership of their own treasures. In keeping with this story that asks readers to look beyond the comforting pieties former colonist countries tell themselves, Chokshi’s main cast of characters are almost all people marginalised by empire in some way. Two are the mixed-race sons of powerful French men, and women from countries colonised by France, grudgingly accepted into the halls of power if they constantly deny and devalue half of their heritage. One is a migrant from India who has to perform a palatable version of her culture for public consumption, and who defensively embraces this sense of performance of the ‘exotic East’ as a way to maintain a semblance of control. Another — a Polish-Jewish scientist — reads to me as a hint at the antisemitic Dreyfus affair and the associated ugliness lurking at the heart of supposedly progressive and rational countries. My favourite character is a Filipino-Spanish archivist who hangs around on the fringes of revolutionary Filipino groups, yearning for acceptance and longing to commit himself to their cause.

cover - the gilded wolves

What brings this marvellous cast of characters together is a spectacular heist, and, like the best of all heist stories, The Gilded Wolves is filled with puzzles, races against time, and the squabbles and struggles of a fractious group of people whose skills they bring to the job do not compensate for their clashing personalities and disparate personal aims and motives. I love a good heist novel, particularly if — as is the case here — the characters responsible for pulling it off are marginalised, somewhat traumatised outsiders who find a family in each other. Their resourcefulness, talents, and, ultimately, ‘us against the world’ mentality stand in sharp rebuke to the society that views them as lesser, other and outsiders. Their presence amid the champagne flutes, Art Nouveau architecture, and bank vaults stuffed with looted treasures is a reminder on whose backs empires were built, the ugliness sitting like poison at the heart of even the most beautiful places. Chokshi has created a powerful and resonant work, and I can only hope that the remainder of the trilogy continues as it has started.

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In full bloom January 12, 2019

Posted by dolorosa12 in blogging, books, reviews.
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I am not, in general, a person who buys books on the strength of their covers, so Felicia Davin’s Gardener’s Hand trilogy was a bit of a departure for me. But the series’ eye-catching covers, spotted at some point when I was scrolling through my Goodreads feed, and the fact that the trilogy appeared to feature a central relationship between two women was enough to spark my interest, and I’m very grateful for the serendipitous moment that brought these excellent books to my attention. At its heart, this is a series about survival — surviving harsh landscapes, oppression and injustice, cruel family history, and threats both supernatural and mundane. It’s also a series about found family, with a pleasingly ‘us against the world’ dynamic that I always find really appealling.

cover - thornfruit

The setting of these novels is a tidally locked planet, and the various societies that have sprung up within such an unforgiving landscape have found different ways to cope with its inherent problems. Some, on the ‘Dayward’ side of the planet use shades to block out the eternal sunshine, and make ingenious use of courtyards, open windows, and gardens as ways to escape the heat, while other cultures have no taboo against nudity and wear minimal clothing to keep as cool as possible. Those in the hottest possible habitable zone live in carefully engineered underground cities, making clever use of mirrors, skylights and tunnels to let daylight shine into the depths. In the ‘Nightward’ side of the planet, there are heated, enclosed cities carved out of the ice.

But the challenges of this setting are not merely due to excessive sunlight (or its complete absence): there are frequent but unpredictable earthquakes and tsumanis, poisonous ‘medusas’ (which seem to be like giant squids) lurking in the ocean, and the constant human threat against any person exibiting magical powers.

cover - nightvine

One such individual is Alizhan, one of the two heroines of the series, who can read minds, and whose very touch causes pain. She has been raised in isolation as a weapon by Iriyat, a woman with secrets of her own. While Iriyat attempts to wield Alizhan against the various political intrigues of her city, Alizhan has other ideas, and, together with Ev, a physically tough but very soft-hearted childhood friend, she makes a break for freedom, inadvertently uncovering multiple conspiracies and unravelling clues into her own mysterious past. As the narrative unfolds, the two characters begin to realise the extent of what they’re up against: a devastating existential threat against an entire city, and an all-powerful antagonist determined to use this threat for personal and political gain.

cover - shadebloom

The series ranges widely throughout Davin’s imagined world, and it’s a joy to spend time in all its regions, getting to know the cast of characters who appear, disappear and reappear over the course of the series, helping or hindering Ev and Alizhan. My favourite among these would have to be Thiyo, a self-assured, extroverted young man with a flair for the dramatic and the magical ability to learn and speak all languages fluently without any effort. He joins Alizhan and Ev midway through their quest, and his flashy confidence and openness is a great contrast to their guarded, angst-ridden awkwardness.

Most pleasing of all about this trio of characters is their inherent, unwavering goodness. Beneath Thiyo’s attention-seeking and drama, Alizhan’s blunt tactlessness, and Ev’s shyness lies a common heroism, a desire to fight against all injustices, and the refusal to be daunted by the enormity of their task. And, set gloriously against this grander struggle are their own human struggles and growth — all three are in love with each other, and the resolution Davin chooses to deal with this made me so happy. Yes, this trilogy is that rare beast: a love triangle with three bisexual characters (Thiyo had past relationships with men and women) with a satisfactory resolution and a happy ending. For that alone I would recommend it.

