I am a big fan of Lisa Shearin’s Raine Benares series. I was stoked to hear she had a new series, this time urban fantasy set in our world, coming out. That was … three years ago. This is book one. What happened?

Life happened. The Grendel Affair came out during my last year teaching in England. No problem, I figured—I’ll buy it when I move back in August. Then August came around, and I didn’t. I was struggling to get through the backlog of books that had somehow shown up in my room in Canada while I was away. I’m still struggling to do that. (They’re breeding, I think. Only explanation.) But when book three came out last week, I decided enough was enough. So I ordered all three books online, delivered right to my door.

That’s right: I’m binge-reading this series the way others binge on Netflix.

The Grendel Affair starts the series with high stakes already: something or someone is planning to let some grendels loose on Times Square on New Year’s, effectively exposing the supernatural world. Oh no! If only there were a secret organization of supernaturals and human, perhaps a Supernatural Protection & Investigation(s) outfit. Nah … only a centuries-old dragon would be able to mastermind something like that.

Oh snap.

The use of grendels as monsters feels pretty original. I can’t say I’ve run across those in urban fantasy yet. And Shearin spends a good amount of time establishing them as interesting monsters in their own right. They are mostly beast-like, but they’ve got a sense of strategy to them. The grendels and their offspring are formidable foes, but at the same time they aren’t so powerful that defeating them feels like a deus ex machina.

Otherwise, The SPI Files is pretty standard fare: werewolves and vampires, goblins and elves (hmm, don’t those sound familiar), ex-NYPD officers and seers and—oh, what? Yeah, our narrator, Makenna Fraser, is a human whose only powers include a nose for investigative journalism and the ability to see through the veils and glamours that let supernaturals hide in plain sight. Despite this ability, she is still technically a human. I appreciate that Shearin chooses to give us a protagonist with so few powers (at least for now).

Nevertheless, Mac might be the weakest thing about this book. Her lack of active power means she feels a bit like a reader surrogate protagonist-on-rails—always being dragged around by the other characters, reacting more than acting. Let’s be clear: not every urban fantasy protagonist has to be an awesome fighter, and a woman doesn’t have to be able to kick ass to be “strong” or progressive. But I want to see Mac do more than cringe and gripe at the various supernatural creatures around her. The tractor and the paintball gun were a nice start, but I hope she grows over the series into a more complex protagonist.

That’s the key, I think: over the series. This is clearly the first book in an ongoing series, and Shearin does a lot of legwork. In some respects it’s less subtle than I like—the opening chapter just showers us in exposition and backstory—and in other places it’s more delightfully ambiguous. For instance, Mac is pretty clearly attracted to Ian, but will she act on it? Who knows? Shearin had an intense love triangle happening in her other series, so I wouldn’t be surprised if a romance is on the books for these books—but maybe it’s not the one that’s being telegraphed so heavily here.

Now, despite laying ground for subsequent novels, The Grendel Affair is still a good standalone story. There is a sense of urgency to the plot, and it climaxes with a tense series of scenes and battle sequences that leave you breathless. I read this on a Saturday night (because I have especially exciting Saturday nights), curled up in a chair, just enjoying an action-packed story.

With six novels already, Shearin has a well-established style, and it’s in play here. Her voice and approach to description and characterization remain the same. That being said, The SPI Files is definitely new ground, and Mac is by no means a carbon copy of Raine. I can’t wait to read the next book—and unlike you scrubs who had to wait a whole year, I don’t have to. Is this what the people just starting to read A Song of Ice and Fire feel like? Because it feels good.

My reviews of The SPI Files:
The Dragon Conspiracy →

These book titles remind of the titles of The Big Bang Theory episodes. First The Grendel Affair and then The Dragon Conspiracy. It’s cute, and hopefully Lisa Shearin won’t have to write so many that she starts to run out of ideas like that TV show….

In this sequel, Mac Fraser and Ian Byrne are investigating the theft of magical diamonds with bad mojo. There’s yet another rival dragon in town, this one a big bad Russian. And if a kidnapped gem mage who has no idea about the supernatural world activates the diamonds on Halloween, supernaturals across New York will be unmasked or killed instantly. So, kind of a big deal.

I’d like to point out the time jump here: The Grendel Affair took place on New Year’s Eve, and now we’re at Halloween of (presumably) the same year. Quite a bit might have happened to Mac over that time (yay, space for shorts!). This is a stark contrast to the lack of time jump in between this book and the third one.

When considered in light of this long gap, elements of the story that might seem surprising make more sense. For example, Mac and Ian feel like much more of a team in this one. I’ve read a few reviews that comment on how the transition from romantic/sexual tension to a sibling-like relationship in this one—complete with Mac giving Ian some dating encouragement—seemed oddly abrupt. And it is, from our point of view, because it’s only the next book. But for Mac and Ian, it’s been 10 months of working on the job together, with plenty of time to sort all that other stuff out. And, personally, I’m am a little relieved. I love depictions of functional, platonic friendships across gender lines, especially in a genre so heavy on the romance. There’s nothing to stop Mac from dating someone else—like say a certain goblin. Not that I’m picking a team yet.

