Two years ago I read an interesting little novelette by Ai Jiang and was intrigued. Now I’ve got a review copy of A Palace Near the Wind courtesy NetGalley, and I remain intrigued. Jiang once again harnesses her incredible talent for descriptive prose and layers atop that an impressive, tender style of characterization. I wanted to like this more than I did—and will explain why I didn’t—but I did like it quite a bit.

Liu Lufeng is the eldest princess of the Feng, a people made from bark and who live more or less harmoniously with the natural world. The Land Walkers (ordinary humans, near as I can tell) encroach upon the forests of Feng with their Travellers and engines and other machinery. Only the marriages of Lufeng’s sisters and mother to the King has delayed further encroachment. Now it’s Lufeng’s turn—except she is about to discover there are far more secrets to this agreement than she could ever realize.

The first thing you’ll notice is how immediately Jiang creates a strikingly different world from ours. Lufeng is, of course, somewhat alien to us in how she lives, from her custom to her very being—the Feng walk on the wind. Yet even the human characters in this story feel utterly alien as well, with names like Copper and Tin. There is precious little familiar to grasp on to—in a good way. I loved how Jiang slowly reveals this world to us piece by piece as sheltered Lufeng explores and questions everything.

The reader must do the same thing. On its surface, A Palace Near the Wind is obviously a book about colonialism, extraction-based capitalism, industralization, etc. If you stop there, however, you will miss some deeper motifs. Family, and the tensions caused by family members embracing different ideologies, is another somewhat obvious one. Deep down, however, I think this novella is trying to say something about the knife’s edge between guile and cynicism.

Lufeng at the beginning of this story is guileless and, if not innocent, quite gullible. She learns quickly. She starts to develop guile and the ability to dissemble, and she soon plots escapes and betrayals. Yet the people around her constantly tempt her with the opportunity to nope out, to take the easy way out, to join them or at the very list stop opposing them, and in return, her life will be set.

This is a book about why we choose the struggle when evil uses every tool at its disposal to tell us that struggle is pointless or profitless.

For some reason—I honestly cannot explain why—this book reminds me of The Wizard of Oz. There is something of the Wizard in the King. There is something of Oz and its wider landscape in this world. I make this comparison favourably, mind.

My major criticism is simply that I wish this were a full-throated novel rather than the first novella in a … trilogy? Duology? Some kind of series. The story builds and builds and ends on a semi-cliffhanger that is … fine. But I think it takes some of the wind out of the story’s sails, if you will. I liked this story but not enough to be hungry for the sequel, whereas if it were a novel, I feel like I’d be more satisfied when I reached the conclusion. Or maybe not!

Points for originality and beautiful writing, along with an interesting exploration of themes.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Not my usual fare, but my neighbour bought it and a different friend, who is much more into horror, had mentioned Riley Sager a few times. I didn’t learn until after I read Survive the Night that she considers it one of Sager’s weaker novels! While diehard horror fans might find something good in this, there was very little here for me.

Charlie Jordan is heading home to Ohio, effectively dropping out of college. Her roommate was murdered by a campus serial killer, and Charlie blames herself. Now Charlie is off her meds and hallucinating her dead friend, among other things. She finds a rideshare with Josh, a clean-cut, straightforward young man who almost-definitely-maybe isn’t a serial killer himself—or is he … dun dun dun. Charlie gets into his car, and they start driving, and that, of course, is when the plot thickens.

I totally see what Sager is going for here. He attempts to build suspense, dangling the possibility of Josh being Maddie’s killer before us while at the same time doing enough to establish doubt to keep us guessing. It’s generally well done. However, the book relies a lot on Charlie making stupid decisions to keep the plot going. She has plenty of opportunities to escape from Josh. Even when she does the right thing, though, she somehow manages to bungle it.

I really don’t have much else to say about this one. It doesn’t live up to its premise, and it was pretty boring. The ending retcons everything into a framed narrative that is … meh.

That’s all from me.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Hot on the heels of writing about why space is awesome, it feels fitting I turn around and consider the downsides of space travel. Well, in this case, it’s more like space labour. Sunward Sky offers a near-future, hard science fiction take on the perils of spending too long away from Earth’s surface. Henry Neilsen weaves social commentary in with mystery, conspiracy, and action. While not entirely successful, in my opinion, this book raises some interesting questions. I received a copy in exchange for a review.