We are not things November 17, 2018

Posted by dolorosa12 in blogging, books, meta, reviews.
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Ever since I first read the Iliad as a teenager, so long ago the exact translation into English escapes me, I was struck by the secondary story that seemed submerged beneath the war, honour, and claims to immortality through militaristic deeds of heroism: the story of the women. I never had much interest in the long recitations of characters’ ancestry, names of warriors killed on the battlefield, wooden horses or lucky arrows shot through vulnerable heels. Instead, I focused on the story that whispered in the margins: the calamity of war to the women and children it made most vulnerable, the ways such women coped with the ever-present threat of male violence, and the simmering presence of this violence even in ostensible peacetime, in spaces where women were surrounded by their own families. I sought out retellings of the Iliad that brought this story to the fore, finding hints of it in medieval and early modern versions of the story of Troilus and Cressida, an unsubtle and clumsy rendering of it in The Firebrand, Marion Zimmer Bradley’s story of Cassandra, and, later, Euripides’ The Trojan Women, a powerful tragedy which gives the Iliad‘s victims their voice. With the notable exception of Adèle Geras’ Troy (which is constrained by its young adult status, meaning it needs to steer clear of a lot of the darker pathways an examination of the effect of the siege of Troy on Trojan teenage girls should take), most modern female character-centric Iliad retellings have been a monumental disappointment. My suspicion is that the authors of these retellings often want to tell some kind of love story — and to make any love story palatable to a modern readership, they need to make what are pretty contemptible male characters palatable to that readership, resulting in pulled punches and attempts to redeem the actions of violent, destructive men who see nothing wrong with parcelling out women as spoils of war. At worst, you get attempts to turn the relationship of Achilles and Briseis into a love story (see: the ghastly film Troy), or to make the whole war a kind of backdrop for Achilles and Patroclus’ epic romance (see: Madeleine Miller’s The Song of Achilles, which renders the captive Briseis as a sort of chaste cheerleader for the Achilles/Patroclus relationship). As someone who is really interested in stories that take Briseis out of the margins and into the centre of the page, I find this incredibly frustrating — but it doesn’t stop me from reading every Briseis-centric Iliad retelling, searching for that elusive story that truly lets her speak.

It was through this roundabout, decades-long search, that I arrived at Pat Barker’s incredible, astonishing The Silence of the Girls. The title is a deliberate misnomer: hers is a book where Briseis — so silent for most of the Iliad — truly speaks, giving voice to the horrors she endures as a captive of first Achilles and then Agamenmon and bringing the experiences of the Trojan captives in the Greek camp vividly to life. Barker’s book sticks close to the plot of the Iliad proper, and plays straight the supernatural elements of Homer’s epic: the gods appear, Achilles is the semi-divine son of a sea nymph, and so on. Where she diverges is in the weight given to the perspectives of those dispossessed or unnoticed in Homer’s original narrative: women, both free and captive, children, and the unnamed hordes of mercenary soldiers brought over to Troy on the promise of fame and plunder.

Cover - The Silence of the Girls

There are so many moments of devastating power in Barker’s brilliant story that it’s hard to select just a few to give an impression of the narrative. There’s the point, early on in the book, where Briseis (at this point the young wife of a petty king of a city allied to Troy) is trapped, waiting a battle’s outcome with the other women of the palace, knowing that defeat in the battle will mean rape and enslavement, and she realises that all the slave women hiding with her have already experienced this at the hands of her husband and male relatives. There’s her constant focus, once captured, on Achilles’ moods and hands and body; like all women trapped in a situation of domestic violence, she has to maintain a state of constant vigilence to minimise the harm done to her and ensure her reactions to volatile male tempers don’t spark life-threatening brutality. There’s the scene where Priam — having slipped into the Greek camp to plead with Achilles for his son Hector’s body, and kissed Achilles’ hands in an attempt to persuade him — carries on as if this act of kissing were the greatest sacrifice and humiliation imaginable (something ‘no man has ever done before’), and Briseis reflects scathingly on the ubiquity of what she, and all women affected by war, have been forced to endure. It’s so ubiquitous that it goes entirely unremarked and unnoticed, like something of the fabric of the world.

At the same time, Barker focuses relentlessly on the resilient, fractious, messy community of captive women that has sprung up in the Greek camp over the ten years of the Trojan War. The war itself is essentially a half-seen backdrop: the real action takes place in the laundry tents, weaving huts, and at the edges of racous warriors’ feasts, where women circulate, pouring wine. All find different ways to cope with their situation: some force themselves to fall in love with their captors, or try to persuade one captor to fall in love with them, because one rapist is easier to endure than a whole camp of them. Others take refuge in maintaining a pretence of respectability, remaining secluded, weaving cloth, and only venturing outside when wearing veils, as if behaving like proper married matrons will convince the world that nothing has changed in their status. Briseis’ technique is to remain hypervigilent, not just to the mood in her own tent, but within the camp as a whole — and in this she is aided by the network of captive women, who move about unnoticed, slipping into spaces where they can pick up news with ease, and spreading it rapidly around to their fellow captives. Briseis is well aware that her only power is to be prepared: to know what is being done to her before it happens. She cannot avoid the blows, but she can brace herself for when they fall.

Barker is an author whose works frequently focus on the horrors war visits on ordinary people, and so the experience of women, swept up in the brutal violence of the Trojan War is a story she’s well suited to tell. She does so with honesty, clarity, and illumination of the small acts of resistance that go unnoticed when women are perceived to lack agency.

I wish I could say the same of Emily Hauser’s For the Most Beautiful, a story recommended to me as one that did justice to Briseis. Instead, what I got was a syrupy YA romance between captive and captor. I’m not averse to this kind of story (see, for example, my recent review of Aliette de Bodard’s Beauty and the Beast retelling, In the Vanishers’ Palace), but it needs to either embrace the darkness, or work harder to convince me that the captor is as trapped by their circumstances as the captive. When the captor is Achilles, a violent, volatile warrior whose talent, identity and sense of honour and prestige is entirely bound up in his ability to kill and wage war, the author is going to have work pretty hard. Hauser’s attempts remain, to me, unconvincing. It was a moment of almost comedic horror when I realised her Briseis was going to forgive and sleep with Achilles on the instant she realised he had just returned from killing her brothers on the battlefield. The justification for this forgiveness — if her brothers’ and her captor’s positions had been reversed, she would have felt his actions entirely reasonable, and that, as a mercenary leader his job is to wage war wherever he’s hired, so he’s as trapped in his role as scourge of Troy as she is in hers as a slave whose body is not her own — is outrageous. In the hands of a stronger writer, For the Most Beautiful could perhaps have served as the story of the pretty lies a captive tells herself to endure an intolerable situation, and the portrait of a fragmented and fraying mind, but Hauser seems to want us to see a love story. For the Most Beautiful certainly suffers in comparison with The Silence of the Girls, not least because it lacks the latter’s sense of a community of enslaved women, finding strength in each other, and navigating their circumstances with ingenuity, giving voice to those treated as nameless things in the original Iliad narrative.

