Elisabeth sat back, admiring the view from her desk. She had been assigned to transfers on the third floor, a vantage from which she could see all the way across the library's atrium. Sunlight streamed in through the rose window high above the front doors, casting prisms of ruby, sapphire, and emerald across the circular balconies' bronze rails. Bookcases soared upward toward a vaulted ceiling six stories above, rising around the atrium like the layers of a wedding cake or the tiers of a coliseum. Murmurs filled the echoing space, punctuated by the occasional cough or snore. Most of those sounds did not belong to the blue-robed librarians striding to and fro across the atrium's tiles. They came from the grimoires, muttering on the shelves.
When she breathed in, the sweetness of parchment and leather filled her lungs. Motes of dust hung suspended in the sunbeams, perfectly still, like flakes of gold leaf trapped in resin.
🧞 Sentient books
🧞 Crickety, arcane libraries
🧞 A tough heroine and a cocksure hero
🧞 Swords and sorcerers
🧞 Regency alt-London
🧞 Dark magic
🧞 Demons
🧞 Booklice!
🧞 Mysteryyyyy
If you'd waggled Sorcery of Thorns and recited that list to my face before I'd read it, I'd've lunged as swiftly as my creaky body was able and snatched it out of your hands with a goblin cry of hungry triumph.
I would probably have gone as far as to hold it aloft and shout Excelsior! at the top of my lungs for the full effect.
Why?
a) Dramatic bitch syndrome
and
b) All of those Fantasy tropes collected in one book is my equivalent to pulling a magic sword from a lump of Celtic rock and being crowned king of all the bitches.
...
Which is probably why the moment I heard it was available for preorder, I smashed that button like I had a kingdom to save and the only way to do it was to read this book.
Who has no chill when it comes to literature?
It's a problem.
I can contain myself with just about everything else (probably lying); books, though?
Not a chance in fictitious hell.
And a story featuring grand, dusty libraries full of snarling, hiccuping, ink-spitting books and the librarians who attend them, stroke their spines, soothe their mercurial tempers, and mend their rips and tears?
...
Be still my novel heart.
That's book kryptonite if ever I saw it.
My name may as well've been lovingly inked upon every inch of paper, leather, and thread.
It should've been called Louise's Apocryphal Handbook for a Hit of Fantastical Dopamine.
(Or something less longwinded and clunky)
This book was made for me and my ilk.
But something weird happened.
Something entirely unforeseen.
This fantastical world that beams with unrestrained magic, intrigue, and biting snark left me feeling exhausted, alienated, and I'm sorry to say it, kinda bored.
As I listed above, it has everything I crave in Fantasy, it should have been a no-brainer insta-love situation, but for some reason Margaret Rogerson's storytelling and I just weren't clicking.
Or, at least, only incrementally so.
After reading her debut novel, An Enchantment of Ravens, I thought I'd found a new YA author to follow around like a devoted puppy.
Her words were fresh and funny, beautifully detailed whilst not being showy, and the story was familiar, but in her style felt more than something I'd previously read, told by a different author.
The same can still absolutely be said for Sorcery of Thorns, it's a very pretty novel with facets I find fucking delightful - the sentient books and booklice, in particular.
Literature with personalities isn't a new idea, I've read it before and I'll read it again, but there was a level of comedy and terror to Rogerson's take on the trope.
Our heroine, Elisabeth, is a child of the library, raised from infancy betwixt (so happy any time I get to use this word) the dusty stacks of ancient, occult tomes, chasing kitten-sized booklice whilst disturbing the librarians with yelps of illicit, echoing glee, teasing the more docile texts she was permitted access to, and all the while learning to become a librarian herself.
She's more book than human when we meet her, which is something all readers can relate to.
You truly can't understand the sentience of a story until you find that one book which impossibly takes a bound pile of words, and magically transforms into something living and breathing.
We all have one, the one story that took simply reading to time-travelling; mine's Titus Groan - pretentious, I know, but I lived and breathed in those pages. I can still smell the dankness of Castle Gormenghast, hear the odd angles of Steerpike slinking through hidden passages, secreting secrets, plotting plots, and generally being a creepy fuck.
Mervyn Peake's labyrinthine tale changed the way I approached reading; gone was the sporadic pastime and in its stead a base, unquenchable need.
Because they weren't just stories anymore, they were alternate universes to escape into whenever I needed/wanted to.
And to maintain those worlds that do feel like unique presences in my own "library", they needed to be treated with something akin to familial love.
The Raven Cyclesits stoically, stacked like fallen leaves at the foot of the bed.
The Gormenghast Trilogy, a stalwart pillar standing sentry for other, smaller stories in its encampment.
Kate Daniels,nestled closely by my head, acting almost as a second pillow to ward against plaguing nightmares.
And Gideon the Ninth, sharpening her swords and practicing her comebacks, tormenting Harrowwho sits above her, conjuring bones with a pretty scowl on her face.
...
They aren't just books.
Not once they've been read, not once you know their story.
They're alive.
Books, too, had hearts, though they were not the same as people's, and a book's heart could be broken: she had seen it happen before. Grimoires that refused to open, their voices gone silent, or whose ink faded and bled across the pages like tears.
I'm not saying that if they all suddenly sprung to life I wouldn't shit my knickers and hide under the covers until Nanny Ogg stopped singing The Hedgehog Can Never Be Buggered At All at the top of her witchy lungs, or Toby Daye finally retrieved her rose goblin from atop its quaking, me-shaped duvet perch once the feline circling and biscuit-making finally ceased.
I absolutely would.
I'm not completely insane.
But they are alive, in a sense, to me.