Alyssa joins the crew of the eponymous spaceship for the first time. Ostensibly, she has signed on to a labour contract: the crew of Sunward Sky repairs the various satellite constellations in low and medium Earth orbits. These include familiar systems, like GPS and its various sister networks. Without this labour, the satellites would stop functioning—and in a world devastated by climate change and all manner of other, hinted-at disasters, people need communications and positioning more than ever. However, Alyssa has an ulterior motive: she thinks she has the cure to a chronic condition spacers develop if they spend too long in orbit. Soon, Alyssa discovers she has signed up for more than she bargained: there’s a conspiracy on board, one that threatens not only her own life but the security and stability of everyone on Earth.

One thing you can’t say about this book is that it’s paced too slowly. From the beginning, Neilsen builds consistently towards the book’s explosive climax. Even before she makes it aboard the ship, Alyssa discovers the first hints of the conspiracy that will soon rock Sunward Sky. I really like how Neilsen doesn’t slow-roll things. I expected Alyssa’s investigation and the thriller aspects of the conspiracy to be the bulk of the novel. Instead, things take a disastrous turn pretty quickly.

In the same way, Alyssa proves a decisive, action-oriented protagonist despite lacking much experience in space. After her initial terror at realizing she might be the only one aboard who knows about the conspiracy, she quickly rallies and starts doing something. We love a strong female protagonist written realistically by a male author.

I wish I could say something similar for the rest of the cast. In general, the characterization in Sunward Sky feels hasty and underrealized. Each character exist primarily to fill their role in the plot, and they seldom have much more in the way of personality or depth beyond that. This is especially unfortunate given Neilsen’s proclivity for killing off characters: I just don’t feel sad for them the way I would someone I’ve really had a chance to know and connect with. They’re all redshirts.

Something similar is amiss with the plot. While the pacing, as I noted, is excellent, the story quickly arcs upwards only to plateau more than climax. Dispensing with the slow-burn mystery in favour of the dramatic disaster story does wonders for the dramatic tension—until it doesn’t, because there’s no other mystery. I suppose the tension is supposed to come from the question of “will they survive?”—and having proved he’s willing to kill off any character, Neilsen has demonstrated the answer isn’t necessarily yes. Alas, I just … didn’t care about how the story turned out.

In all of this, the B story about Alyssa’s wonder drug is sidelined. It gets mentioned throughout, and there are awkward flashbacks jammed in here and there. This is a shame, for it’s really the best part of Sunward Sky. Neilsen has extrapolated the current climate of creeping privatization of the aerospace industry, and he’s created a convincing underclass of people essentially doomed to disability. Everything he imagines when it comes to the crew, how they got there, etc., feels super believable.

Indeed, if there is anything that will redeem this book for you, it’s Neilsen’s commitment to the “hard” elements of science fiction here. Orbital mechanics, radio communications blackouts, and fuel burn calculations all play an important role in this story—not that you have to understand these things, of course. In any event, Neilsen is working from the same playbook as Andy Weir, so if you liked, say, Artemis, you might also like Sunward Sky.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Space is so cool, and I love reading books that explain how we learn the stuff we know about space. That’s exactly what Dr. Lisa Kaltenegger delivers in Alien Earths. This is the story of how we look for exoplanets—worlds orbiting stars other than our own Sun—and specifically, how we might determine whether those exoplanets can support life similar life on Earth. Along the way we learn, as Kaltenegger did, so much more about life on Earth, its possible origins, and what makes our great blue marble so special. I received a review copy from NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press.

Kaltenegger takes us through the steps required to understand the science she does. She starts with essential questions, like the conditions required for a planet to be habitable, to the very concept of “what is life?” She explains some of the basics of merely locating exoplanets, but what this book provides in more detail is the trickier project of ascertaining those planets’ habitability. For this, Kaltenegger dives into the science of simulations and describes how she and her interdisciplinary team built physical labs to test and simulate different phenomena. These phenomena are often coincident with life, and by understanding how they occur and what signs—like spectra—they give, Kaltenegger and her team could build computer simulations to help them understand how planets like Earth might appear to a telescope dozens if not hundreds of light-years away.

Kaltenegger herself is interesting. An astrophysicist and engineer, she brings a unique perspective that is only enhanced by her natural appreciation for the contributions of other branches of science. Her work requires knowledge of geology and geochemistry, of physics and mathematics and computational methods, of environmental science. I admire her willingness to collaborate and cooperate, and one of the most consistent themes to emerge from Alien Earths is the importance of science as a collaborative effort.