The Dragon Conspiracy also benefits from being more of a mystery than the first book. While it still has an intense time crunch, Mac and Ian have to do a lot more work to figure out who is behind the theft (and even then, Shearin sets up a more shadowy Big Bad who remains unknown—yay for arcs!). Mac’s talents as an investigative journalist finally start to shine here, which is a nice change from the first book, where she seemed vastly under-utilized. Nevertheless, I’m still not satisfied with her portrayal. It’s like, can I replace this protagonist with a potato, and would the story still mostly make sense? Sure, it’s great that Mac’s abilities have expanded a bit, and she makes some contributions—but overall, she doesn’t stand out. She’s just there. One reason I enjoyed the Raine Benares books so much was because of Raine’s presence. While Shearin tries to give Mac some semblance of presence, it mostly seems like generic trappings and tropes.

Shearin continues to build the mythology of this world. Gorgons are a nice touch, and we learn more about how various other supernatural entities work—for example, vampirism and lycanthropy are like diseases, whereas elves and goblins and dragons are species. There are also hints that the dimension elves and goblins hail from is, in fact, the Seven Kingdoms of the Benares books (same goblin monarch, for one). That made my inner fanboy squee a little.

Also, if your library is one such that perpetually seems to have all the books in a series except the first, you won’t be too badly off. I’m not saying to skip The Grendel Affair, but if you read books 1 and 2 out of order, you won’t be lost or ruined by spoilers. The callbacks in this one are light enough that you can enjoy it without the context that the first book provides.

The Dragon Conspiracy is another promising entry in the series. It’s fun, which is pretty much the most important criterion for me with short, urban fantasy stuff like this. That being said, the series hasn’t yet hit its stride; there are still awkward moments when the book struggles with what kind of tone it should take towards some events. Many of the flippant moments seem a little forced, or bizarre (you can only mention Dramamine so many times for a laugh before (a) non-American readers have to Google to figure out what the brand name substance is and (b) the whole “ha-hah, Mac is getting motion sickness from all the epic chase stuff” wears thin). But just when the story stumbles, it redeems itself—I have to admit I really like the way Ben and Ciara get thrown together so fatefully. I might not have found a Mac team yet, but I’d totally ship those two.

As I mentioned in my previous review, I am binge-reading these ones, so The Brimstone Deception is up next. It’s going to be Hell.

My reviews of The SPI Files:
← The Grendel Affair | The Brimstone Deception →

Another Cassie book, more in the vein of #14: The Unknown than #19: The Departure. Applegate experiments with absurdism here With slightly more sophisticated humour than “hah hah, it’s an Andalite toilet!”—riffs on gender and politics and, of course, bureaucracy—The Suspicion holds a little more appeal on the comedic front. Also, the story is better, even if the ending is a hot mess.

Instead of Area 51 and horses, this time we get Helmacrons. Ax doesn’t know of them, but Visser Three seems to recognize them. Tiny and terrifying only in their minds, the Helmacrons are bent on galactic domination. It’s like those aliens in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy who journey to Earth to destroy it after overhearing Arthur Dent’s wormhole-traversing insult. Except instead of being swallowed by a dog, the Helmacrons find the Escafil device (which everyone, even Ax, just calls the blue box). They want to use its power for evil but instead just end up shrinking the Animorphs. Hilarity ensues.

Cassie, as the narrator, ends up making some neat deductions about the physics of their diminutive state. Even Visser Three is impressed, in his own way, when he catches up with her discoveries, including how to seize an advantage over the Helmacrons. Applegate continues to establish Cassie as the Tactician, the one who can size up a situation and see the options available to the Animorphs.

I also found the opening exchange between Cassie and Rachel about clothes and C/ake very endearing. Applegate is not subtle about how the two female Animorphs are worlds apart, yet they remain friends. Cassie tolerates going to the beach because it’s what Rachel wants to do. Meanwhile, Applegate acknowledges that the Aniomrphs have Real Teen Feelings, without letting those feelings and that drama take over the story like in some YA series. (Seriously, the world is ending, and you care about who’s taking whom to the prom?)

More and more, these humourous breaks in the series make Animorphs feel like a network television show. Star Trek: The Next Generation and especially Star Trek: Deep Space Nine used to do this: every so often there would be a light-hearted episode. Usually they end being among the least-liked of the series, but once in a while they offer compelling counterpoints to the heavier stuff happening around them. I’d be remiss if I didn’t give a shout-out to “One Little Ship,” the DS9 episode that also features shrinking humour.

I would have liked this book better if the ending had been more tightly plotted. As it is, the story wraps up abruptly. Applegate handwaves a truce between Visser Three and the Animorphs long enough for everyone to become regular size and walk away safely. I’m not saying that’s unbelievable, but I think it deserved more attention than it gets here. But it’s as if she reached her word limit, didn’t want to revise, and just said, “Fuck it: everyone lives! Happy? Oh, and they all got unshrunk.”

At the time, reading these books as each one came out, The Suspicion would have been a good instalment. It would be a satisfying fix until the next book. However, re-reading a long-running book series sometimes feels like re-watching a TV series—there are episodes you just don’t care to revisit, not necessarily because they are bad, but because they are silly, or you’ve seen them one too many times, and they don’t really add much. You might watch it in the rotation, sure, but it’s not like when you have friends over you’re going to pull it out and say, “Ah, yes, let’s read this one!”