Constant companions and faithful friends who've seen me through highs and lows, and everything between.
I'll say it again: they aren't just books.
So, any time a story involves sentient stories, I do get a little... enthusiastic, shall we say.
She knew these weren't ordinary books the Great Library kept. They whispered on the shelves and shuddered beneath iron chains. Some spat ink and threw tantrums; others sang to themselves in high, clear notes on windless nights, when starlight streamed through the library's barred windows like shafts of mercury. Others still were so dangerous they had to be stored in the underground vault, packed in salt. Not all them were her friends. She understood that well.
The idea that the distinct, hallowed hush of a library could actually be a chorus of stories singing in harmony - or disharmony, depending on their mood.
That when words are committed to paper they birth a life, become tangible instead of theoretical.
And depending on what you bind inside that new life, has the potential to be transformed into something dark and destructive.
Salt cascaded onto the table as the coffer's lid creaked open. A stench of rotting leather rolled across the vault, so potent that she almost gagged.
A grimoire lay inside. It was a thick volume with disheveled, yellowing pages sandwiched between slabs of greasy black leather. It would have looked fairly ordinary, if not for the bulbous protrusions that bulged from the cover. They resembled giant warts, or bubbles on the surface of a pool of tar. Each was the size of a large marble, and there were dozens altogether, deforming nearly every inch of the leather's surface.
The Director pulled on a heavy pair of iron-lined gloves. Elisabeth hastened to follow her example. She bit the inside of her cheek as the Director lifted the book from the coffer and placed it within the circle of salt.
The instant the Director set it down, the protrusions split open. They weren't warts―they were eyes. Eyes of every color, bloodstained and rolling, the pupils dilating and contracting to pinpricks as the grimoire convulsed in the Director's hands. Gritting her teeth, she forced it open. Automatically, Elisabeth reached into the circle and clamped down the other side, feeling the leather twitch and heave through her gloves. Furious. Alive.
Those eyes were not sorcerous conjurations. They were real, plucked from human skulls long ago, sacrificed to create a volume powerful enough to contain the spells etched across its pages. According to history, most sacrifices had not been willing.
In Elisabeth's library, the darkest of grimoires, the ones they bind in chains and bar away in cages, when treated without the utmost care can transform into monsters with the sole purpose to rend the world they've been thrust into.
And as it goes with Fantasy, there are always those who wish for exactly that to occur, and those who will try with all they have to stop it.
...
That story should be beyond amazing.
That story should've had me on tenterhooks for the entirety of it.
That story was not the one I received.
It really, really, really sucks to come to that conclusion, especially as I'd been hoarding the hardback like some sacred treasure, waiting for the perfect time to discover what lurked inside.
I found myself dragging my way through every scene, leaving chapters unread for days, returning to haul myself through more of the pretty sludge.
All the while wondering why it felt like such a goddamn chore.
Ostensibly, this is a fantastic novel; funny, fast-paced, charming and full of fantastical lore, and the characters are interesting and engaging.
But something felt... off.
And I'm starting to believe that something was me.
Because even though I deeply, deeply love YA, sometimes my crone-ass is just too bloody crone-y for it.
As with all genres, there are levels of intensity to YA.
Whether that's the world-building, amount of violence, gore, sex, depth of characterisation, the complexity of the narrative, etc.
The magnitude to which you dedicate importance to each of these elements can greatly affect the tone of the story, and with YA, the distance between the softer, younger side of the genre and the stories that edge closer to NA is, for me, incredibly stark.
Sorcery of Thorns felt very much like the stories I read when I was just starting out with the genre, where the protagonists were somewhere in their mid to late teens, rebellious but not bad, who never curse or think bad thoughts.
It's not that they lacked character, but that the personality they were given was never set free enough to become fully imagined.
They're almost shadow characters, waiting for a bigger story to nudge them into becoming their whole, fully realised selves.
And unfortunately, that is exactly how the main characters of Sorcery of Thorns came across.
Elisabeth, our heroine of the hour:
Brash, capable, handy with a sword, perpetually stalked by trouble.
Nathaniel, the smart-mouthed hero:
Cocksure, flirty, a pretty wizard with privileged manners.
And of course, Silas; man-servant, shackled demon, unlikely friend.
I'm sure there's a list compiled out there of classic Fantasy characters, and these three would be at the very top of it.
The "nothing" girl who's more than she seems and finds herself at the heart of an ancient battle.
The privileged wizard hero who's lazily gifted and simultaneously infuriated and enamoured by the heroine.
And the sidekick, the one who's far more capable than the hero and heroine put together, but tends to just pick up after them like a nanny following their charges around as they leave a trail of chaos in their wake.
I know these characters, I've spent countless stories with them, and often, they're enough to carry the story along.
But sometimes enough isn't quite good enough.
Enough requires the story to pull its weight and hold the readers attention, to distract them from lacklustre characters, to give them something to root for, but alas, as with the characterisation, the story was somewhat lacking.
Things just kept on happening.
...
I know, that's how stories work, things happen.
There is no story without happenings.
However, these happenings don't normally appear as if they're being listed off by rote.
🥀 Oh, no, Elisabeth's fighting off demons!
🥀 Help, there's a pretty sorcerer giving me flirt-face!
🥀 Shucks, there's a demon making my bed!
🥀 Goddammit, I've been knocked unconscious again!
🥀 Hold the telegram, a clue has magically appeared out of nowhere with barely any lead up!
Generally, that's how a story progresses, but to be constantly piled under a heap of what can only be described as exclamation marks in motion, it does become a little tiring and unengaging.