The writing and storytelling are serviceable—Kaltenegger tries her best to weave some of her personal life throughout the book, a way of creating a human connection to this cosmic story. It’s neat, and I especially hope that younger women and girls who read this are inspired by her story. However, if you are looking for a gripping narrative to go with your pop science, you won’t find it here: Alien Earths is much more descriptive and expository. That’s not a bad thing!

Indeed, my favourite thing about this book is just how enthusiastic Kaltenegger is about life her on Earth! Whether we’re talking the extremophiles who live around the smoke-stack like vents on the ocean floor to the tardigrades all the way to extinct megafauna and everything in between, Kaltenegger is here for it. Her enthusiasm is infectious and demonstrates how important this science is: by looking for life out there, we better understand the story of life here.

I’m a smart cookie, yet frankly, I’m not sure I could ever be an astronomer or astrophysicist. It is miraculous to me that someone can stare at data coming in from a telescope, at the wobbling of a blurry little point of light or spectral lines, etc., and conclude, “Planet.” Let alone the follow-up conclusion of “could be Earth-like!” Like, wow. Honestly, the things that scientists can do these days—not just with our technology but with our sheer imaginative design of experiments … it’s staggering. And humbling.

Alien Earths is more than informative; it is a reminder of the value of science, collaboration, and deep thought. It is a love letter to life here on Earth in all its diversity, and it’s a thoughtful exploration of the question we’ve been asking since we could ask questions: are we alone?

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Somehow I’ve never heard of the “weird west” subgenre and now it’s everywhere on my book social feed. So it goes. It’s not my usual niche, but Melinda West: Monster Gunslinger, by K.C. Grifant, looked interesting enough to branch out. I received a review copy via NetGalley.

The eponymous Melinda West is, as the title suggests, a monster gunslinger. That is, she is a gunslinger who kills monsters, not a monster who slings a gun. Her partner Lance is also her partner in life. The two of them have just about saved up enough to retire when something happens that forces them to take on one last job going up against an enemy craftier and more dangerous than they have ever dealt with. The stakes? Nothing short of the souls of Lance and Melinda and Lance’s friend.

Since this isn’t my usual haunt, it’s hard for me to compare this to other entries within the weird west. I’ve certainly read a few other entries in this, though none jumps out at me. Rather, I’ll just look at this through the lens of other paranormal fantasy stories. Let’s consider the world Grifant builds here, the characters we’re supposed to cheer for, and the success of the plot overall.

Melinda lives on a frontier known as the Edge, some kind of anomaly that spits out monsters. Most of the monsters are nuisances more than anything, yet some are very dangerous—that’s how she and Lance have made their money. Beyond this and some magic, however, the vibe is more western than fantasy, with frontier towns and gunslinger showdowns and train battles. Not my style, but probably great for other readers!

Melinda and Lance are pretty good main characters, although Lance doesn’t get much development in this book. Instead, Grifant focuses mostly on Melinda and her stubborn nature. This works really well as the moral centre of the book: at each turn, the antagonist offers Melinda a chance to surrender, and her refusal is what powers us into the next phase of the plot.

The plot overall is … fine. I really like Grifant’s writing style and how she balances exposition with suspense, slowly unspooling the mystery of the enemy behind everything. It kept me reading! However, I also wouldn’t describe the plot as all that complex.

Melinda West: Monster Gunslinger is perfectly fine fare. I already have the sequel, so I will read that soon, and it might make the series grow on me—that is often the case with these kinds of genre works. Even if it is doesn’t, I would still recommend this book to people who already like this genre.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Mmm, mmm, mmm. Heather O’Neill can serve it. As I reflected in my review of When We Lost Our Heads, her skill as a writer has only deepened and matured since its precocious and sublime debut almost two decades ago. The Capital of Dreams wasn’t as revelatory or enchanting for me, yet it was still a fascinating work of storytelling.