My reviews of Animorphs:
← #23: The Pretender | #25: The Extreme →

Look, I know the writing is clunky and the kids read more like twelve-year-olds than the fifteen-year-olds they’re supposed to be. I know the story jerks about in stops and starts. I know Nicholas Flamel is a terrible role model and these kids should not be emulating him.

But. But.

I still really enjoyed The Alchemyst. And this is one of those times I’m glad I tend to wait a day or two before writing my reviews, because I figured out why it was so enjoyable: it’s like the Saturday morning cartoons I watched as a kid. There were some awesome cartoons in the ’90s—I’m recalling Mighty Max in particular right now, which was about a kid who had a “cosmic” baseball cap that let him travel through time and space with some kind of owl sidekick. It was fun and at times educational, but the ending, if I recall correctly, was very dark. Like Mighty Max, The Alchemyst is obviously pitched at younger children, obviously trying to balance some educational content while having fun with myths and legends—and it too has a very dark tone to it.

I love the archetypal antagonism between Flamel and Dee. I even appreciate Michael Scott’s attempts to muddy the waters with Dee trying to cast doubt in Josh’s mind that he is on the correct side. It’s all a little predictable and heavy-handed (like most of the book), but it also makes sense. I mean, for you to think that you’re humanity’s only hope—so much so that you brew an immortality potion to keep going for six hundred years—requires a pretty big ego. The twins have nothing but Flamel’s own word (or the word of someone Flamel vouches for) that Flamel is the good guy. They are right to be sceptical. Of course, Dee and his allies are so stereotypical and obvious in their evil that it’s hard to see them winning anyone over.

Scott’s attempt to syncretize various mythologies into his universe of the Elder Race and the humani is not as smooth. Your mileage will vary, but overall I guess I just wasn’t too energized by anything that happens with the mythological creatures. Maybe the most intimidating and interesting one was the Morrigan, a character/characters from Irish mythology I hadn’t before encountered. Unfortunately, while Scott is quite dedicated at delivering a little exposition about each creature we meet (the twins’ parents are archaeologists, as they remind us frequently), the story’s headlong rush towards climactic confrontation leaves little time to stop and explore the implications. Similarly, it seemed like every few chapters Scott would reach into the toolbox and pull out another fantasy/mythology concept almost at random—ooh, ley lines!

This is the trade-off between pacing and depth, of course, and is probably one reason why I find most thrillers more shallow than I would like. For example, Perenelle is a kickass character, and she has some great scenes. But she is largely under-utilized. I don’t want to say she is damselled, because while technically captured, I wouldn’t necessarily say she is in “distress” until the very end. Indeed, even while prisoner she finds ways to help Flamel, Sophie, and Josh. Because she is awesome! Nevertheless, being reduced to a support role means she spends much of the book on the sidelines.

Despite these gripes about the storytelling and characterization, I can’t bring myself to fault the book too much. It’s a rush. I didn’t really like Sophie and Josh individually, but I appreciate how they interact with each other. Sophie’s ability to defuse Dee’s seduction with a single line is an excellent example of the power of family and being loved, and while I might not have teared up, I was certainly moved. There is a compelling story happening here, a story that is both epic and endearing. And good stories can usually make up for subpar or mediocre writing, as long as there aren’t major issues in grammar and whatnot.

The Alchemyst, then, is a fun but not necessarily “great” read. I wouldn’t call it a classic, and I don’t know if I’ll pick up the sequels (probably, since it seems like my library has them all, but maybe not right away). Older readers will breeze through it, and younger readers will be able to immerse themselves in it. Scott works hard to bring history and mythology to the page; he doesn’t always succeed at making them work with the story, but the extent of his efforts almost makes up for that clumsiness in execution.

I love it when a book manages to surprise me! I picked this up from the library at a whim, no real expectations, but not overly optimistic from the vague description and some of the reviews I read here on Goodreads. Ash & Bramble gets likened to a Cinderella retelling, but that’s a bit like saying Hansel and Gretel: Witchhunters was a retelling of Hansel and Gretel—in that it is entirely inaccurate. Sarah Prineas actually engages in a very high-concept metafictional exercise that delights the lit nerd in me, even as the deliberately stock characterization makes the story fall flat at times.

Pin is a slave to Story, as are the fellow nameless prisoners in the Fortress. She manages to escape, along with Shoe. I read some reviews that lamented these names, but if you stick with the book long enough to understand what’s happening, they begin to make sense. These people have been kidnapped by the Godmother, their memories taken from them, to fuel the turning of Story’s wheel—as long as Story goes on, the magic keeps flowing. It’s a very sinister take on the concept of fairy tales and how our beliefs reify myths.

What really cinched this book for me was the idea that the Godmother was just as caught up in this as anyone else. She is not the moustache-twirling antagonist. While she started Story, it has become so powerful she is now part of the pattern. It made me wonder who she was and how she originally conceived of this gambit—I’m kind of hankering for a prequel, in which Godmother and the Witch face off against each other, with the Witch losing.

