You never know with obscure fantasy novels, especially those written by women, whose works are still too often unjustly ignored. There are some hidden gems out there. (Here, have some recs: Firethorn. The Secrets of Jin-shei. Fudoki.) And then there are the books that are forgotten for good reaso...
♦ What I Liked: Once again I enjoyed the uniqueness of this tale. Unlike book one, magic plays a big role in this adventure, though mainly as a subject of debate with tantalizing hints as to its validity.The story centers around Theron Campion and his University mentor/lover. Theron has many of t...
Little Red Riding Hood is always setting off through the forest to visit her granny. Cinderella is always trying on a glass slipper. Just so, this story is constantly reenacting itself. Otherwise, Cinderella becomes just another tired old queen with a palace full of pretty dresses, abusing the se...
Miss Van Loon’s Big Book of Rules I told Astris about Lincoln Center the next morning. Her whiskers quivered like butterfly wings. “How very exciting,” she said. “You’ll wear the silver dress, of course, and I’ll see if I can fix up Satchel a bit. You’ll be needing a carriage. And a cloak. Oh, ...
There’d been a sudden return of winter. Snow dusted the ground, and the wind had a savage bite. Every few minutes, Nick swiped his dripping nose with the cuff of his jacket. The jacket was red. So were his socks. Smallbone had insisted, since red was the color of fire. The old wizard was wearing ...
Neef’s Rules for Changelings The smell was the first thing I noticed. Foul, cold, and unnatural, it made my eyes water and caught at the back of my throat. I’d never smelled anything quite like it, not even when a squirrel died in the Castle basement. I coughed and breathed through my mouth un...
The notebook contained his first novel, the one he wrote when he was twenty-two and never had the heart to revise or learn any more about. He had forgotten about it, but the smell of his old cologne on the pages awakened his memory. The world that he had written about was long dead, but he wanted...
It was Friday evening. Sophie was practicing writing Omi Saide, slave of Mr. Franklin Preston of Rich Meadow Plantation, Georgia, with a half-burned stick on a bit of rag. It didn’t look much like Maître Jacques’s scrawl, but it didn’t look like her usual writing, either, and she was feeling pret...
The carriage was of antique design, steam-driven instead of the more modern clockwork, with a tall chimney pipe that added its acrid mite to the smoky air. A burly footman sat on its box, peering through the gloom at the house numbers. As they passed a pleasant Georgian lodging-house, he hastily ...