Things i've enjoyed in the month of August:
Holly Black's The Cruel Prince:
"Have I told you how hideous you look tonight?" Cardan asks, leaning back in the elaborately carved chair, the warmth of his words turning the question into something like a compliment.
"No," I say, glad to be annoyed back into the present. "Tell me."
"I cannot," he says, then frowns.
I'm not entirely sure why everyone went so bananas over this.
It's really fucking good.
But not so good that i can understand the hysterical behaviour i've witnessed since its release.
I did really, really, really enjoy it though.
And i'm practically itching for the novella to come out this October and i've already pre-ordered the sequel The Wicked King.
All of which does seem to suggest i've also gone "bananas" but i haven't really.
I'm not crazed like i was over my beloved Court of Thorns series.
I'm not in splendid agony over what will happen next.
(Thalassa, you're killing me with the suspense)
I'm not wishing the book i'm currently reading was The Cruel Prince instead.
(maybe a little)
But i am still thinking about it.
Jude and Cardan are still lounging at the back of my brain sporadically kicking and pinching to win back my attention.
Spiteful little shits that they are.
And i suppose that's why this book works so well.
...
Because everyone.
And i mean everyone is an asshole.
This is essentially Jude's reaction to Cardan throughout the entire book:
And it's magical.
I feel as though i've been desperate for someone to write a Fae story where they're portrayed as they are in the old legends.
...
As capricious sadists.
(i very much wanted to be alliterative there but the particular C word i wanted to use would probably earn me a cuff around the head from both the internet and my mother)
But i didn't know how badly until Holly Black worked her magic and spirited me into the branched gallery of this vindictive little theatre of impish brats.
And oh boy.
Oh boy, oh boy.
Was it delicious.
Surprisingly little fan art though:
Melanie Bourgeois aka meliescribbles
(also the only artist i can find who's made fan art for my beloved Siren/King of the Night Fae duo... come on fan artists, i need my shipping needs tended to)
(Cardan's fins and Jude's scowl are kiiiilllliiiing me)
Her paper art is bonkers:
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Ben Aaronovitch's Rivers of London:
"Two hours," said Nightingale from the doorway.
"Then meet me in the study for your Latin lesson."
I waited until he had gone before opening my hand and whispering, "Lux!"
This time the globe gave off a soft white light and no more heat than a sunny day.
Fuck me, I thought. I can do magic.
This is my second time reading this.
I abhorred it the first time around.
I vividly remember watching the Wimbledon final whilst skimming furiously through the last few chapters just so i could damn well be done with it.
...
I don't know why i felt that way.
I honestly don't.
Because i devoured this.
De-vour-ed.
And i've been fan-casting in my head since the first chapter.
Maybe i wasn't ready for Urban Fantasy.
Maybe i wasn't in the right mood.
Maybe i was coming down from a previous book high and was feeling resentful.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
I just don't know.
Reading's odd that way.
Read a book when you're 20 and just the mention of it causes you to physically recoil.
Re-read it in your 80s and it's a goddamned masterpiece.
Read a book when you're in a shitty mood and it'll end up bouncing off walls.
Re-read it when your serotonin's peaking and it'll be hugged tightly to your chest with the same reverence as a beloved pet.
Circumstances and the enjoyment of a story is an exceedingly delicate balancing act.
But when you get it right?
...
Pure, unabashed euphoria.
Excuse me while i enjoy the high and gorge myself on the rest of this series at a bewildering speed.
(i'll regret this later but goddamnit, i only have enough willpower to not devour one series at a time and Kate Daniels is requiring everything i've got!)
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Charlie Bowater for the #eyememe on instagram:
I love her.
I love her truly.
This is currently me waiting for my second print of hers to arrive:
(it's now arrived and i'm this close to licking the damn thing... i blame this reaction on the Edna Mode lookalike tutor from uni who informed me that a truly wonderful piece of art should make you want to drag your tongue across it... She was... memorable but not wrong)
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The second in the Rivers of London series, Moon Over Soho:
(Told you i was going to gorge)
Peter "Fuck me, I can do magic" Grant has the most absurdly tragic taste in women and i love him deeply for it.
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The Reflowering:
The infamous plant killer got a second bloom.
...
Shit.