In contrast, Pin and Shoe aren’t as interesting—but what happens to them is. They escape the Fortress pretty quickly, only to be separated, with Pin losing her memory a second time and becoming Pen (Penelope), thrust into the Cinderella Story pattern that consigns Ash & Bramble to its eternity of inaccurate comparison to a fairytale-retelling. I admit to some confusion at first—but then I really began to dig this narrative twist. Firstly, Prineas is able to give Shoe a lot more agency now that he is on his own (in the Fortress, the defiant Pin pretty much drags him around on the escape mission, and while it’s fun and suspenseful, Shoe comes off as … well … a Shoe). Secondly, I could feel a lot of sympathy for Pin/Pen, especially with everyone around her (Shoe included) trying to tell her what role she should have. She has her memory taken from her not once but twice!

I also love the love triangle that isn’t a love triangle. And again, it gets some hate from this in other reviews—I kind of understand those reactions, because it does feel awkward. But that’s also the point—Story is pushing Pen and Cor together. The whole idea that we can’t be sure of the genuineness of Cor’s feelings for Pen is so insidious. Nevertheless, both Cor and Shoe treat Pen with respect. And they don’t try to coddle or sideline her like some of the love interests do to female protagonists in other books.

Where Ash & Bramble starts to fall down is the last part of the book, when Pen et al are finally ready to take on Story. The first two-thirds of the book is a wild ride, full of tension as we figure out what’s happening and watch Pen and Shoe try to escape from Story’s clutches. But when they finally decide to stage their little rebellion, it happens a little too smoothly. Pen is almost on autopilot, relying quite a bit on her thimble. While I’ll cop to loving the final showdown between her and the Godmother, and the way Pen tries to overcome the Godmother’s raw force of will, the ending just doesn’t feel as clever as the rest of the book.

And I really do think the book is, by and large, clever. For whatever flaws or holes it has, it has a very experimental vibe to it, and I like that. I was a bit at a loss for why it’s shelved as young adult, because it just feels … general audience to me. That being said, if its YA label means younger readers pick this up and get exposed to more high-concept stories, all the better. I love the diversity of literature, how we can have straightforward narratives and narratives that play with your mind like this one does. Ash & Bramble is far from “Cinderella retold.” It’s a cool literary tweak of the whole idea of fairytale magic.

After a long spate of young adult novels, and in particular the very harrowing Asking for It, I needed a palate-cleanser. How much further can we get than a book about the expedition to define the metre?

I take the metre for granted. It’s just there. I was aware, vaguely, of the various ways in which it has been defined, and I knew that the metric system came out of the French Revolution. What I didn’t realize, however, is how close we came to having a different metre—or to not having a metre at all. If any number of events did not happen precisely as they did, we might still have unit chaos, or we might be using a metre that looks much different from the one we have today.

It’s this exploration of the politics around the definition of the metre that makes The Measure of All Things so fascinating. Although Ken Alder takes the time to explain some of the science and engineering that went into this expedition and its efforts, this story is ultimately about people, and how their egos and follies can shape entire generations of scientific thought.

It’s attractive to think of science as neutral or objective. Indeed, when I was younger that is often how I thought of it. While this might be a goal towards which science strives, it is naive to believe we can achieve such neutrality. Science is a process of human endeavour, and so ultimately it is vulnerable to social biases. We must acknowledge these biases and remain watchful for when they show up in our efforts. Similarly, we can’t just pretend that science is free of the influence of politics. It’s tempting to assume that science transcends national and corporate loyalties, but that is a dangerous fiction to maintain.

Probably few have been as aware of this as the scientists—or savants as Alder calls them—labouring during the French Revolution. With the political winds shifting every year, it was all too easy to find yourself out of favour—which, in this climate, typically meant losing your head. It’s also important to recognize that many of the innovations introduced at this time, including the metric system, were spurred on by revolutionary motives. Hence, politics drives and influences science far more than we might want to admit. The metric system was supposed to standardize weights and measures across France, giving the nation a renewed unity that would help solve some of the problems with taxation and commerce that had plagued the country under monarchy. Moreover, in the form of the meridian expedition, it would be a work of national pride: French savants on French soil would measure the Earth and use its glorious natural proportions to define a new unit of measurement!

And then they screwed it up.

Alder knows how to tell a tale: The Measure of All Things is a mixture of a couple of biographies and some intrigue set against the backdrop of Revolutionary France. I was fairly interested in a story of the development of the metre, but I absolutely cannot resist non-fiction that promises me scandal! intrigue! cover-ups! And this book has all of those things in spades. As Delambre makes his way through the rural villages of northern France, you hold your breath with each delay and detainment by the suspicious villagers. (The Enlightenment, of course, was a phenomenon exclusive more to the privileged and urban inhabitants of Europe. Superstition and mistrust of savants was still the order of the day, and given this context, it’s easier to understand why that still seems to be the case in parts of North America.) Likewise, the tension on the southern leg of the expedition as Méchain agonizes over his discrepancies and delays departures keeps you constantly guessing as to how everything will shake out. I mean, we know the broad strokes of how the expedition ends, but there was plenty I didn’t know.