Cover - For the Most Beautiful

It was interesting to read both these retellings in parallel with Emiy Wilson’s intelligent, perceptive, and remarkable translation of the Odyssey. While obviously needing to stick to the story that is actually there on the page, Wilson, like Barker, shines a light in areas that previous translations of the story chose not to emphasise. Where previous translators used the word ‘handmaid’ or ‘servant’, Wilson uses ‘slave’, ensuring readers will not look away from these slaves’ eventual slaughter. There is equal weight given to women’s work at the loom and the conversations that take place in women’s spaces, and Odysseus’s travails on his long journey home. Even Wilson’s choice of book cover is deliberate, featuring a trio of women, rather than the more normal ships on unquiet seas. As she has noted on several occasions, just as much of the Odyssey‘s plot takes place around the looms, laundries, bedrooms and kitchens of women as on Odysseus’ convoluted ocean voyages, so a book cover that highlights the latter is making a deliberate choice about what — and whose — stories are worthy of attention.

Cover - Emily Wilson Odyssey

While it is rare for most authors to get as much input into cover design as Wilson clearly did, it is worth noting that For the Most Beautiful has the sadly typical stock image of a headless woman, while The Silence of the Girls shows not only women and children in full, fleeing in terror, it also does not shy away from depicting what they’re fleeing from: the male warriors who have burnt their city. (There are, of course, other editions of these books with different covers.) When modern authors tackle the Iliad and the Odyssey — two epics which have occupied prime position in the Western literary canon for millennia — they are faced with many choices. What they choose to emphasise, whose story they choose to tell, and who they choose to forgive and redeem have a powerful effect. At brilliant best, like Barker, their choices bring justice and give voice to women silenced both the original narrative and myriad retellings. At worst, like Hauser, the choices of an author will take that voice away.

Winterheart October 5, 2018

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When you clear away the whimsy and Disneyfication, fairytales are pretty terrifying. They are concerned, above all, with survival, and all the tricks their resourceful characters employ to navigate the web of threats and danger they face in a terrifying, incomprehensible, and unyielding world. Contemporary reworkings of these fairytales that grasp this dark heart that lurks at the centre of enchanted forests are an absolute joy to read. Naomi Novik has done just that with Spinning Silver, her second novel that draws on fairytales for inspiration. In it, she takes familiar fairytale tropes: an unbreakable bargain with an unknowable, capricious otherworldly being, a brave woman forced to reckon with marriage to a monster, and poor children, starving in a frozen, famished landscape, given sustenance as a reward for their innate goodness, and gives them depth and complexity. Whether you like her take on these tales is going to depend a lot on how much you enjoyed her previous fairytale-inspired fantasy, Uprooted, as both involve very similar character dynamics and resolutions to their stories’ conflicts. Luckily for me, I adored Uprooted — and found Spinning Silver, if anything, even more to my taste.

Cover - Spinning Silver

In this new work, Novik weaves the stories of three brave, resourceful women, living in the harsh landscapes of pre-modern Lithuania. There is Irina, a noblewomen dealing with forced marriage to the Tsar, whose cruel behaviour hides an even darker secret. Wanda, a peasant girl, is struggling to keep herself and her younger brothers fed after the death of their mother and in the face of their father’s alcoholism and abuse. And, at the heart of the story is Miryem, the daughter of an unsuccessful moneylender who is struggling to keep her family afloat amidst poverty and antisemitism. The three women’s stories interweave, and in different ways all three become embroiled in the supernatural, which sits uneasily beside the human world, always threatening to intrude, with destructive consequences.

Novik has chosen Rumplestiltskin as the frame on which to hang her own broader story, and she gets right to the dark heart of this fairytale (which, like all fairytales, has incredibly disturbing undertones when you read it closely), bringing its themes of unequal bargains and exchange to the fore. In her own tale of Jewish moneylenders and superstitious villagers, mercantile ability and honest bargains are made heroic and magical, with Miryem’s skills that she developed as a moneylender (in marked contrast to her father’s lack of success in this area) saving both the human and supernatural worlds from myriad dangers. Miryem’s mercantile work sits beside the novel’s more general emphasis on the day-to-day work of everyday people, particularly women, with this work constantly reiterated as heroic and life-saving. Irina, who, as the wife of a tsar can hardly be said to be an everyday person, is nevertheless saved countless times by skills built up in women’s spaces, such as castle fireplaces where groups of women congregate to embroider and sew clothes. Meanwhile, Wanda’s hard labour with outdoor farmwork and indoor housework is equally valorised, and the novel also emphasises that the steps she takes to appease and placate her violent father and deflect his anger and abuse are a kind of labour of their own, one which takes its toll. And, in the novel’s exploration of another kind of marginalisation, Spinning Silver makes the point that living with the horrifying threat of anti-Semitism, the ever present fear that their peaceful neighbours will at any moment turn on them as a howling, violent mob, is an experience that, sadly, will aid its Jewish characters in dealing with other, more supernatural dangers.

There were so many fabulous little details that gave the world of Spinning Silver a truly lived-in feeling, but what I most appreciated were those which emphasised Miryem’s identity as an observant Jewish woman. Rather than fearing that eating otherworldly food will bar her way to the human world forever, she worries if the food is kosher (it turns out to be uncooked fruit, and thus safe). Her fears at being unable to measure the passage of time in the otherworld are less because she fears returning to the human world hundreds of years later, but rather because she needs to know when to observe Shabbat. Rather than being viewed as a barrier to Miryem’s participation in magical, supernatural adventures, her Jewish identity is a source of strength. Similarly, in a genre rife with dead mothers (and, to be fair, Spinning Silver does have its share of these), it was refreshing to observe the warm, supportive relationship between Miryem and her very much alive mother, as well as that of Irina and her former nurse, who was something of a maternal stand-in.

