This book would have been a lot more appealing if it leaned fully into the whimsy (the likes of Pratchett or Gaiman, based on the tone) that it was trying to emulate, rather than becoming as preachy as it did.

It would have worked as magical realism, it would have worked as full on fantasy. It doesn't, however, work as a watered down, metaphorical "Sixties Scoop" narrative, which the writer admitted it to be in a recent interview. That aspect of the story put an awful taste in my mouth and I can't get rid of it no matter how many sappy gay plotpoints Klune throws at me. 

If you're going to base a story like this on a horrific real life event, a cultural genocide, you can't tie it up in a nice little bow at the end and give it a trauma-free conclusion. Either don't stray into that at all or take your subject matter seriously.

Had it not been for that, I would have found it a lot more appealing. Older queer narratives, and found family stories, are some of my favourites, so it's hard to rate this one as low as I did.