I need plot, I need backstory, I need believable segues, I need to be led on a merry chase and have absolutely no clue what's going on but subconsciously feel every disparate part gradually fall into place.
So, why, you may be wondering, did I keep coming back for more instead of DNFing?
For starters? Because I physically and mentally cannot DNF.
I'm not oblivious to the cry of the DNF Cheerleaders, screaming at me to yeet that shit out the window and read something I'll enjoy.
I hear them.
I acknowledge them.
I agree with them.
But they obviously don't have a goblin sitting atop their brain like some tiny dictator who starts chewing on their synapses the moment they even contemplate DNFing.
I'm talking the merest, momentary thought, and it's chompalooza.
I have a book by my bed that I started two years ago and never finished, a rare TBC, and I swear to The Librarian himself, it's been giving me sad puppy eyes ever since.
[Five minute break to cry over childhood fantasy horse trauma, who I know Bastian resurrected in the end because he was just as heartsick as the rest of us, but FUCK, some wounds ooze forever]
...
But there are other reasons I don't DNF.
It could be the style of writing, hope for the story to improve, the world building, magical lore, a single character.
There are reasons, and in the case of Sorcery of Thorns, it was very much about the aesthetic.
I am an absolute deviant for magical, regency Britain.
Analogous or authentic, it doesn't really matter, I just want to slope around in it and practice my sword skills in a deluge of crinoline.
It's one of my happy places.
And there was such an abundance of rich settings of this sort in Sorcery of Thorns.
The grand libraries:
Austere estates and lavishly ramshackled apartments:
Shadowy dungeons housing screeching grimoires and death cap tomes:
It fed me well, stuffed and sated with aestheticism.
But if only the story and the characters could've reached the same heights as the setting they were placed in.
If only they could've run roughshod with my feelings, trampled my heart and put it back together again.
Then perhaps this story would have become one of those living things that sit contentedly in various corners of my life, physically and mentally,
If only.
Alas, however, I know its secrets now, the tale it holds inside, and it will slumber with the others, enjoyed, cared for, loved in its own right, but not adored.
That's the lovely thing about books, though: You can't love them all, but someone out there will, and with every inch of their parchment heart.
The library no more belonged to Ashcroft and his plot than Elisabeth belonged to the unknown parents who had brought her into this world. It possessed a life of its own, had become something greater than Cornelius had ever intended. For these were not ordinary books the libraries kept. They were knowledge, given life. Wisdom, given voice. They sang when starlight streamed through the library's windows. They felt pain and suffered heartbreak. Sometimes they were sinister, grotesque―but so was the world outside. And that made the world no less worth fighting for, because wherever there was darkness, there was also so much light.
There's probably only so many times I can curse my brains outover that ending, but I'm gonna go for broke.
That twist was just...
I did not see that coming.
I never see this shit coming but I especially didn't see that coming.
And it was spectacularly done.
A twisty, turny cobweb of complexity.
And everyone was breaking my heart as per usual.
Max!
Nancy!
Elle!
Best babysitter Steve!
I love him so dearly.
He must be protected at all costs.
And Eddie!
Every time they introduce someone new in this show, I lose my fucking mind, but Steve Guttenberg-esque, rock-loving, D&D-worshipping stoners are apparently my new kryptonite.
...
This review really is word vomit, but I'm an incoherent mess who's trying not to spoil anything for anyone that hasn't watched it yet, which is really hard by the way, mostly because oh dear gods, I am so full of feelings.
And if they try and kill who they're hinting at killing, I'm gonna need some rage medication because this bitch is gonna go off.
“Wrath has its place.” We are all feeling the wrath in the US. Women’s bodily autonomy is under attack and so are our children from gun violence. Things need to change. We need wrath to make them change. @used_bandaid#loreolympuspic.twitter.com/eotXZoqMw3
workin on some persephone art. 👀🌸 the full sketches are up for patrons, but here’s a preview! do you prefer kore, persephone, or the dread queen? #loreolympuspic.twitter.com/5DTkhkKkBb
Blaze your way through the first series because it's basically ten episodes of tits, treasure, and tyranny - all excellent things - but once you reach the second season, you'll get to the real meaty stuff.
Like the queer buccaneer love stories which were basically the reason we all wanted to watch the show to begin with, right?
But not just the romantic love, but the intense friendships that are formed/reinforced throughout the show.
And how much it hurts when they break.
And let's just take a moment for the strong as fuck women of the show:
And the absurd, alpha cinnamon-roll who won me over with shocking ease:
The betrayals, plots, deceptions, adventures, battles, triumphs, losses, they're what make this show so much fun and deceptively complex.
Balls and brashness on the outside, but multiple love stories at the heart of it.
I am not a pirate person, I've never understood the fuss, but these idiots had me by the throat for four seasons.
I couldn't love them more.
Especially this glorious fucker:
And it didn't hurt getting to look at all the pretty people for forty episodes.
Although, I crushed on just about everyone at one time or another:
And I don't care what my sister says, the evil wench that she is (screw you, I hate you, why did you plant this evil fucking seed?!), that's my ending.
@henryjimenezkerbox This gotta be the coolest photoshoot I’ve ever done, I’m so happy with the results and can’t wait to share with you guys, happy pride month 🏳️🌈 also thank you for saying yes and being the best model @Josh ⚡️🤍 ♬ Kings & Queens - Ava Max
Declan unbuckled his seat belt and leaned over, too close, blocking out the world.