This is a world in which women save themselves — and each other — using the tools at hand. It is a world in which the work of a market stall seller, or a noblewoman presiding over a rowdy feasting hall, or a girl feeding chickens is given equal weight to magical powers. Indeed, it’s a world in which supernatural beings view prosaic, human skills as having a kind of magic of their own. In other words, in Spinning Silver Novik has married two of my favourite tropes: ordinary ‘women’s work’ made heroic, and supernatural beings viewing ordinary human skills as magical and powerful. It’s an absolute joy to read, and I very much hope Spinning Silver is not her last foray into fairytale-inspired fantasy fiction.

‘That love of maidens for monsters’ September 15, 2018

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Every so often, a work of fiction, whether series or standalone, will creep up on me like a welcome surprise, seemingly crafted to appeal to my exact tastes, its combination of elements so perfectly designed to fill a void in my reading I didn’t even know existed. Katherine Arden’s Winternight Trilogy, of which two books are currently published — The Bear and the Nightingale, and The Girl in the Tower; the third, The Winter of the Witch, will be published in January, 2019 — is one such series of books. Arden’s series is a work of historical fantasy, set in a slightly tweaked version of fourteenth-century Russia (or rather, to be more precise, the region we now know as Russia) in which the supernatural hovers just out of sight, where elemental gods and magical horses roam the snow-filled forests, and where most people’s beliefs comfortably accommodate both the icons and pageantry of Orthodox Christianity and the more earthy household gods of kitchen and stable.

Cover - The Bear and the Nightingale

Through this intriguing landscape strides Vasilisa (Vasya) Petrovna, the daughter of an aristocrat whose lands are in the frozen north, in a liminal encompassing both farm and dense forest, and a mysterious witch who died giving birth to Vasya, her fifth child. In The Bear and the Nightingale, Vasya grows up wild in her father’s lands, equally at home on the capacious stove in the kitchen, listening to her nurse’s stories, and roaming from river to stables to forest, chattering with the supernatural, otherworldly beings that only she can see. Arden’s is a world where gods require belief and offerings in order to survive, and Vasya provides these happily, while attracting the particular attention of Morozko, the old god of winter, frost, and death. This fragile peace is shattered by the arrival first of a new stepmother, a princess who would have preferred to remain unmarried and in a convent, and later of a zealous, charismatic priest sent north by the secular rulers concerned that his popularity could make him a rival to their own power. Both find Vasya’s unconventional nature disturbing and threatening, and, as she grows from a girl to a teenager, they seek to contain and constrain her, and attempt to stamp out the lingering pagan beliefs still held by the people of the household. Their zeal, however, has unintented, far-reaching consequences, inadvertently unleashing a horrific supernatural threat that will require all of Vasya’s skill, courage, and ingenuity to overcome.

The Girl in the Tower paints on a wider canvas, as Vasya leaves her familiar northern home, travelling to Moscow on Solovey, the magical horse given to her by Morozko, disguised as a boy, seeking her older sister Olga. However, her plans are thwarted by broader politics both earthly and otherworldly, as mysterious raiders ransack villages, stealing children, and the Grand Prince of Moscow weighs up whether to challenge the Mongol khans whose power wavers but who still extract tribute from their vassals in Russia. At the same time, a new supernatural threat emerges, a shadowy being who needs Vasya for purposes of his own. Vasya does her best to navigate these treacherous waters, but is challenged at every turn by the constraints placed on women in her society, yearning to ride free and unencumbered on Solovey in a world that would see her confined in either married women’s quarters or convent — or else as a threat that must be destroyed.

Cover - The Girl in the Tower

For all the latter book’s emphasis on the grand sweep of medieval Russian politics, the scope and focus of the series is pleasingly domestic — whether the kitchen stove of Vasya’s family home, or the private suites of rooms that comprise the women’s quarters of Olga’s marital palace. Arden makes much of the everyday labour of women: preparing food, sweeping hearths, embroidering elaborate headdresses, assisting in the birth of children. The lives of these women may be circumscribed, lived within a narrow space, travelling between hearth, bathhouse, and church, but they are not inconsequential. This is a series in which the labour of a mother giving birth to a child is of greater supernatural significance than the outcome of a battle, where a girl slipping bread crusts to household gods does more to forge alliances than the political machinations of men in Moscow palaces. I have praised this kind of emphasis in fiction before, and I’m very pleased to see it’s becoming more prevalent.

This is a series that revels in its darkness. There is no attempt to soften or humanise Morozko (although Arden does make use of one of my favourite tropes: the monster who loves a human for her humanity, and the human who loves a monster for his monstrosity, who are able to reach an uneasy accommodation of humanity and monstrosity together), and the cruel harshness of the landscape and the capricious beings that inhabit it is constantly reiterated. But these are the indifferent cruelties of nature, which is indiscriminate in the hurt it causes. True viciousness in Arden’s works is reserved for human beings, who make their own choice to be violent or hurtful. And then, fairytale-like in its contrast is the shining, luminous goodness of those like Vasya, whose integrity and moral courage light the way through fear, and danger, and darkness.