Sofia is a fourteen-year-old girl living in the Capital of Elysia, a fictional European country in a state of war against an Enemy in a thinly veiled WWII analogue. She finds herself lost in the Elysian countryside, a talking goose her only companion. The two of them wander as Sofia seeks out the mysterious Black Market. She hopes to recover her mother’s manuscript, which her mother dispatched to safety along with Sofia, only for Sofia to lose it in the ensuing chaos. Despite not having the warmest relationship with her mother, Sofia clings to the hope that she can somehow find the manuscript at the Black Market and then return triumphant to the Capital. Of course, that isn’t how it works.

Once again I find myself reading a book that feels strangely appropriate for our current political climate. The Enemy are portrayed as fascist aggressors (although, to be fair, more of that feels inferred from the book’s parallels to real-world history than actually stated in the text). The book’s secondary conflict is Sofia and her mother versus the Enemy’s patriarchal oppression of Elysian culture, particularly their openness to sex. Part of Sofia’s journey is, in some ways, her sexual awakening and coming of age. Through various encounters with boys around her age, a slightly older girl she once knew, and other characters, Sofia is exposed to different ideas about relationships and values.

In many ways, this book reminded me of The Curse of Pietro Houdini, which also features a child as a protagonist. Substitute Pietro for the smart-talking goose, and it’s basically the same story! OK, not really. Still, the mood is similar. Both O’Neill and Miller manage to capture the bizarre normalcy of civilian life under an occupying force. Even as Sofia wanders from place to place, she is never safe, yet there are few moments where she is in actual danger. Rather, it’s the omnipresent threat of danger, and her own relative powerlessness, that adds tension to the story.

Meanwhile, O’Neill uses this setting to ponder girlhood, womanhood, motherhood, and the narratives we create about these states of being. Clara and Sofia’s relationship is so rocky because Clara didn’t want a child. I love the complexity with which O’Neill draws these characters: there are moments where Clara expresses genuine love for her daughter as well as moments that are chilling, borderline cruel. All of this is filtered through the limited third-person perspective of Sofia’s memories, usually relayed through Sofia’s mouth to the goose, so of course, we don’t get an unbiased view of Clara. Nevertheless, O’Neill’s illustration is very much her classic characterization of a parent–child relationship where neither quite seems to have a hang on what is going on.

Similarly, the rest of the characters we meet along the way bear O’Neill’s trademark stamp of archetype and allegory. From the philosophical goose sidekick to the two boys Sofia meets early on to Celeste and, of course, Sofia’s final meet-cute with her very own manic pixie dreamgirl … all of these characters exist really just to help Sofia develop. In the end, O’Neill tells us that Sofia has to be brave enough to step into the new future ahead instead of clinging to what she left behind—mother, manuscript—a bittersweet message of optimism through gritted teeth.

I won’t say that I loved The Capital of Dreams as much as some of O’Neill’s previous works, especially When We Lost Our Heads. This was an enjoyable read, one I might revisit one day but not any time soon, and one I highly recommend for fans of O’Neill or dreamy literary fiction in general. While I’m not sure it really says anything new or bombastic, it has a journeyman feel to its craft that is sure to satisfy your literary craving.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

Most of you probably know already: Star Trek is my first science-fiction love. Before Stargate, before Buffy, before even Supergirl, I grew up in the nineties watching the bright primary colours of TOS on a 13-inch CRT TV. I eschewed for a long time the muted, overly polished sequel series—the simplicity of the 1960s original made more sense to my kid brain. Yet I eventually succumbed (DS9 is my favourite, though TNG is an easier rewatch), and I was hooked. My first online community when I joined the internet at fourteen was a Star Trek roleplaying community. So any time I get to read an academic book about Trek, I will do so. Late Star Trek is such a book: a work of primary criticism, grounded in reference to primary and secondary sources, that explores the era of “Nu Trek,” starting with the connective tissue of Enterprise and going all the way through the Kelvinverse movies into Discovery, Strange New Worlds, Picard, Lower Decks, and Prodigy. It’s forthright and honest and insightful, and it’s exactly the kind of analysis I love reading about science fiction. I received an eARC from NetGalley and the University of Minnesota Press in exchange for a review.

Adam Kotsko is—and I say this as the utmost compliment—a huge nerd. Like, he spends time in the introduction explaining how he rose to the rank of Commander in r/DaystromInstitute because of how much time he has spent in the trenches there. Respect. It’s not a competition, but because it is relevant I want to highlight how Kotsko has clearly spent more time in the world of tie-in media—especially the novels and comics—than I have. (Though, nary a mention of any of the tie-in video games except for Star Trek: Online. Hath thou no respect for Star Trek Voyager: Elite Force or Star Trek: Deep Space Nine: The Fallen, Adam???) Indeed, one of the tensions Kotsko explores here is how the revival of Star Trek’s Prime timeline beginning with DISCO but felt more deeply with PIC overwrote the “Beta canon” of the novelverse and how the novelverse itself reacted to that by trying to deal with this in-universe (god, I love science fiction writers so much).