"What are you―"
His lips touched hers, warm and inviting. She was still furious at him, but somehow her anger didn't stop her from opening her mouth and letting him in. No, it drove her to him, and she kissed him back, caught between the urge to slap him and the thrill of tasting him. His arms closed about her and he pulled her to him. She wasn't sure if she was trapped or shielded or both, but it made her feel happy and she kissed him
The sound of a car horn blared at them. They broke apart. A red truck roared past them, its windows down. Rob Simoen screamed some obscenity at them and sped past the boundary into the Broken.
Declan growled. "I'll have to kill him one day."
Rose pushed on his chest with her hand. "If you let go of me now, I'm going to chalk your mauling of me up to temporary insanity.
He kissed her again, lightly brushing her lips.
"Declan!"
His grass green eyes laughed at her. "I wanted your to be sure that I wasn't temporarily insane."
...
"Oh, please." She rolled her eyes.
"I should be more polite about this, but I don't think you'll understand me unless I speak directly," he said.
She'd heard those words before. It took her a second, but she remembered where―she had said them to him outside of the Burger King.
"You're a prickly, stubborn, spirited woman."
"Don't forget crude, rude, and vulgar."
"Only when it suits you. You're sly when occasion calls for it, direct to the point of forgetting tact even exists, sarcastic, fierce, I did mention stubborn, didn't I?"
"Yes," she said dryly.
"You're also smart, kind, gentle, beautiful, and always cling to your personal integrity, even when it's in your best interests to abandon it."
A little warm feeling spread through her chest, and even her natural suspicion that he was lying couldn't quite extinguish it. Where was he going with this?
"You're also quite funny," he said.
"Oh, I amuse you?"
He gave her one of his devastating, slightly wicked smiles. "You have no idea."
Arrogant ass. "And all of that means what?"
"Just that I mean to have you."
She frowned at him.
"I mean to have you, Rose, you and all of your thorns. I'm a disagreeable and stubborn bastard, but I'm not a fool. You didn't really expect me to pass you up, did you?"
Heat flooded her face, and she knew she flushed. Declan laughed.
"Well, you can't have me," she parried. "You lied to me. I don't trust you, I'm not leaving with you, and I'm not sleeping with you either. Now let go of me and get out of the truck."
Being alive is a strange experience; overwhelmed from birth with an array of feelings you can neither control nor comprehend, you're simply a squishy, open-ended paragraph who can't articulate what you need or want, but you feel so deeply, intensely, unrestrainedly.
But then the clear thoughts follow, and the language to express them.
You finally have the words to tell people when you're sad, frustrated, exhilarated, hungry, pissed off, ad infinitum.
No longer do you have to rely on the "big people" to figure it out for you.
And even when the words evade you, when your vocabulary fails to string together the right sequence to give permanence to those secret, yet universal emotions that haunt us all, there are those out there who do have the words, who know how to knit them together, how to explain for us.
Within the first paragraph of On the Edge, I was suffused with a clasping, hugging feeling of home.
As if the book was welcoming me with open arms and joyful words of finally, at last, you're here, safe and happy.
And I don't even have the words for why this feeling occurs.
Maybe it's magic, maybe it's something chemical, maybe it's both, I just know that when I read their stories it feels like I'm reading something that already existed inside of me.
As if for the time spent inside of the book, I become a palimpsest for it to come alive, scrubbed clean with only the shadow of my words remaining, eagerly peering out from between House Andrews fantastical tale.
It's inexplicable, that feeling.
To be a part of something but fall into the background and graciously, gleefully let someone else's story trample all over you.
I belong to their broken, crippled lands, flickering with unfettered magics.
I belong to their characters; freaks, and changelings, and shifters alike.
I belong in their chaos, their bad jokes, their surly romances.
And I didn't truly know that until I read this book.
The Kate Daniels series is the only work of theirs I've read to date; it's my favourite Urban Fantasy series, I knew it would be the moment I started reading, and I only finished it in December of last year, after starting it back in 2018.
Three years of carefully spacing it out, desperately needing it to last as long as I could hold out between books.
And when I did finally finish (shush, I know it's continued with Hugh/Elara, and is continuing with Julie/Derek/Ascanio, but it's different. I'm always going to miss my knife wife), I was pretty much heartbroken (I wrote an enormous review about it; I had feelings to exorcise), and terrified that maybe I wouldn't love anything they wrote quite as much.
...
And I was right (so far).
But only by a tiny amount.
On the Edge very much feels like a story that could exist within the same world as Kate's.
Set somewhere in North America, split between three layered worlds: the Broken (humanity who've lost their magic), the Edge (changelings/hybrids/outcasts), and the Weird (fae - technically HA don't describe them as such, but they totally are), it has a muted tone of Kate's magic-stricken Atlanta, specifically in the Edge and the Broken.
Ravaged and depleted in the latter, overrun with flora in the former, people overworked and scraping by, eating to live, not living to eat.
It's an impoverished landscape HA drops us into, but not one without colour or joy, not when there's magic to be found, even the small amount the inhabitants of the Edge are born with.
The old Ford truck bounced on the bumps in the dirt road. The rifles clanged on the floor. Georgie put his feet down to steady them without being asked.
Rose sighed. Here, in the Edge, she could protect them well enough. But they were about to pass from the Edge into another word, and their magic would die in the crossing. The two hunting rifles on the floor would be their only defense. Rose felt a pang of guilt. If it wasn't for her, they wouldn't need the rifles. God, she didn't want to be jumped again. Not with her brothers in the car.
They lived between worlds: on one side lay the Weird and the other the Broken. Two dimensions, existing side by side, like mirror images of each other. In the place where the dimensions "touched", they intersected slightly, forming a narrow ribbon of land that belonged to both of them―the Edge. In the Weird, magic pooled deeply; in the Edge it was a shallow trickle. But in the Broken, no magic shielded them at all.