Pressing on boundaries June 2, 2018

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I normally avoid reading historical fiction (whether told straight, or with fantasy elements added) set in early medieval Britain or Ireland. It’s too hard to switch off my medievalist brain and nitpick every inaccuracy or tired cliché. Although there are some works set in this time I enjoy, it’s generally a time period and genre I approach with caution. This may explain why it took me so long to get to Hild, Nicola Griffith’s astonishing, complex, and beautifully crafted novel about Hild, a seventh-century Anglo-Saxon princess who became the founding abbess of Whitby and was later made a saint (if a school, college, or church in the UK is named St Hilda’s, it’s likely named after her). As with many figures living in this time of history, contemporary written records about Hild are lacking, but Griffith has done a wonderful job of filling in the blanks in a way that is both plausible and engaging.

The Britain of Griffith’s novel is a tumultuous place of shifting allegiances, diplomatic marriages of convenience, fluid boundaries, and fast-paced political, religious and cultural change that is leaving its inhabitants disoriented and uncertain. Amidst all this turmoil is Hild — a child at the novel’s beginning, an older teenager by its close — whose early life is spent in exile, followed by a period with her mother and sister at her uncle’s court. Her mother’s ambition is to be a powerbroker behind the throne, and she uses all the tools at her disposal, including roping her daughters into her schemes, teaching them to see the connections, tensions and patterns between the powerful people around them, and to subtly influence the political direction of their kingdom without the men in power perceiving it. Hild finds this at once a talent that comes naturally to her, and a frightening, sometimes crushing burden. Without being able to command and control people directly, she is essentially unable to put a halt to actions and choices she feels will cause harm and destruction, while at the same time she feels responsible for decisions she has influenced indirectly. Ever since her birth, Hild’s mother has encouraged an air of supernatural power around her daughter, creating a legend that turns Hild into a seer who can predict the future, and it’s this visionary role that allows her to speak freely in contexts where women’s voices would normally be unwelcome, hiding her political manoeuvring in a cloud of prophetic symbolism. The problem with being a prophet is that people expect your predictions to come true, which is an additional weight on Hild’s shoulders.

Cover - Hild

Where Griffith really succeeds is in her depiction of women’s lives — particularly the parts of those lives that happen out of the view of men. Hild abounds with such scenes: women discussing pregnancy, abortion and childbirth in whispers in a bedroom, women spinning and weaving in a corner of the hall, women out herding animals, women subtly directing the political events of their day. It’s a particular breath of fresh air to see the smaller, quieter moments treated with as much seriousness and granted as much importance as the sorts of things that are normally perceived to have had real historical impact. Thus, a small girl wearing heavy, ornate jewellery and carrying a cup of mead around the hall is shown to have as much, if not more, political significance as a battle, and is carried out with a similar level of tactical planning.

The world of Hild is visceral, and Griffith revels in the muck and dirt of it, bringing readers with her into muddy fields, smelly cowsheds, rooms where women’s hands are soft with lanolin as they spin wool, and halls sharp with the tang of strong mead. One of the most striking and memorable scenes to me involves a group of farm workers constructing a hedgerow, piling mounds of earth between stones, and weaving bushes fragrant with the scent of hawthorn into the hedge, so that the whole construction is a living, breathing thing. The sheer effort involved, the cooperative labour, and the sense of work well done are all conveyed with clarity and strength. It’s just one of many such moments in the book — bringing things back down to earth, and imbuing the ordinary work of everyday life with a luminous sense of mystery and power. This quality reminded me of other books that have been formative and important to me — Ursula Le Guin’s fantasy novels, the work of Monica Furlong (set in a very similar time period, and with a similar focus on ‘women’s work’), and, more recently, the epic fantasy of Kate Elliott. It’s something I’m always glad to see in fiction, and I can only hope that Griffith’s follow up to Hild continues to retain this same element.

A long way down November 13, 2014

Posted by dolorosa12 in blogging, reviews, television.
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This post will contain spoilers for Season 1 of The Fall. It will also involve discussion of misogyny, rape culture, sexualised violence and murder.

The first episode of Season 2 of The Fall will air tonight. The release of the new season has prompted a flurry of discussion of the same elements certain critics disliked in the first season: the show’s perceived sexism and voyeuristic attitude to gendered violence. While I understand where such criticism is coming from, I think it is misguided.

The Fall is the story of the hunt for a serial killer in Belfast who targets victims of one demographic: attractive, young, single professional women. It’s an unusual show in that we know who the killer is from the first episode, following him as he goes about his daily life as husband, father and grievance counsellor, and as he goes about his hidden life as a misogynistic, unspeakably cruel killer. As such, the focus and point of view of the show is split evenly between that of Paul, the killer, and Stella, the police officer leading the investigation into his crimes. It is this focus on Paul and insight into his mind that has led, in part, to condemnations of the show for misogyny. The other problem is that in making Paul a viewpoint character, his murders are shot through his eyes, and so the audience sees the women he kills as he sees them: helpless dolls whose murdered bodies are his to handle (the way he bathes and lays out his victims’ bodies in their own beds — in which he has killed them — is one of the most horrifying aspects of the show).

That being said, I think it’s very clear that the show is condemning such actions. We are not voyeurs gazing on the dead women: we are voyeurs gazing in horror at the workings of Paul’s mind.

The show’s broader context supports such a reading. This is due in great part to the character of Stella, who repeatedly condemns Paul’s actions as the work of a misogynist, who is herself a sexually independent woman, and who calls out the wider culture as supporting the extremes of Paul’s actions in refusing to condemn smaller, more everyday forms of misogyny. The writer has also stated in interviews his insistence on portraying Paul’s victims before he murders them, so that the viewers can see them as human beings with jobs, friendships and familial and other connections. This acts as a sort of direct refutation of Paul’s perception of them.

Most importantly, it’s one of the few shows to receive mainstream acclaim I’ve seen to include an explicit discussion of rape culture and the ways it enables murders like those of Paul’s victims to take place. Stella has several conversations with her (female) colleague Reed about the ways women and girls warn each other about male violence, and about the way that they must be constantly guarded against a culture that will try to blame them for their own abuse. Stella also shuts down a male colleague describing one of Paul’s victims as ‘innocent’. What if his next victim is a sex worker? she asks. She refuses to let any discussion of innocence or blame enter the narrative of the case.