More broadly, however, Late Star Trek encapsulates, as its subtitle implies, the ways in which the weight of the franchise has changed how people write and produce Trek in this era. Although canon and continuity are one dimension Kotsko analyzes, they aren’t his primary focus. Instead, he examines how cultural shifts—in values but also in more mundane things like the nature of the television industry and capitalism—have placed different constraints on modern Trek producers. While TOS might have suffered from increasingly constrictive budgets and flagging support from its network, it was unburdened by the expectations of fifty years of franchise. In this way, Kotsko argues that what he calls “late Star Trek” can measure its successes and failures not only by how its stories are received by fans (new and old alike) but by how well its multiplicity of series has weathered the ups and downs of a streaming era marked as much by corporate cynicism as by corporate greed.

Early on, Kotsko makes an interesting claim that gave me pause (emphasis mine):

 

At first I was like, “Nah,” but then I pondered, nay, I ruminated, upon this proposition and eventually had to concede Kotsko has a point. As he argues, pretty much every installment of the franchise post-ENT has, in one way or another, foregrounded our twenty-first-century obsession with terrorism. And I think this observation is as fascinating as it is true simply because it’s not one that I have really seen before in my perusal of Trek commentary.

Late Star Trek goes on to analyze each aspect of the modern franchise. It begins with a post mortem of the much-panned ENT. Kotsko is more sympathetic to this series than I am—I always have at least once Trek series rewatch on the go, and it has never been ENT! Nevertheless, I see his point. From there, he examines the novelverse that took off during the dark times between ENT and DISCO, and he also devotes a chapter to the Kelvinverse movies. Then he gives DISCO and PIC their own chapters, respectively, before a single chapter looking at the “minor triumphs” of Lower Decks, Prodigy, and Strange New Worlds. The book is pretty much up to date on all new Trek stories, though Kotsko notes his coverage of season 5 of DISCO is lighter because the book went to press just as this final season was airing. I’m glad for this, particularly given how the reveal about Crewman Daniels from ENT in the finale of DISCO corroborates Kotsko’s argument that one of DISCO’s primary legacies will be the way it cemented ENT into the Trek canon in a way that ENT itself could not have achieved were it still the final Trek television property. The only thing it really can’t comment on is the critical and commercial failure of Section 31, though given Kotsko’s critique of the over-reliance on this shadowy organization in the book (I concur, btw), I can guess what he might have to say about it.

This method of organization works great, and Kotsko’s writing is similarly fluent and easy to follow. Though academic and well-supported by references to various scholars, fan writers, and the primary texts themselves, Late Star Trek reads more like fan commentary than a dense academic text, and that’s all to the good. Basically, if you like reading hot takes on clickbait-heavy pop culture sites, Late Star Trek is exactly that—just much longer and with fewer ads.

I was pleased by how much I agreed with Kotsko despite notable points of disagreement too. For example, his critique of DISCO writing itself out of Trek canon (almost) with its constant, insecure need to reinvent itself culminating its flight into the timeline’s far future matches a lot of my feelings about this series. On the other hand, he is far more forgiving of the first season than I am—I famously disowned the show back when it premiered, though my stance softened over the years and culminated in a more philosophical outlook on the series. Similarly, Kotsko echoes some of my feelings about the first season of PIC, and though I did not write about it, I seem to be in the minority of fans who share Kotsko’s view that the third season’s fan service was, shall we say, cringey, and might be one of the weakest Trek seasons of this entire era.