They exist as a community of changelings who can't survive without losing their magic in the Broken and are shunned by the magic-privileged bluebloods in the Weird, so instead made their home in a narrow sliver of no-man's land between the two mirrored worlds.
Magic | No magic, and then the Edge.
A forest of shotgun-defended front porches, impossible creatures with bite and sting, a community of suspicion and wavering loyalty.
No one's truly friendly, they'll betray you if the price is high enough, and if you possess a glimpse of too much magic? Then you're cattle to be sold to the Weird for breeding.
Ugly sounding, yeah?
It was, it is, and entirely absorbing in its ugly.
Nothing's pretty, or safe, but not necessarily grisly either; they do what many great writers attempt and find the beauty in the disfigured.
For Kate, it was the rubble of Atlanta, for Rose, On the Edge's protagonist, it's a rabble of "unwanteds" relegated to a crevice of lawless, semi-magical forest, where everything's hard - love, work, family, loyalty - and there's no true way out.
They find work in the Broken doing menial jobs for too little, they trade with the caravans that travel between the three worlds, they accept their lot and strive for what little "more" they can reach.
It's an accepted facet of HA's writing that to read it is to be absorbed by it, the words become a palpable thing, surrounding you, twitching senses awake, removing you entirely from real life.
A trick of the mind that fools me entirely into believing I can touch it, smell it, taste it.
I love this feeling, to be spirited away but remain safe, and I felt it intensely with every moment I spent in the Edge, inside Rose's house, stealthing and stomping through the woods with Declan (hero), Jack, and Georgie (little brothers).
It's a place that feels not just vivid to me, but perhaps a little real.
And not just the landscape, the people, too.
HA write wonderful characters; they're distinct and memorable, and I have a habit of falling desperately in love with them.
And within the first chapter, I knew Rose was a character I was going to go a little silly over.
"ROSIE!" Grandpa's bellow shook the foundation of the house.
"Why me?" Rose wiped the dish-soap suds from her hands with a kitchen towel, swiped the crossbow from the hook, and stomped onto the porch.
"Rooooosie!"
She kicked the screen door open. He towered in the yard, a huge, shaggy bear of a man, deranged eyes opened wide, tangled beard caked with blood and quivering grayish shreds. She leveled the crossbow at him. Drunk as hell again.
"What is it?"
"I want to go to the pub. I want a pint." His voice slipped into a whine. "Gimme some money!"
"No."
He hissed at her, swaying unsteadily on his feet. "Rose! This is your last chance to give me a dollar!"
She sighed and shot him. The bolt bit between the eyes, and Grandpa toppled onto his back like a log. His legs drummed the ground.
Rose rested the butt of her crossbow on her hip. "All right, come out."
The two boys slipped from behind the huge oak spreading its branches over the yard. Both were filthy with reddish mud, sap, and the other unidentifiable substances an eight and ten-year-old could find in the Wood. A jagged scratch decorated Georgie's neck, and brown pine straw stuck out of his blond hair. Red welts marked the skin between Jack's knuckles. He saw her looking at his hands. His eyes got big, amber irises flaring yellow, and he hid his fists behind his back.
"How many times do I have to say it: don't touch the ward stones. Look at Grandpa Cletus! He's been eating dog brains again, and now he's drunk. It will take me half an hour to hose him off."
"We miss him," Georgie said.
She sighed. "I miss him, too. But he's no good to anybody drunk. Come on, you two, let's take him back to his shed. Help me get the legs."
...
She's beauty.
She's grace.
She will absolutely punch you in the face.
Ask anyone my "type" when it comes to women in fiction and the answer, nine times out of ten, will be tiny, feral cinnamon rolls who'll smile sweetly right before they sock you in the mouth.
The feistier the better.
I generally like to think of myself as a pacifist but in fiction? I'm a rabid monster with a lust for throat-punches and a love for take-no-fucks women.
You get in less trouble when it's fictional characters doing the throat-punching, and Rose did her fair share, whilst preserving her softness.
She's not Kate, she's not trained or plagued with a need to both hide and seek vengeance.
She's not too prideful (mostly) to accept help.
She'snot the chosen one.
Rose is just a girl, barely in her twenties, fucked over by life, doing her very best for her little brothers, ferociously trying to make it through and not get kidnapped by power hungry pricks who want to use her as a broodmare (eurgh) because she's got more power than the average Edger.
Quite a lot more power, actually.
Almost as much as a bluebood from the Weird.
"Who taught you to flash?" He said it like he expected her to lie.
"Nobody taught me. I practiced for years. Several hours a day. I still do, when I have time."
Declan's face reflected disbelief.
"Don't look so surprised," she told him. "I'm the Edger girl who flashes white, remember? The reason for your trip to this horrible, awful place where you have to mingle with unwashed commoners!"
"I knew you could flash white. I didn't know how precise you are."
"You're precise. You knocked aside my bolt."
"Yes, but I didn't aim for the bolt specifically. I just sent a wide pulse of magic from the front of my body, like a shield. It would've knocked away one bolt or ten."
"Oh. Well, thank you for the tip! Now I know how you did it."
They looked at each other.
"Just how precise are you?" he asked.
She gave him a sly Edger smile. "Do you have a doubloon on you?"
He reached into his pocket and produced a coin.
"I'll make you a deal. You throw it in the air, and if I hit it with my flash, it's mine."
Declan looked at the doubloon. It was slightly larger than a quarter from the Broken. He tossed it high above his head. The doubloon spun in the air, catching the sunlight, shining like a bright spark . . . and fell into the grass stung by a thin white whip of her flash.