There is one final, and most horrifying, example of the show’s condemnation of society misogyny. Paul’s pattern in his murders is to build up to them by initially sneaking into his victims’ empty houses and moving their belongings around in subtle ways in order to assert his control and unsettle them. His second victim notices that her belongings have been moved and calls the police. Rather than believing her, they try to deny her own experience and knowledge of her own space. There’s no sign of a break-in, they say. Could her things have been moved by her cat? She is sure that this is not the case, but their words put doubt in her mind, so that when they ask her if she could stay with her sister, she feels as if her fears were unfounded and decides to stay put. Of course, after the police leave, Paul sneaks back in and murders her in a way designed to cause maximum, drawn-out terror and trauma. In this way, although Paul is the one to actually kill the women, The Fall shows how damaging, misogynistic societal attitudes (particularly the refusal to believe women when they say they feel unsafe) contribute to and enable his murders.

In this way, The Fall, while heartbreaking, terrifying and harrowing to watch, is much less harmful than, say, the Millennium Trilogy by Stieg Larsson, which purports to be a series condemning violence against women, but which actually engages in a great deal of victim blaming. While it is not enjoyable to watch women killed in situations of extreme psychological torment, it is satisfying for once to see the blame for their deaths put where it truly lies.

‘They’re bad men, but they’re OUR bad men’ May 10, 2014

Posted by dolorosa12 in meta, reviews, television.
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One of my maternal great-grandfathers was what people today would call a ‘colourful racing identity’. It sounds a lot more glamorous than it actually was. Although my grandmother has some interesting stories about family friends known only as ‘Slippers’ and ‘The Colonel’, and her father waking everyone up whenever he’d won big and flinging all the money on the bed, the reality was much more sordid and terrifying than those stories would suggest. In actual fact, my great-grandfather’s gambling habit meant that my grandmother had essentially left school at the age of eight. She was constantly sent to the door to tell bailiffs attempting to evict the family that her parents weren’t at home. One absolutely heartbreaking story she told me involved her mother giving away her new (and much-needed) coat to another child because that child didn’t have a mother and my great-grandmother felt sorry for her. Most chilling of all, the only reason my grandmother grew up in Sydney was because one night her father came home in an absolute panic, and they had to pack up the entire house and flee from Melbourne in order to escape some kind of gang-related threat to his life due to debts. My point is that the charming image conjured up by the words ‘colourful racing identity’ covers a multitude of horrors.

That is what makes Peaky Blinders, a miniseries set in the underworld of Birmingham in 1919, so refreshing. It provides a fictional account of the eponymous gang with their fingers in just about every criminal pie: race-fixing, protection money, gun-running, gambling. The Peaky Blinders (so named because they hide razor blades in their flat caps with which to slash and blind their victims) are mainly drawn from the Shelby family, a multi-generational gang whose stranglehold on the streets is due to a combination of competence, compromise and the ability to incite terror. The local police are corrupt, and prefer to let the Shelby family run things if it means stability and order. For the most part, the poor and dispossessed of Birmingham accept the devil’s bargain they have made with the Peaky Blinders, feeling that paying protection money and turning a blind eye to the gang’s criminal activities is an acceptable price to pay if it provides them with a degree of wealth and security.

That’s not to say there aren’t tensions. The young Shelby men have returned, traumatized, from the battlefields of World War I, only to find that the women – shrewd, tough-as-nails Aunt Polly, and angry, romantic Ada – have been running things just fine, if not better, on their own. Tommy Shelby, who views himself as the gang’s de facto leader, has to reconcile his own grand vision for the Peaky Blinders with the more limited, but safer, scope planned by his aunt.

At the same time, the gang relies on its ability to control the shifting network of alliances of the streets, contending with IRA cells, communist agitators attempting to unionize the factory workers, Traveller families who control the racetrack, Chinese textile workers who moonlight as opium den operators, and, one of my favourite characters, an itinerant fire-and-brimstone street-preacher played by Benjamin Zephaniah. It’s a complicated balancing act of carrot and stick, and when it works, it works because the various players have understood correctly the psychology, needs and fears of their opposite numbers. All sorts of connections and obligations come into play: most of the men were soldiers together, the Shelby family has blood ties to some of the Traveller families, as well as an Irish background that complicates their interactions with the IRA members, and Ada Shelby is secretly in love with the leading communist organizer.

What works so well in Peaky Blinders is that the writers manage the tricky balancing act of showing the true horror of what the Shelby family (and their allies) do to maintain control, as well as the fact that they probably are the best option for the dispossessed people they terrorize. There is no glamour in what they do: Tommy Shelby can move from charming to chilling in an instant, and he is in no way a safe person to be around. There is a violence and brutality involved in people’s everyday lives, and survival requires that they walk past such violence with their eyes averted. Most people in the show lead such precarious existences that their every decision is based on a pragmatic sense of cost, benefit, compromise and danger. The streets of Birmingham may be controlled by bad men, but they are bad men from those very streets, and the choice to give them control is made by the very people who live beside them.

On wish-fulfillment fantasies January 15, 2014

Posted by dolorosa12 in blogging, books, childhood, reviews.
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When I was in the early years of secondary school, I invented a character called Amber. She was short, slender and pale, with a cloud of dark hair and one bright blue and one bright green eye (in other words, what I considered the epitome of beauty at the time). She lived in twelfth-century Ireland. Her father was the illegitimate son of an Irish ruler, and her mother was the daughter of a Japanese nobleman. Her Irish grandfather had five children by his first wife, seven by his second, and six illegitimate children, and the entire family had basically carved up the entire west coast of Ireland among themselves through a combination of ruthless diplomacy and strategically tactical marriages. Amber was married to Pagan Kidrouk (that is, she was married to the fictional character on whom I had a massive crush), and they had an ever-increasing brood of perfect children. Pagan had hitched his star to Amber’s family’s cause, and the two of them spent their time riding from relative to relative, keeping the whole family’s quest for political power afloat, forging alliances and seeing off competition. Amber’s younger sisters were in her social circle and they all treated one another with complete respect and love at all times. Even the backstory of how Amber’s parents got together was over-the-top: her father, despairing of ever finding his One True Love™, had mournfully cast a multilingual message in a bottle into the sea in the hope that whoever found it would seek him out and agree to marry him. The bottle wound up in Japan, and Amber’s mother’s decision to marry her Irish father essentially saved her from the events of the Genpei War. The entire story was completely ludicrous.

