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A Skinful of Shadows

3/5. Tale of Makepeace, illegitimate daughter of an ancient english noble family. She can see ghosts, and she gets possessed by a bear, and it’s 1641 and there’s a war coming.

My Hardinge standards are so unfairly high that this, a really very good and creepy historical fantasy, is judged as average because it didn’t blow my face off. It really is good – Hardinge has such a great line on angry girls who furiously survive while the world tries to beat them down. And there’s a ghost bear. And this book is doing stuff with the inheritance of power, the concentration of it in families, in ghosts who refuse to go, in kings, in governments.

But it didn’t blow my face off, because I was just not in the mood for a historical fantasy that leans quite so much on the historical part. And I think because Makepeace does a lot, suffers a lot, for a boy (brother, not boyfriend) who frankly doesn’t deserve to wipe her boots for her, and I get why she does it, he’s the only person human she has to love so by God she will. But that didn’t make it fun to read about. She should have just run off with her ghost bear and had a better life and damn them all.
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Cuckoo Song

4/5. 1922. The thirteen-year-old daughter of wealthy parents wakes up after a near-drowning. With gaps in her memory; and a bottomless, terrifying hunger; and hair that turns into leaves overnight; and dolls that try to flee her; and a sister who calls her a "thing" and hates her guts.

I talk about what I'm reading a lot with my nearest and dearest. Seriously, my poor wife gets the disorganized and incoherent thought soup that I yank these reviews out of. You know, my sparklingly coherent and organized reviews. You know.

But anyway, I keep saying "Frances Hardinge" to people, and they keep saying "Who?" And that. I do not understand that.

So hear ye, hear ye.

Frances Hardinge. Frances motherfucking Hardinge.

She writes young adult…ish. Fantasy….ish. Her brain is a magical tree that bears strange fruit, and I want to eat every single one, even when I know there are teeth on the inside. And people do not know who she is, which is incomprehensible to me, because she's written more than a half dozen books by now, and they only get better.

As a first Hardinge, I recommend Fly By Night, which beings with our young lady protagonist starting a fire and gets more madcap and wonderful from there, or Gullstruck Island which is the best young adult about colonialism I have ever read. Both of those books will give you a sense for Hardinge's powers, the way she yanks stories off their tracks and drops them into new ones, and where she puts the bite (spoiler: everywhere), and how no one can stop her writing amazing young women relating complexly to each other.

This one is kinda advanced level Hardinge. The first quarter is a slow motion, claustrophobic interpersonal car accident, and it kind of fucked me up. And then the accident happens, and the book leaps right off the road, and we have sisters, and jazz, and spells to trap the dead, and magic by architecture, and a motorcycle with a sidecar, and a woman chased by perpetual winter, and other kinds of sisters. It's a wonderfully prickly, complicated book that made me brace, on every page, for pain. And then surprised me, at the end, with a drop of mercy. Not her most accomplished, on a technical level, but there is something . . . unrestrained about the horror at the center of this book that really got to me.

Frances Hardinge, you guys.
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Fly by Night (Fly By Night, #1)Fly by Night by Frances Hardinge

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


Frances Hardinge understands all those important rules of storycraft like 'the true tension is internal,' and 'you don't have to be good to be relatable,' and 'if you put a loaded goose on the mantelpiece in act I, you have to fire it by act V.'

Ung, so good. So so good. This was her first published novel, and it's true, it doesn't have the tautness and precision of her later The Lost Conspiracy. But this is also a weird and wonderful book. It's young adult fantasy about a twelve-year-old girl who burns down her uncle's sawmill and blackmails her way out of her tiny town with a confidence man and her homicidal goose companion (though, really, given geese, that's redundant, I could just say "her goose companion.") This book kept shifting under my feet. First it was blackhearted bickering roadtrip funtimes, and then it was fantasy spy funtimes, and then it was about revolutions, and then it was about illegal printing presses, and then it was about trust and ferocity and betrayal and growing a conscience and so many other things all at once that I can't remember them all.

But mostly it's about Mosca, who is twelve and messed up and literate but undereducated and curious and coldhearted. And I loved her so much. Here she is, judge for yourself:

""Sacred just means something you're not meant to think about properly, and you should never stop thinking. Show me something I can kick, and hit with rocks, and set fire to, and leave out in the rain, and think about. And if it's still standing after all that, then maybe, just maybe, I'll start to believe in it, but not till then.""




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