Declan swore.
She grinned, plucked the still hot coin from the grass, blew on it, and showed it to him, taunting him a little. "Groceries for two weeks. A pleasure doing business with you."
You never got around to explaining it, and I have questions.
Like, will there be more of Rose in the future books? Because I didn't realise this was a couple-by-book series when I started and I'm not done with her yet.
Is she part bluebood?
Is she the chosen one and will that be more important later?
How is she as powerful as Declan?
And ohhhh, Declan.
That beautiful, Rose-riling, pancake-flipping asshole who looks nothing like the guy on the cover - thank fuck.
He's basically a softer version of Curran(with a little Hugh thrown in) and I'm not mad about it.
Why am I so attracted to cantankerous dickheads with marshmallow insides who like to antagonise their love interests into fits of rage that end in up-against-the-wall makeout sessions?
Why am I like this?
Is this the primordial ooze, again?
Damn ooze, it makes me so stupid for these idiots, and Declan's a perfect specimen of alpha-mallow with a playful side that turns my brain to useless mush.
Glorious, glorious mush.
From the off, I knew I'd root for him.
The moment he essentially called Rose an ill-mannered wretch, unfit to wed, I was a goner ← feel free to judge, I don't know why I'm like this either.
"There's nothing for you here. Go away, or I'll make you gone."
He grimaced. "You're rude, vulgar, and speak in an atrocious fashion. You'll take so much work before you can be presentable. And you actually feel that you're a suitable spouse for me?"
That hurt. "That's right. I'm rude and vulgar. A mongrel. That's why you should leave me in peace. Run along to your fancy ladies. I'm sure one of them will gladly fall on her back for you and be overjoyed to pop out a litter of bluebloods. I won't marry you, and I won't be your mistress. Leave us be."
"I have no intention of leaving until I get what I want." He stated it as a fact and fixed her with his gaze. Fear blocked her throat. There was no give in those eyes and no mercy. Only savage magic and iron will.
"If I wish it, you'll marry me. Shooting me, running me over with a vehicle, or trying to sour my disposition will do nothing to help your cause."
She raised her chin. "I'll fight you to the end," she promised. "You'll have to kill me." She jerked her crossbow up, sighting his chest.
"I have no intention to hurt you. Go ahead and fire," he said. "I won't count it against you―it will save me some breath."
She shot him.
Making a deal to win her hand, fairy tale style with three challenges?
"Give me three challenges," he said. "Three tasks. I'll excel at each one. When I succeed, you'll come to me willingly and you'll obey me."
"And if you fail?"
He permitted himself a half smile. "Don't concern yourself with that possibility. I won't."
"If you fail, you'll go away and never bother us again."
He shrugged. "Yes, that's how those things are usually worded."
Rose's mind sped through the possibilities. "And if I refuse?"
A white glow frosted the green irises. The magic swelled around him, building. It buckled in his grasp, plain even through the two lines of the wards. He was monstrously powerful. She got the message loud and clear.
Excuse me while I muzzle my inner feminist as Declan does his thing. ... Usually with his shirt off.
Kicking the shit out Rose's former abuser?
Rose's feet slid on the floor. She crashed into some boxes and scrambled to the window. The two men stood in back, past the drive-through lane. Juniper flipped the switch, and Rose heard Declan's voice, distorted by static.
"You want to talk, now's a good time," Declan said.
"Fu―"
The punch was so quick, Rose barely saw it. Brad stumbled back, clutching at his gut, shook his head, and lunged at Declan. "Sonova―"
Declan's fist caught him in the left side with a solid crunch. Brad stumbled to the side, wincing.
"Ouch," Latoya squeaked.
Brad whipped about. "I'll―"
Declan rammed his fist into Brad's solar plexus. Brad bent over. Spit dripped from his mouth in a long sticky strand. He clenched and vomited a gush of foamy liquid onto the asphalt.
"Eww. In my goddamn parking lot, too." Juniper skewed her face.
"That last one hurt a bit," Declan said. "Take it easy. You have time."
Brad made some hoarse noises and stumbled a few steps, still bent over. About ten seconds later, he finally straightened and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Ready?" Declan asked.
Brad raised his fists. "Motherfu―"
The punch took him off his feet. He curled on the ground, cradling his gut.
Declan leaned over him. "Done?"
Brad nodded, his face twisted.
"Okay. Anytime you want to speak to Rose, you let me know and we'll do this again. Understand."
Brad nodded again.
Declan rose and headed to the entrance.
*bad feminist/pacifist swoon*
Protecting and caring for her beloved little brothers?
"Is he going to kill Rose?"
"I promise you I'll take care of Rose," Declan said. "Nothing will happen to her or you, as long as I'm around. Rose doesn't trust me, and she and I will have to settle this between ourselves. But you and your brother mustn't fear me. If you're in danger, find me and I'll help. You don't have to handle it on your own. I'll protect you. Do you understand?
Georgie nodded. He understood, and he felt deep down that Declan meant it.
*repeats* I will not be run my ovaries, I will not be run by my ovaries...
Flirting with her whenever she breaths in his direction?
"I want you to swear that you won't attempt to molest me."
He looked her over very slowly. "If I chose to molest you, it wouldn't be an attempt. And you would be most enthusiastic about it."
Rose felt heat rise to her cheeks. "On second thought, I'm not sure that my house is big enough to contain you and your ego. Few places are. Promise or sleep outside."
"If you insist."
"I would prefer to hear the words."
He sighed. "I promise not to molest you, no matter how tempting."
*pitiful wailing* I'm only humannnnn!
And generally being a protective doof who respects Rose's abilities, wants to fight alongside her, not for her.