In other words, she was my teenage wish-fulfillment fantasy. Amber joined an existing and ever-expanding cast of alter egos whose stories I recorded in diaries over a series of years beginning in early childhood and continuing for the duration of my time in secondary school. Sometimes I didn’t commit their stories to paper, but rather narrated them to myself in my head as I went about my daily life. They all existed in a range of time periods – some belonged to families of witches in pre-Christian Ireland, others had been captured by Vikings and lived in exile, while others were my contemporaries in late-’90s Australia. These alter-egos shared certain key characteristics and experiences: they were the best at everything they did, they (mostly) had perfect husbands or boyfriends who fell in instant love with them and whose identities were entirely subsumed by the causes that were important to the characters and their families (in other words, they were love interests who required no sacrifices or effort because they existed only to support the characters’ lives), they shared a social circle with their siblings (who were usually younger sisters whose interests aligned perfectly with those of my characters), and they were valued and rewarded for their competence and hard work with acclaim and adoration.

A lot of people treat the wish-fulfillment fantasies of teenage girls as something inherently damaging, ridiculous and embarrassing. I cannot bring myself to participate in such blanket condemnation. I’m much more interested in working out why particular fantasies (especially published fantasies such as the Twilight or Hunger Games series) gain such traction in particular instances. My own (unpublished) fantasies are pretty explicable: I wanted to be loved but feared having to change anything about myself in order to attain it, wanted to be admired and rewarded for what I perceived as my talents, and wanted the kind of relationship with my sister that I saw happening among siblings in my favourite stories. To put it more bluntly, I felt uncomfortable and powerless in my own skin and set about creating stories in which I had power and control. I cannot regret or feel embarrassed about doing so. My alter egos made my teenage years infinitely easier. Whenever I felt frightened or sad, I was usually able to lift my spirits by imagining a better world, and I was able to motivate myself to work or continue at things I found boring by telling myself that my idealised characters wouldn’t give up in the face of boredom or difficulty.

This is not to say that wish-fulfillment fantasies aimed teenage girls should be above scrutiny. Although I believe that they are treated with scorn to a much greater degree than the fantasies aimed at teenage boys or adult men (I don’t see, for example, Batman or James Bond receiving the amount of contemptuous vitriol aimed at Bella Swan or her fellow YA paranormal romance heroines), nothing is above criticism, and reviewers and bloggers should be honest in pointing out things that bother them in media that they encounter. It is with this in mind that I turn to a book that has been receiving a lot of internet buzz among YA reviewers and commentators, Laini Taylor’s Daughter of Smoke and Bone.

The main character in this work, Karou, lives a carefree existence as an art student in Prague, flitting from cafe to cafe and hanging out in an interestingly bohemian circle of friends. She has a secret existence as a messenger for the shadowy, supernatural figure Brimstone (who raised her), which enables her to travel instantaneously anywhere in the world. Her position as Brimstone’s protege grants her certain privileges – as long as she has enough currency, she can wish for whatever she wants, even the impossible (such as dyeing her hair permanently blue). In other words, Karou can do what she wants, go wherever she wants, and has a real-world existence that is already pretty cool. However, secrets from her unremembered past slowly begin to catch up with her, and as she is drawn more and more into Brimstone’s world, she realises she is in deadly danger, and that her identity as seventeen-year-old, human Karou is a lie.

So far, so harmless wish-fulfillment. The world Taylor has created is quirky and engaging, and great fun to hang around in. However, there is one element of Daughter and Smoke and Bone that bothered me so intensely that I had to devote the remainder of this blog post to it. Karou has no female friends.

This is not entirely correct. Karou has one female friend, Zuzana, who is a fellow student at the art school. However, Zuzana is marked from the start as being no equal to Karou: she is an ordinary human girl and knows nothing about Karou’s supernatural adventures. And, most importantly, she is already safely paired up with a boyfriend.

Literally every other young female character is portrayed as competition for Karou. Her human ex-boyfriend Kaz (whom Karou doesn’t even much like) acquires a new girlfriend whose sole characteristic seems to be jealousy of Karou. Even Zuzana admits to finding Kaz attractive and castigates Karou for giving him up. And a major plot point hinges on another female character being jealous of Karou’s appearance and envying her the (unwanted) attention she receives from another male character. In this way, Karou is marked as being both more desirable than all other female characters (because multiple male characters pursue her, and her alone) and more discerning (because she rejects the affections of those would-be love interests due to character flaws which are portrayed as being obvious only to her). So not only are the other female characters in competition with Karou, Taylor gives us the impression that they are stupid for doing so, because they appear blind to the flaws in the male characters which only Karou perceives. This is a sadly familiar pattern in wish-fulfillment fantasies aimed at women: we find it in Twilight and its imitations, as well as in a lot of paranormal romance aimed at adult women (such as The Southern Vampire Mysteries by Charlaine Harris and Laurell K. Hamilton’s Anita Blake series).