Alder excels at providing the historical context for the astronomers’ discoveries, as well as explaining how astronomers went about actually measuring the Earth. Geodesy is cool, and if you haven’t spent much time thinking about the shape of the Earth, this book will give you a crash course in some of the innovative methods people have created over the centuries. We in the era of GPS devices are so divorced from this type of technology that it’s easy to forget that the actual methods are very basic. Delambre and Méchain were using techniques similar to what geodesers use today—we just have more precise and accurate tools.

Speaking of which, I loved Alder’s digression into the difference between precision and accuracy, and his description of Laplace’s development of error theory. Going to be honest: even as a mathematician, I don’t like statistics. But I always find it interesting how certain aspects of mathematics and science emerged (in their rigorous form at least) relatively late—Delambre and Méchain had access to a lot of good mathematical tools, but error analysis wasn’t one of them.

I also appreciate how The Measure of All Things does not succumb to the Great Man Theory of history. Yes, it foregrounds the two leaders of the meridian expedition, and Alder ascribes much of what transpires to those leaders’ particular personalities—Delambre striving for integrity and transparency, Méchain obsessed with precision and completeness. I can definitely see how the expedition might have turned out differently if, say, Cassini IV had ended up leading it. Nevertheless, Alder never supposes that these two great men were Great Men who dual-handedly put France, and the world, on the path to metric. He points to the confluence of other factors that made this the right time, right place. He highlights the work of other savants, such as Borda, Lalande, Laplace, Legendre, et al, who developed theories or devices that made the expedition possible. He also points out the diplomats and public servants who at various times helped or hindered the expedition. Finally, Alder mentions the people who supported the expedition leaders: their assistants (often very capable savants or surveyors in their own right) and family (Thèrese Méchain was a pretty cool lady, given her ability to manage the Observatory on her own and the way she just up-and-joined her husband to try to talk him away from the abyss).

At times Alder likes his digressions a little too much. Did I really need the entire backstory on Lalande? No, although I admit it was interesting. Did I really want those last couple of chapters on the metric system post-Revolution, including most of a chapter devoted to the United States? Not really. The Measure of Things is detailed and comprehensive in pursuing its topic, and as such it’s also overly long and occasionally to detailed for its own good.

I would definitely recommend this book to anyone interested in history or the scientific method. Even if you’re not that interested in learning about the inception of the metric system, this is a different approach to looking at the French Revolution that you might appreciate. Other than my criticisms about the length and digressions, Alder’s writing is remarkably clear and unassuming; he is always honest about what we know or don’t know from the evidence and correspondence he could find. Too many popular history books inject the author’s view into the conversation—sometimes that is useful or necessary, depending on the topic, but it’s a welcome absence here.

Regardless of your opinions of the metric system, it has shaped the modern world. That all started in the 1790s in France, ended in the early 1800s, and gradually came back into vogue over the next two centuries. The Measure All Things promises to trace the development of the metre as an aspirational unit based on the size of the Earth; it also promises to unmask and clarify the ways in which this aspiration went awry through human error and political machination. It delivers on both of these promises, and the result is a fascinating and enjoyable non-fiction book, the perfect palate-cleanser before I dive back into some hard-hitting YA.

One reason I love the Victorian novel? It’s remarkably self-aware. Victorian authors tend to have an appreciation of irony and can wield characters-as-social-commentary like nobody’s business. Victorian England was a time of immense social and technological change, novelists of that era tended to be of a position and background that gave them something to say and the means to say it. While I’m not here to condemn the novels of any other time period, I will say that over the intervening years, the evolution of novel from a serial and pulp form to a massive, mass-market industry means that the character of the novel has changed. We still get self-aware books, but we also get a lot of incredibly earnest narratives. And that isn’t bad—just different.

Indeed, I love Victorian literature, but even I am not crazy enough to recommend it to everyone. Some people don’t have the energy or inclination to battle with the stilted (from our perspective) language or the historical context. So in that respect, I’m actually really glad I found something like this book: it has so many of the elements I enjoy about Victorian literature, but it’s more readable—and did I mention the dragons?

Tooth and Claw is the Victorian novel you’ve always wanted: that is, a Victorian novel with dragons. “But wait, Ben,” you say, “surely I remember there was a dragon at the end of Bleak House.” No, silly reader of my reviews, that was a carriage. “Oh-hoh! But was there not a dragon in Jude the Obscure?” Sadly not, dear reader: that was a pile of used bricks behind the schoolhouse. Easy mistake to make.

Yes, it is hard to believe, but think about it: dragons are mysteriously absent from Victorian literature. It is almost as if there is a vast conspiracy at work. *dramatic music*

From the beginning to the end, this is a fantastically plotted, well-realized story. The dragon society has all these neat little touches. Walton uses sexual dimorphism to highlight the different expectations society places on men and women: men have claws, have to worry about being challenged to fights, have to think about position and rank and money and marrying off their daughters; women have hands, can write, have to worry about blushing (an irreversible physical sign of arousal) before engagement, and tend to eventually die from egg-laying. There are strictures around religion and flight, and even that same Victorian-style hang-up over the proliferation of new technology, like railways. Oh, and there are hats. So many hats and hairpieces: dragon fashion is kind of limited by their size and shape, of course, so hats are status symbols.