"Kissing me won't make me more agreeable," she whispered.
"I'm not trying to make you more agreeable." His voice was rough and low. "I just can't help myself."
[...]
"I'm still going on that dock."
His voice was low and so suffused with need, it was almost a snarl. "I know. I'm coming with you."
"What?"
"We'll do it together."
[...]
"I can handle the hounds. You don't have to . . ." she whispered.
"Yes, I do."
He kissed her again.
And make a life together while searching for the very best way to make his future missus' head explode.
In a loving way.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed.
"Perhaps I missed the sight of your lovely body," he said.
"What?"
Declan leaned closer. "My promise not to ravish you doesn't extend to this fine establishment, does it? As I recall, it's only valid under your roof. How could I pass on such an opportunity?"
"If you touch me, I'll hit you with this chair," she ground out.
"I had no idea you enjoyed rough courtship," he said with a straight face. "It was never my particular favorite, but I'll do my best to play along, provided I'll get you in the end."
Rose opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
"Would you like to me to be quiet?" he asked.
"Yes!"
"If you kiss me, I promise to be quiet for a very long time."
...
I love him.
I love him almost as much as I love Curran and that big idiot has my entire HA devoted soul.
Was he perhaps a little too perfect?
Of course, but if we can't have perfect men in fiction, then why bother?
Was his and Rose's relationship a little insta-lovey for my liking?
Absofuckinglutely; I'd've loved more time to really establish their bond before the I love you's came out, but On the Edgeis a standalone, and they're precious, and it was written by HA, two of the only authors who could possibly get insta-love by me and make it not just enjoyable but bloody delightful.
Although, honestly, they could write Tamagotchi fanfiction and I'd totally be all over it.
...
Now I think about it, that'd be adorable.
I can just imagine Declan (or Curran, or Hugh, or Roman! EspeciallyRoman) with a Tamagotchi; it'd be green, possibly dinosaur themed, and tended to with the utmost care.
Rose would attempt to sabotage it daily.
...
Fuck.
I really want to read that!
But for now, I guess I'll make do with HA's endless supply of Urban Fantasy and the fact that they made me enjoy children in fiction ← legit sorcery.
I'm not a hater of children, they're fine, always sticky for some inexplicable reason, but fine, I just don't tend to enjoy the way authors write them in fiction.
They dumb them down, forget to give them personalities, and for some reason they always have a lisp?
*deep breath*
...
Authors, writers, tellers of tales, hear me now: speech impairments are not character traits you can foist on every fictional child in existence so they seem "extra cute". If it seems relevant to the kid, go for it, we love representation here, but don't just throw it in for cute points, that's just really fucking weird.
...
Thankfully, my beloved authors have actually borne witness to children, had a couple of their own (probably helps a bit, yeah?), and gifted Rose's little brothers with weighty, full-rounded personalities, whilst also allowing them to seem their age and reasonably aware of the onus of being semi-supernatural.
They weren't simply there for Declan to suck up to and help in his pursuit of their sister, they weren't just side-characters in Rose's story but dealing with their own shit within the story (Georgie - power drain, mortality; Jack - shapeshifting); they got up to trouble, didn't always follow Rose's orders, wanted things they couldn't afford but mostly understood when they couldn't have them.
They felt real.
They felt like boys, and brothers, and people in their own right.
Georgie sat on the front porch steps. His overnight bag lay next to him. He always took the overnight bag just in case. Inside was a book about a boy who lived on the edge of the woods, an InuYasha comic book, spare socks, underwear, a T-shirt, and pants. And his toothbrush. Inside, Jack was banging things, looking for his sneakers. Georgie closed his eyes and pictured Jack's shoes. He felt a slight tug to the left and turned toward it. Not too far. A little more to the left . . . About fifteen feet. He opened his eyes and found himself looking at the kitchen window. Yep. The shoes were under the kitchen table. Jack must've pulled them off while he was eating dinner last night and forgotten about them.
He could go inside and tell Jack where his shoes were. Rose said to get ready quick. She had the look on her face. Georgie knew the look well. When she came out of the shower and saw that Jack didn't have his shoes, she wouldn't be happy. He could save Jack from getting in trouble, but those were new shoes, the second pair of new shoes. They cost a lot of money, and Jack had to learn to take care of them.
And they weren't underestimated by the adults, which is yet another pet hate of mine when it comes to children in fiction.
Kids are crazy, so fucking intuitive, and they say the wildest shit; watch any episode of Recess Therapy if you need examples - watch it anyway, it's hilarious.
They're smarter than you think, so please, for the love of tiny Converse everywhere, don't treat them like zygotes who've only recently plopped out the womb.
...
But also don't make them seem too grown up!
I have many requirements when it comes to fictional kids and unsurprisingly, HA ticked them all off, and then some.
And then they went and did it again with their choice of villain.
He was, in a word?
Campy
As
Fuck
That was three words, but they were absolutely necessary.
Casshorn is one of those villains who's creepy in his own right, genuinely a bit terrifying, but you know, you just know, that he practiced his maniacal cackle and regal-evil poses in the mirror before he commenced his nefarious scheme.
You can just tell.
"You do understand you can't protect them? I'll pick them off one by one, when you're not looking. And then I'll feed. Especially on the girl. Such a lovely voice. I bet she's succulent. Juicy." Casshorn shivered. "It was a mistake to come here alone, Declan. You aren't enough to stop me, and the locals are too weak to help you. They scurry to and fro like garbage rats atop their little garbage heap between the worlds, but in the end they will all die. I know why my brother sent you―he hopes to avoid the scandal. I know why you've agreed to come alone―you're still hoping to save the wolf from the executioner's axe. None it will make an iota of difference. As usual, you're too late . . ."