As someone who wrote a story about her book boyfriend being in love with her idealised character, I have a lot of sympathy for teenage (and not-so-teenage) wish-fulfillment fantasies depicting their protagonists being pursued by a multitude of love interests. It’s a powerful trope for girls who may be feeling unlovable or simply baffled at how to have romantic relationships. However, this desire to be desired should not be portrayed at the expense of functional friendships among teenage girls. Portraying all female relationships as inherently competitive and antagonistic creates a self-fulfilling prophecy in the real world whereby girls and women view all other girls and women with suspicion, undermining one another instead of supporting each other. I can say from personal experience that it has been extremely rare, from adolescence onward, that my close female friends and I were in competition for the same things (apart from, on occasion, the best grades in class).

I am not saying that there is a moral imperative for YA authors to write every relationship between female characters as being devoid of competition or even hostility. However, when every single such relationship fits this paradigm, I fear we have a problem. It’s the main reason that I will be much more cautious in seeking out works by Laini Taylor in the future. Daughter of Smoke and Bone was a bit of a lightbulb moment for me. It has the dubious honour of being the narrative which caused me to evaluate every text (particularly those aimed at teenage girls) against whether or not its protagonist has (non-antagonistic) female friends. This has become my version of the Bechdel Test. It’s not a perfect gauge of a story’s quality, but it goes a long way towards creating a favourable impression.

Dreamtrails paved with bones November 15, 2013

Posted by dolorosa12 in books, fangirl, reviews.
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I write fairly frequently about the fact that reading habits change over time, and that I feel things differently as an adult (by which I mean from about the age of 25 onwards) to how I did as a child. I seem to keep coming back to this issue again and again in my writing, worrying away at it. Because when I say I feel things differently, I suspect I mean that I feel things less. It’s as if every book, every show, every song is an attempt to regain a sort of childlike or adolescent intensity. And when I feel it, I am loquaciously grateful.

I sit here, having just finished Samantha Shannon’s debut novel The Bone Season and I am quite literally exhausted with feeling. My mouth is dry, my breathing is shallow and my heart hurts with how much I loved the book. I am astonished by it. It is as if Shannon made a list of everything I personally want in a story and then went away and wrote it for me. As you can imagine, therefore, this review will not even attempt to be objective. I will, however, attempt to explain why The Bone Season hit me in the id quite so hard.

It’s getting to the point where I should have a tag or list named ‘the rubbish I will put up with in order to get stories about humans interacting with angels, demons, or other terrifying supernatural beings’. It will be a long list. I should have a second list, named ‘Things I wish authors of stories about angels, demons and other terrifying supernatural beings would include in their stories’. It would include: a realistic dystopian setting, an extensive criminal underclass which resists passively, a heroine who hates The Oppressive System but also possesses a healthy degree of fear for it that prevents her from fighting it directly, a heroine who has a support network and preferably other female friends, and a recognition that rebellions are likely to be messy and will involve moral greyness.

In other words, the second list would describe The Bone Season. From here on, assume spoilers.

The book is the story of nineteen-year-old Paige Mahoney, who lives in an alternate version of our own world in which humans possess a variety of paranormal abilities, all of which have been outlawed by an oppressive totalitarian government. The only legal way to exist as a ‘voyant’ (short for ‘clairvoyant’) is to do the government’s dirty work and hunt other voyants, a deal which provides security at the expense of longevity. However, as would be realistic in such a setting, an extensive underground network of criminal voyant gangs has sprung up, each operating in its own patch and forming a dual function as a grey market in less than ethical commerce and a community in which fugitive voyants can attain a sense of family and acceptance. Unbeknownst to her father, who works for the government as a scientist, Paige leads a double life in one of the gangs, based in Seven Dials in London. (And can I just go off on a slightly gushing tangent and say that another reason why I adore this book so much is that all the cool people hang out in my favourite parts of London, namely Soho and Covent Garden?)

The inevitable eventually happens, and Paige is captured. Rather than being executed, as she feared, she’s brought to Sheol I, a vast, secret penal community built over the ruins of Oxford. There, Paige learns the truth about her powers and her world. She and the other voyants captured are assigned to Rephaim, extraordinarily powerful supernatural beings who reveal that the totalitarian government under which the voyants have been suffering is the puppet of the Rephaim, and that the voyants have been recruited as foot soldiers in a terrible, otherworldly battle. In Sheol I, voyants are safe to reveal their identities and hone their clairvoyant powers under the tutelage of their assigned Rephaite guard. The only catch? The voyants are prisoners, and completely at the mercy of their Rephaim captors in a profoundly unbalanced arrangement. They are expected to become ruthless soldiers, betraying their fellow voyants if necessary, and treated with utter contempt by the Rephaim, even though the latter rely on them for their existence (the Rephaim feed of the auras of voyant humans). Paige is assigned to a captor called Arcturus, whom she addresses as ‘Warden’ (as this is his position in the Rephaim hierarchy), and who begins to train her in using her abilities. He is a confusing and enigmatic force in her life, both terrifying her and on occasion betraying extraordinary vulnerability and secrets in her presence.

One thing that I really appreciate about The Bone Season is the fact that Paige is understandably wary about her safety, both in London and in Sheol I. She is not reckless, but instead makes all sorts of compromises and sacrifices in order to carve out a space for herself in two extremely dangerous situations. Far too often in stories of this kind, the heroine is overly principled and uncompromising. Paige remains an appealing, but realistically terrified individual. She is very slow to trust Warden, and makes him earn her empathy through openness, genuine and concrete support and the recognition that she possesses power and agency in her own right.

By the same token, I really dislike dystopian novels in which the heroine is completely without a support network and all other characters (especially other female characters) are indistinguishable minor jealous antagonists. Shannon avoids this pitfall admirably in The Bone Season. Paige already has her friends in the criminal voyant underworld, who, while looking out for their own interest, seem to genuinely like her and care about her and provide a space where she is accepted and valued for her abilities. Once she gets to Sheol I, she finds friends and allies among its human and Rephaite inhabitants, all of whom are three-dimensional characters in their own right. And there is no love triangle!

But the best thing about The Bone Season? It’s the first of a seven-book series.