In this world, then, Walton introduces us to a few related families of varying social status. After the death of the Agnornin patriarch, his children have to make their way into the world. Lawsuits, proposals, and confessions ensue. Along the way, Walton’s nameless narrator shows a keen sense of humour appropriate for the Victorian tone of the piece:

It has been baldly stated in this narrative that Penn and Sher were friends at school and later at the Circle, and being gentle readers and not cruel and hungry readers who would visit a publisher’s offices with the intention of rending and eating an author who had displeased them, you have taken this matter on trust.

I love how Walton seamlessly combines the characteristics of her dragon society with the attitudes and tones of a Victorian author exhorting her readers not to be too cruel.

Reading this as a Victorian novel of comedic mishaps and misfortune, then, you get to enjoy the characters. Some are well-meaning but naive, like Avan; others are scheming, moustache-twirling, fire-breathing villains and scoundrels, like Daverak. The female dragons are well-realized and diverse, with each responding to romantic attractions in different ways and each pursuing different political/social agendas. Through this cast, Walton traces the ways in which people conform to and conflict with society’s expectations. And there are dinner parties!

Tooth and Claw is also a transcendent work of fantasy fiction. There is a lot of fantasy out there with dragons. Like, a lot. Some of it is really quite good. Nevertheless, as much as I love high fantasy (and really need to read some more of it soon), I feel like a lot of high fantasy with dragons tends to tread similar ground. Walton really breaks the mould here, demonstrating that it’s possible to play with and stretch the fantasy genre, and the idea of high fantasy creatures like dragons, to ever more malleable extents. She certainly isn’t the first or only author to do this, but this book is a short, sweet, standalone example. Indeed, I particularly appreciate that this is not part of a series.

The ending is exciting, and while a bit simplistic, still very exhilarating. All I can say is that if you enjoy the story as it develops and get into the mood of following these characters through their little drama, you will find a good payoff at the end. Tooth and Claw is just a pleasant, almost picturesque read. You know, if it weren’t for all the blood and guts and flesh the dragons keep eating.

So many friend reviews of this book—and so many opinions! It seems that The Eyre Affair is one of those books that some people love on first sight and others find incredibly tedious, confusing, or just unbelievable. I see elements of both, and so, more often than I would like, I find myself on the fence with these polarizing reads. It’s not a position I see as superior—if anything it smacks of indecision to me. As much as I might like to slap two stars or four stars on this book, though, I can’t. We’re settling for three, here, people, and let me tell you why.

On one hand, this is a book of postmodern literary genius. It’s a bit of an absurdist romp, Wodehouse meets Douglas Adams meets Nick Harkaway. There’s a delightful energy to the pacing, which isn’t quite breathless but has a kind of whistle-stop quality to it. Nevertheless, you don’t feel like you’re on rails—the stakes are genuine, at at a couple of points I had to put the book down to puzzle out how Thursday might get out of this scrape (only for a deus ex machina of one kind or another, but more on that in a moment).

Jasper Fforde clearly has a massive hard-on for literature—but don’t we all? Love of books and reading suffuses this novel like the rank odour of Harry Potter fans camped out in a bookstore for the release of The Deathly Hallows. In this alternative 1985, people are inconceivably obsessed with books. Most everyone has a hard stance on the question of Shakespearean authorship, and Thursday’s hometown of Swindon boasts an ongoing weekly audience-run production of Richard III. The Crimean War never ended, but that’s OK, because the mysterious Goliath Corporation helped win the Second World War but is now secretly running the place.

And there’s time travel and animal cloning and transportation into books via portals.

Seriously, I cannot describe how utterly absurd this book is. I read some pretty bonkers things about it before I took the plunge, and none of that prepared me for the sheer delight of falling into these pages and being swept up by the pure power of Fforde’s prose. You just have to shrug and go with it. None of it makes sense, but it all kind of feels right—like a Kevin Smith movie, if you surgically remove those last vestiges of plot.

Oh, right, I had another hand around here somewhere….

See, The Eyre Affair is annoying at times. Most absurdist literature is, simply by dint of its construction. And that’s probably why many people don’t enjoy it, and why so many people who enjoy some absurdist stories don’t like others. As much as I love Fforde’s alternative 1985, the characters do very little for me. They are mostly weird, shallow, one-dimensional beings—and frankly, kind of creepy. In fact, they feel almost like characters in a story. And that’s kind of the last thing I want from characters in a story. It’s just too real, you know? And that’s so fake.

Part of me while reading this just kept thinking, why am I not re-reading The Gone-Away World? It’s a fantastic, similarly nonsensical book that includes people who aren’t real and mysterious government/corporate interference, and a never-ending war.

And I’m going to end this review here, because that’s about it. The Eyre Affair is really fun, but it’s fun like some amusement park rides: you’re great as long as you stay on it, and the moment you get off, your stomach catches up with you. I’m glad I didn’t jump at taking the rest of the series out of the library when I got this book—while I might read the sequels at some point, I’m largely indifferent to if I learn more about Thursday Next.

But if you should happen to see a book character walking around….

Trigger warnings for discussions of suicide and Faustian bargains with eldritch beings.