"You're raving," Declan told him.
"Am I? I must be." Casshorn sighed again in resignation. "It's time to go, I suppose. I leave you with this parting thought: you may think you can put yourself between the girl and my hounds in the Edge, but what will you do when she goes into the Broken, where my wolf prowls? He will slit her throat and paint himself red. You remember how much he enjoys murder . . .'
The puddle beneath Casshorn had dried up completely. He began to fade from the bottom up. "This is just lovely," he said. "And here I was thinking I would get bored." He dipped his fingers into his hood and held them out as if blowing a kiss. "Until later, children."
He's so vain, and his lines feel so rehearsed, almost comic book-y, like he has a notebook full of just the right "evil" thing to say: some highlighted, others circled furiously with red pen, a special few surrounded by black emo hearts and drips of blood.
Even Jude Law's voice feels right for someone like Casshorn: beautifully, softly spoken, painfully English, haughty and self-congratulatory, believably mischievous, if not entirely evil.
I don't know how I could've pictured anyone else.
And he was fun.
I don't think I've ever read a truly fun villain from House Andrews; their bad guys are usually frighteningly intelligent, darkly humorous, and have a habit of not really being the bad guy after all - Hugh, Bran, Erra, Nick, I could go on - but rarely are they having a blast.
I adore a villain who takes joy in their work.
If they aren't grinning maniacally whilst slitting throats and tickling appendixes, then they just aren't doing it right.
Casshorn did it right.
Little freak, I love him so much.
I love this story so much.
What could possibly be better than a supernatural community being violently picked off one by one by eldritch horrors and a villain with a smirk so wide you could see it from the Broken to the Weird without straining?
One thing.
One things's better than that:
Two squishy idiots who love a good verbal spar as foreplay attempting to stop said smirk-wide villain eating their community in one unhinged chomp, and snarkily falling in love while they do it.
"If I fail to kill Casshorn, people will die, the Duke of the Southern Provinces will be dishonored and possibly have to step down, your town will be wiped out, and I'll lose you. And I don't even know if have you."
Rose chewed on that. Did "I don't even know if I have you" mean "I don't even know if you like me" or did it mean "I don't even know if I'll win the challenges and get to own you"?
"You won't lose me just because you've failed," she said.
"If I fail, I'll be dead," Declan said.
Suddenly she was angry. All that worry and fear mixed in her, and him talking so calmly about dying squeezed it together into pure fury. She was furious at Casshorn for putting them all through it. "Oh no, you won't."
His eyebrows crept up.
"You'll survive this," she told him. "I'll be right there to make sure you'll make it out alive, even if I have to drag your bloody body out of the Wood on my back. I still have a challenge left, and I will stump you with it. You won't rob me of my victory, Lord Camarine."
A light sparked in his eyes. "I'll have to postpone my dying then."
"You do that," she told him. "I don't know what will come of this thing between you and me, but no brainsick blue blood crackpot is going to take away my chance to find out."
"Have you made up your mind, then?" he asked.
"About what? About surrendering to your manly charms?"
"Yes."
"Not yet," she said. "I'm still thinking about it."
"Is there anything I can do to persuade you?" He leaned forward, a dangerously focused expression on his face. His green eyes turned warm and wicked, and she froze, snared in his stare.
"I can't think of anything," she murmured.
He was close, entirely too close, only a couple of inches away. She saw his lips, curving in a sly smile, a network of thin scars by his left eye, his long eyelashes . . .
"Are you sure, Miss Drayton?" he asked, his voice low and husky.
"I'm sure," she whispered, and then he closed the distance between them.
I'm really going to miss these two, their bicker-flirting brought me huge amounts of joy, and honestly, I'm used to long-running couples with House Andrews, so it's kind of weird saying goodbye to them so quickly.
But it's okay, because my authors being my authors, they introduced a side character who's ridiculously intriguing, the lead in the next book, and I was already itching for his story when he appeared at the start of the series (or just itching; why is summer like this?!), so I can forgive HA not feeding my need for more quality Rose and Declan time.
I can totally forgive it.
Maybe.
No.
Maybe.
Yeah.
Yeah?
Yeah, I can do it
Why?
Because House Andrews' work truly is the place where my heart safely slumbers, snoozing away, flopped over with all four paws in the air, twitching with Urban Fantasy happiness.
I can forgive them anything for that feeling alone.
Ps. They posted a Kate snippet and I've been preoccupied ever since:
I think my favourite instance of the two existing harmoniously in fiction is Robin McKinley's, Sunshine, where the protagonist is a baker and we spend pages upon pages learning the intricacies of turning water, yeast and salt into fluffy clouds of get in my face right this second while she figures out what the fuck to do about her undead buddy.
It's entrancing, infuriating, and extremely hunger-making.
I always thought bread was magic.
It doesn't seem possible that three separately unappetising ingredients could make something so delicious.
Of course it's the perfect counterpart to Fantasy.
Rediscovering my love of indoor gardening and the positive impact it has on my mental health. Do you have any hobbies that bring you joy and peace? 174/365 #cuteart#illustrationpic.twitter.com/2LTnI0qFzh
If you're looking for a Slice of Life comic with not too much drama, OCs doing cute domestic shit, and something inclusive and funny, this is a fucking goldmine.
Plus, the art is...
You can read it on Webtoon, but it does, however, have missing panels because Webtoon are purity policing (they're just nipples, ffs, literally everybody is born with them. My cat has them!).
The full uncensoredversion is available on Tapas, though.
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