What do i do now?
A new addition:
Also a Kalanchoe.
Also impossible to tell whether i'll keep this one alive or kill it stone dead.
...
I've got the flora fear.
These little fuckers are getting tall though... pretty cool, yeah?
Shut up, i'm a little proud.
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Margaret Rogerson's An Enchantment of Ravens:
"Listen to me," he croaked. "Both of us need not die tonight. Isobel, you cannot break the Good Law alone. If the fair folk sense I am no more—"
I seized the dagger from him. Having no idea what to do with it afterward, I lifted the cushion I was lying on and shoved it underneath, then threw my weight back on top. "Stop being melodramatic! I am not going to kill you in my parlor!"
He stared at me in disbelief. "Did you just sit on it?"
"Yes," I said mutinously.
This was, in short, terribly lovely.
A little bit of Sarah J. Maas' innate sense of the Fae.
(i know, i know, "shut up about her already" but how do you stop talking about the sun? HOW?!)
A dash of Holly Black's caustic whit.
(I take back my earlier ambivalence to the hype over The Cruel Prince... i'm officially fangirling all over the place... i miss those little fairy shitheads so much)
And a surprisingly healthy dose of Laurie Lee's kindling stroke of the senses.
(i know no other writer who can awake every memory, physical and emotional, of childhood summers quite like Laurie Lee... it's irrefutable magic)
An Enchantment of Ravens has it all and my only complaint is that there isn't more.
I understand why there isn't more but grr and argh, my reading brain now possesses a Pavlovian need for duologies, trilogies, tetralogies and so on and so forth.
I'm suffering here.
But there's cover art by the lady, the legend, the queen of fan art... Charlie Bowater to soften the blow:
She has my dream job.
I'm horribly jealous.
Yuck.
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Two cunning period dramas:
Eternally fond of vicious females.
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Oh so wonderfully soft.
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My birthday:
Or as i prefer to call it, Cake and Presents Day because my eternal Peter Pan complex demands it.
Fuck the ageing process.
Do you see all those perfectly piped carrots?
That's the pathological handiwork of the big sister.
...
Not everyone has a sibling willing to brave carpal tunnel just so their bratty kid sister can quack (yes, actually quack) with delight and then sate their months long hankering to stuff Carrot Cake down their greedy maw.
Vegetables never tasted so fucking good.
Fuck the ageing process.
Do you see all those perfectly piped carrots?
That's the pathological handiwork of the big sister.
...
Not everyone has a sibling willing to brave carpal tunnel just so their bratty kid sister can quack (yes, actually quack) with delight and then sate their months long hankering to stuff Carrot Cake down their greedy maw.
Vegetables never tasted so fucking good.
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The last in the The Sin-Eater's Daughter trilogy, The Scarecrow Queen:
Weirdest bloody thing.
I went from being extremely "meh" about this series to lapping up the story like a starved puppy.
I'm heartsick it's all over.
...
Melinda Salisbury, you're a sorceress.
What the hell am i going to do now?
...
Oh... yeah... read one of the other potential loves of my reading life currently reclining on my shelves like badass literary bitches.
Such a hardship...
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The return of the The Great British Bake Off:
This goddamn show is and will always be like being swaddled in a warm swiss roll sponge and dusted with sugary Noel Fielding-shaped sprinkles.
(formerly Mel and Sue sprinkles; i miss those precious dorks)
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Finishing Casual:
There's nothing quite like loving a show right down to the end.
Even if that ending is bittersweet as hell.
Godspeed, Meyers family.
Stay awful.
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This illustration of Link by Isobel J. Kelly:
Bonkers.
(her style reminds me so damn much of something and i can't place it... It's... aggravating...)
And i'm not even a LoZ fan.
Well, not not a fan.
I tried playing once but my well-known suckage at anything even remotely "gamey" forced me drop any interest like a slug in heat when i couldn't exit the fucking village at the very beginning of the bloody game.
...
A slug in heat?
Sure, why not.
This pleases my eyeballs.
And 4 year olds have more gaming skills than i'll ever have.
I want a print of this.
Is it weird to have a print from a fandom you're not a part of?
Have i entered the realm of "look at all the fucks i give" yet again?
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Re-watching Happy Valley:
Holy mother of fucksticks.