Mean Girls is one of my favourite movies of all time. It was the first movie I ever purchased for myself on DVD. (If you are reading this in the future, kids, DVDs were the optical media of choice for storing video, back before Netflix just decided to store everything directly in your brain.) It’s a scathing, fun, moving look at the harmful nature of high school hierarchies. While I was largely indifferent to and ignorant of those kinds of things in my high school, it’s something that fascinates me, and that I find particularly important now that I’m a teacher.

Mortal Danger has a lot in common with Mean Girls, right down to having its own version of the Plastics. (Ann Aguirre calls them Teflons in what can only be a deliberate tip of the hat.) Instead of the new girl at school infiltrating the Plastics in order to destroy and humiliate them from within, Edie Kramer does this—with some supernatural assistance—to get revenge for what the Teflons and their boytoy entourage did to her at the end of the previous school year. Unfortunately, things don’t go exactly as planned. She starts falling for her supernatural ally, who is beholden to the Big Bad and can’t help her the way she likes. And she discovers, rather uncomfortably, that the Teflons aren’t as non-stick as everyone believes.

I get why this book has so many lukewarm reviews on Goodreads. I was really looking forward to this, because Aguirre is one half of the team behind Bronze Gods, a delightful steampunk mystery novel. My reaction to finding this in the library stacks was long the lines of, “Whoa, Ann Aguirre wrote a YA novel?” and then a furtive glance around me to make sure no one overheard that comment and was coming to wrest the book from my hands before I could check it out. (Survival of the fittest patron and whatnot.)

Alas, this does not have a promising start. The opening scene, in which Kian saves Edie from suicide by persuading her with a Faustian bargain, is exposition-heavy. I’m not sure how Aguirre might have fixed this, because we don’t know Edie yet and haven’t had any time for Aguirre to show us why she’s suicidal. But it made for a rather dull opening, and the first third of the book isn’t much better.

Edie’s first of three wishes (Aguirre calls them favours, but they are wishes and Kian is just a glammed up genie, mmkay?) is for beauty. She wants a hot bod, and while I don’t blame a teenage girl for thinking this way, I was surprised Aguirre went there. It seemed like a shallow, or at least careless, reinforcement of body image norms. But I was more than happy to give Aguirre the benefit of a doubt, so I followed Edie as she goes off for the summer to develop confidence with her new look before returning to Blackbriar Academy to lay down some AAA revenge against the Teflons.

The book takes a turn for the better as Edie’s revenge plot thickens. Specifically, she discovers that the Teflons are actually people—shocking, but a far deeper idea than I expected after the disappointing beginning. Aguirre quickly develops the Teflons into three-dimensional girls who, like Edie, are full of insecurities and personality quirks, complete with the motivation for why they treated her so horribly. So what I was worried would be a hardcore revenge fantasy turns instead into a story of how Edie starts to understand the Teflons and even befriend some of them (all but the one who isn’t, it turns out, an actual inhuman monster).

Mean Girls follows a similar trajectory as it deconstructs the Plastics trope: the problem is not the people but the social structure they yolk themselves to like a deity hungry for sacrifices. After Cady splits up the Plastics, they all discover how to channel their own interests and talents in a fulfilling way. Similarly, Edie helps to change the dynamic of the Teflons for the better. Even when it comes to Cameron, perhaps the person for whom she feels the most animosity over his actions last year, Edie discovers a twinge of sympathy after learning about how his parents are seldom around and his genuine feelings for Brittany.

This is a dimension of the conversation around bullying and adolescent power dynamics that isn’t often discussed. It goes beyond the “oh, but bullies were probably bullied too” narrative. It’s a lesson that is very important, in my opinion, for teens to learn: you can feel sympathy for people even if you don’t like them. And it’s a lesson that, let’s face it, many adults seem to have forgotten, if the polarizing and often hyperbolic tone of many of the political discussions in social media (and on TV) are any evidence. Edie never gets to the point where she might call Cameron a friend like she does with Jen or Davina, but she can still sympathize with his troubles, even as she continues to hope he’ll get taken down a peg or two. The truth is, people are complex beings, and it’s worth acknowledging all our contradictions.

Just as this part of the story gets good, however, the supernatural aspects of Mortal Danger topple it. The cover copy of this book is very clever. It insinuates a fantasy element but plays coy, so you don’t really know if there is something supernatural involved for a while (even at the beginning, Kian seems to imply it’s more science than magic). Even as Edie learns more about Wedderburn’s origins and motives, Aguirre balances that by dangling the prospect of time travel in front of us.

Edie and Kian’s struggle to free her from Wedderburn and the Game is pretty compelling. Unfortunately, it is hamstrung by a couple of problems. Firstly, Edie and Kian just don’t have any chemistry, and their romance feels utterly forced in that “well, it’s YA, so I guess the boy and girl lead need to be involved, hurr hurr” kind of way. Kian is super-creepy and stalkerish, and he keeps concealing things from Edie “for her own good.” To be fair, Aguirre lampshades this, and Kian also makes it clear he values Edie’s intelligence and initiative. Secondly, Edie learns that Wedderburn wants her to burn her last two wishes as quickly as possible … and then does nothing about it. He gloats at the end that she plays right into his hands, and he is right. Although Aguirre attempts to give Edie fortitude and the ability to stand up to the various supernatural beings who confront her, none of this seems to allow her to do much in the way of planning or going on the offensive. She just waits around for things to happen, and meanwhile continues going to school and applying for colleges like nothing strange is happening.