All of this is to say, there is plenty in this book to think about, agree with, or disagree with. This is a book written by an avid fan for avid fans. It is a labour of love that pulls no punches when it dissects the quality of various series’ storytelling even as, overall, it clearly stakes a position that the current era of Trek is a good thing. Indeed, as I have said before, it blows my mind we live in a world where there is more new Trek broadcasting these days than at any other point in the franchise’s history. However, too often the criticism of newer Trek has been simplistic: this or that series is garbage; this or that series if for “real fans” versus the “new fans” or “fake fans” or whatever gatekeeping nonsense has seized a small yet vocal minority of the fandom. In reality, criticism needs nuance. No series—not even ENT!—is without its redemptive qualities. Similarly, being a fan of the franchise does not mean one must hold one’s tongue in criticizing any or all of the new series. Late Star Trek boldly goes forward with this mindset, and the result is a rewarding read for any Star Trek fan.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

A few weekends ago, I discovered the first season of Halo was on Netflix and virtually binged it. It was better than I expected—for my expectations were low—and exactly what I craved: something visually stimulating, with a clear story, yet ultimately not all that … meaningful, I guess? “Mid” is probably the right term all the kids are using these days. Anyway, The Third Rule of Time Travel is just like that. Like the Halo series, its production values are too high to be called “pulp”—this is a book that takes itself seriously both as science fiction and literature—yet its execution is decidedly mid. That’s no shade to Philip Fracassi, who has clearly taken the time (pun intended) to craft a fun little time travel story. I received an eARC from NetGalley and Orbit in return for a review.

Beth Darlow is a physicist carrying on the project she began with her late husband, Colson: a time machine. So far, the machine can send a traveller mentally into their own past for ninety seconds. Still grieving and under pressure to deliver something marketable, Beth subjects herself to the stress of reliving some of her worst moments in her life. Then, things start going wrong.

We love to see a woman in STEM as the protagonist! The Third Rule of Time Travel also reminds me of Boss Level on Netflix, a time-loop movie. Both have about the same level of character depth, especially when it comes to their villains. Both have the protagonist somewhat motivated by the death of their significant other, who is a physicist working on a time machine of sorts. Yet Boss Level unapologetically embraces trite action-hero tropes with a fridged damsel and a buff, macho male protagonist. In contrast, Fracassi here has killed off the husband, and Beth is every bit the physicist and hero this book needs.

Now, Beth is a little spiky and seems to have traits of a male author trying to write his breast. Lots of emphasis on Beth’s maternal drive, her Power of Love for Isabel overcoming some of the worst shenanigans of the book. Similarly, constant allusion to how Beth is isolated at work, the only woman in STEM there apparently, and she has to keep her temper under control lest she be seen as a hotheaded and irrational lady scientist by all the men! It’s not subtle at all and feels very much like a man trying to telegraph, far too loudly, “Look, women readers, I too have empathy for your struggle against patriarchy.” Thanks, I guess?

I assure you, however: I mock out of love. The Third Rule of Time Travel has a lot to recommend it. Although I won’t go so far as to describe any of its time-travel mechanics as original or particularly mind-bendy, Fracassi overall makes use of some interesting ideas. The debriefing mechanic in particular is one that, once explained in the story, initially sounds really impossible but is actually based on fairly simple ideas about light cones and worldlines. I don’t know, I’ve read quite a few literary time-travel novels that are apathetic to how their time travel actually works, so it’s nice to see one that at least pretends to care.

Other than that, this book follows much the same arc as most of those novels: main character can travel through time; main character discovers time travel kind of sucks and is really dangerous; main character deals with fallout of time travel, usually by seeking to undo damage; main character discovers the real family is the family she had at home all along. If you’ve read The Time Traveler’s Wife or Oona Out of Order or watched About Time or any such movies with pretensions to Big Ideas But Make It Timey-Wimey, then you get the vibe.

However, Fracassi also can’t resist shoehorning in a thriller subplot with delightfully cartoonish characters. I kept laughing every time the evil boss shows up because he’s so transparently inconsistent and exists solely to make Beth’s life worse. The climax of the novel feels very forced and awkward as the story contorts itself from psychological thriller into action thriller, almost s if its own timeline is being rewritten.

This culminates in a classic kind of resolution for this type of science-fiction-by-association: the What the Bleep Do We Know?–style syncretic speculation that it’s all connected, man, and if we could slip the bonds of our linear temporal existence we would, like, see the time knife. The moment between Beth and Colson is meant to be incredibly emotional, a fulfillment of hundreds of pages leading up to it … and yet.