I've watched this show three times now and it never ceases to blow me away.
The quality of acting is ridiculous.
Actually ridiculous.
Sarah Lancashire physically hurts my heart.
She makes me furious.
She makes me laugh.
She puts the fear of God into me.
And she does it all without breaking a fucking sweat.
It's seamless and i fully believe that she is not in any shape of form Sarah Lancashire when i'm watching this show.
She is Catherine Cawood and Catherine Cawood doesn't even know who Sarah Lancashire is.
It's terrifying.
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Not even sorry or embarrassed.
Just blissfully happy they're all there for me to read whenever my fangirling heart so desires.
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Diego Koi being fucking ridiculous again:
Look at this shit.
Look at it!
What even is he?
Can't be human, surely?
...
I'm not whimpering.
You're whimpering.
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Receiving my second FairyLoot box:
The theme was Mutinous Pirates and the main reason i bought it was for a tiny excerpt from my beloved Leigh Bardugo's upcoming novel, King of Scars.
Was it worth it?
Fangirl says: ABSOFUCKINGLUTELY!
And i have to wait until January next year for the whole novel.
...
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I'm not actually capable of posting a Monthly without this little beast:
I swear to all that is fluffy, those fangs will be the death of me.
(possibly quite literally the death of me... he's a vicious little fuck-knuckle when the mood takes him)
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Grace Draven's Radiance:
They gazed at each other before she knocked him flat with another question. "You find me ugly, don't you?"
Brishen had faced abominations on the battlefield without flinching, leapt into the thick of the fighting against creatures born from nightmares of lesser demons. Not once had he been tempted to run away in fear. Now, his leg muscles rippled with the urge to flee. He clenched his teeth instead, prayed he wouldn't start a war with their newest ally and answered honestly.
"Hideous," he said. "A hag of a woman."
Another peal of laughter met his words. Brishen wilted, relieved she took no insult in him so bluntly validating her assumption. He didn't even know her name, but he liked her and didn't wish to hurt her. Assured she wasn't planning to flounce off and send a pack of offended relatives after him, he turned the same question on her.
"And you," he said. "You don't think me a handsome man?"
She shrugged. "I've only seen your hands and eyes. For all I know, you're hiding the face of a sun spirit in that hood."
Brishen scoffed at the idea. "Hardly." He'd never lacked female company, and his people thought him well-favoured. Certainly nothing as wretched as a sun spirit. He slid the hood back to his shoulders.
The woman's eyes rounded. She inhaled a harsh breath and clasped one hand to her chest. Her mollusk skin went a far more attractive shade of ash. She remained silent and stared at him until he raised a hand in question. "Well?"
She exhaled slowly. The space between her eyebrows stitched into a single vertical frown line. "Had you crawled out from under my bed when I was a child, I would have bludgeoned you to death with my father's mace."
Brishen rocked back on the bench and howled. When he finished and wiped the tears from his eyes, the woman was staring at him with her horse-toothed smile in place. He cleared his throat. "I don't know whether that's a testament to my looks or your penchant for violence."
12 pages.
It took me 12 pages to fall in love with these two.
And i could more than happily read an entire book of these precious idiots just having breakfast together.
Hell, i'd be ecstatic to.
No need for drama.
No near death experiences.
No unjust jealousy.
Only Ildiko and Brishen shooting the shit and being so lovely to each other it makes my entire being ache.
He opened both eyes suddenly, making her jump. Two shimmering gold coins stared at her unblinking. "Good evening, wife," he said in a voice raspy with the remnants of sleep. A closed-lip smile curved his mouth upward and deepened the tiny lines that fanned from the corners of his eyes. "You're staring. Do I have a fly on my nose?"
Fighting down a blush at being caught gawking at her own husband, Ildiko lightly tapped the tip of his nose with one finger.
"I was trying to find a way to kill it without punching you in the face. Lucky for you, it flew away."
I love them so very much.
"I'm not human, wife," he whispered into the darkness.
Shock rounded his eyes at Ildiko's response, slurred with sleep and nearly incoherent. "But you're still mine, husband.
I'm so happy i could puke.
...
I've got to go and buy all the things Grace Draven now, okay?
Thanks.
Bye.
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