So Mortal Danger is a strange combination of a Mean Girls–esque revenge story and a supernatural tale of the power of belief. It can’t quite balance these two elements, however, creating instead a lopsided narrative that never seems to reach a definitive climax. If the book could find a way to make up its mind, or meld these two elements together into a more unified plot, I could see this being a very powerful story. As it is, there are highlights—but these get dashed by the dull parts in between.

What disappoints me more, however, is how Edie never confronts her underlying trauma. She has been driven to suicide by the persistent, unapologetic bullying of her peers … and after Kian appears and beautifies her, those thoughts just seem to evaporate. Now, I’m not claiming to be an expert on this at all—and Aguirre talks about how parts of Edie’s experience come from her own adolescence, so I don’t want to discount her lived experience here. But a makeover—no matter how deep—and a summer away do not automatically fix your life. So Edie is still in deep denial. This, combined with the trauma her family experiences at the end of the book, does not bode well for her psyche in the sequel.

Mortal Danger has a lot of interesting elements that recommend it. But altogether I can’t get excited: it’s supernatural, but not supernatural enough; it’s high school drama, but not high school dramatic enough; it has strange, sometimes-laudable, sometimes-awful social commentary. In general, it seems like a novel that is full of ideas but can’t choose which ones it wants to embody.

I could see Making Pretty making it as your standard rom-com fare. (You might have to age-up the characters, but not by much). Corey Ann Haydu creates a good setup here. At first the book promises to be about two sisters drifting apart as one goes off to college and the other finishes high school. Once united in an us-against-the-world kind of bond forged by their mother’s departure and their dad’s subsequent string of wives, the sisters in their time apart find that they are making choices the other won’t necessarily understand. This is a theme, with many parallels, explored by Rainbow Rowell in Fangirl. And the short version of this review, if you don’t feel like reading on, would be: go read Fangirl instead.

This book begins with promise, but its two-dimensional characters and shallow plotting undermine it. Montana and Arizona begin as complex creations. They carry a great deal of baggage about body image given to them by a plastic-surgeon father and the stepmothers whom he transformed with his craft—so much so that on their thirteenth birthdays, he and Stepmom #2 gave the sisters gift certificates for a free cosmetic procedure of their choice. Immediately one of the wedges driven between the sisters this summer is Arizona’s acquiescence, in the form of breast enlargement, much to Montana’s disapproval. Throughout the novel, Haydu emphasizes the way that their father’s objectification of women has influenced the sisters’ ideas of body image and self-esteem.

This fairly interesting theme is one of the reasons the book manages to hold together, and managed to hold my interest, despite the lacklustre characterization. Nowhere is this problem more evident than Karissa, Montana’s Manic Pixie Dream Girl and new bestie for the summer. Haydu initially positions Karissa as a kind of free spirit and radical influence on our teenage narrator. I was down with that. Then comes the twist where Karissa is lined up to be Stepmom #4 … and I thought that was brilliant as well. It neatly illustrates the dysfunctional father–daughter relationship.

Karissa is the consummate actor, and everything about her is constructed and fake even before Montana’s father gets his hands on her. We never get to glimpse the real Karissa. While that could have been fascinating, her behaviour around Montana is more annoying than anything else—we never get a genuine moment of introspection or humanity from her. Even when Montana expresses variations on discomfort, anger, and outrage, Karissa acts like a robot without any understanding of the nuances of human discontent. Her answer to everything is wine and hugs and kisses on the cheek.

If it were just Karissa, I could chalk it up to good characterization. But most of the characters are like this. Bernardo exists to pump up Montana and act as an outlet for her fantasies. He is always pushing her to newer, edgier heights of rebellion. Montana’s father treats his daughters like they are eight, and he never engages in an honest discussion with them. Also he proposes marriage after knowing someone for … a month? Two? Arizona and Montana, meanwhile, bicker like real sisters would … but they never have an actual, honest-to-goodness, fight. (The same goes for Montana and Bernardo. How can you call it a romantic relationship when you haven’t even had your first fight?)

My point, then, is that the characters just don’t seem to behave like real people. My favourite characters were the stepmothers—because they escaped the weird bubble of fakeness and are able to reach in and burst that bubble for Montana. Each time she seeks out one of the stepmoms, she is hoping for some intense revelation or reunion moment that will help her life make sense … only for the stepmom to essentially say, "You are a terrible person, hon, deal with it.” When she and Arizona set off for their trip to California to seek out their mother, I couldn’t help but think that this would end in similar disappointment.

I actually like the ending for all its ambiguity. It fits with the rest of the book. If Making Pretty doesn’t become a rom-com, perhaps it could work as a stage-play. There is a wistful, almost pleading tone to the story, as if it knows it is unsatisfying but hopes we’ll overlook that if it just throws more stuff at us. In the end, I wasn’t bored or disappointed—but I just couldn’t pick out anything in particular about this book that makes it good. When I read, I’m always looking for what a book adds to the conversation it is joining. While Making Pretty makes all the right noises, echoing the general sentiments it has overheard from others, it never quite says something new or original.