So here’s the bottom line: this book is fine. I came to it off of DNFing a different book that was dull. So yes, I’m critical of The Third Rule of Time Travel’s overall quality as a story. Yet I’ll happily share that I devoured this book in a single day over about two sittings. Like that first season of Halo, this book is flashy and easy on the eyes and aspires to be more than it is. That doesn’t mean it succeeds. But it’s fun to watch it try.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

What would you do if someone stole your heart? Literally, actually took it from your body but you didn’t die? Because hearts power their magic. Such a perfect premise for a story, and Andrea Eames explores it well in A Harvest of Hearts. I received an eARC from NetGalley and Erewhon Books in return for a review.

Foss is a simple country girl, daughter of the village butcher. Then one day, a sorcerer comes and snags her heart. She journeys to the city to look for him and demand it back, ending up as his housekeeper, where she unravels the mysteries of this kingdom and the sorceresses who keep harvesting hearts. The truth is darker and bleaker than you probably want to know, yet to Foss, it is literally about her life.

Let me start with some criticism. A Harvest of Hearts is too long. This would work a lot better as a novella. It has a fairy tale quality and reminds me of The Wizard of Oz (and actually some of Baum’s less well-known sequels to that original story). However, the characterization and pacing leaves a lot to be desired.

Eames’s writing style is exposition-heavy at the start, which is not my jam at the moment. It was hard for me to get into the story, stay interested, and care a lot about the stakes. Even as those stakes became higher, I felt like I was only caring about Foss because she’s the protagonist and what’s happening to her is objectively bad, versus, you know, actually being interested in the story.

Part of that might be because the actual plot feels fairly predictable. I had figured out who the king was, what was going on with Sylvester, the whole backstory of the kingdom, from about … oh, I don’t know by the time Foss got to the city? Nothing at all about this book surprised me. While I don’t object to that on principle, I expect the execution to be correspondingly astounding, and that’s not happening here.

On the other hand, I finished it. There’s sweet moments. Foss and Sylvester’s relationship truly grows from nothing and deepens into something real and special. And then there’s Cornelius—oh, Cornelius! I would die for Cornelius. He’s excellent. He is everything a talking cat should be.

A Harvest of Hearts stands out because of its original premise and the chemistry of the two main characters. Eames has the storybook aesthetic for worldbuilding down, albeit in a way that is heavier on exposition than I would like. This is a fun yet weighty story with a lot to recommend it. That being said, it wasn’t quite for me.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.

A couple years ago, I read Dragonfall, and I was lukewarm on picking up the sequel. When I had the opportunity for an eARC via NetGalley, however, I decided to give it a shot. I’m pleased to report Emberclaw is a strong conclusion to this duology (more of these, by the way). L.R. Lam improves on the first entry, and while I still don’t think I am quite their ideal reader, I definitely enjoyed this dragon tale.

Spoilers for the first book but not this one.

Arcady and Everen are (were?) joined by magic. One human, one dragon. With Everen exiled back to Vere Celene, Arcady is left to pick up the pieces of their con game: they want to infiltrate magic school and figure out who framed their ancestor. But there’s another dragon in Loc, and he’s hellbent on manipulating events to get Everen back here. So while Arcady tries to conceal their identity and lie low, this dragon’s handpicked assassin, Soren, cozies up to them and is ready to strike.

Basically, what makes this book so delicious is the way Lam has given everyone overlapping yet oft-conflicting motivations and desires. Arcady and Everen have a natural spark of attraction, yet they are different species and have different loyalties. Magnus similarly has his own motives—which initially don’t seem all that bad, and it’s just his methods that are objectionable, though this changes as the book goes on and his true depravity becomes clear. Soren really just wants to be loved. Sorry, girl.

This book feels like it’s more Arcady and Soren’s than Everen’s, which I am not sorry about. He’s kind of boring. I don’t think that is Lam’s fault—I’m just not a fan of his personality. In contrast, Arcady feels a lot more dynamic, and Soren’s tragic face turn story arc is beautiful.

Whereas the first book was a heist plot, this one is your typical quest trope: Arcady and Soren are competing in a wizards cup kind of competition to get tuition and prove they are magical badasses. It’s not nearly that straightforward, of course, but it is a good enough framework for Lam to use to build the overall story.

In the end, like the first book, Emberclaw didn’t wow me. I think Lam is one of those fantasy authors whose stories or writing style just aren’t for me—no shade on their ability as a writer, just not my cup of tea. If you love dragons or just want a complex fantasy story with a tiny bit of spice/romance and a lot of betrayal, then you should check out this duology.

Originally posted at Kara.Reviews.