2020/106: The Faerie Hounds of York -- Arden Powell

If Loxley himself had been stolen as a babe—if he, here and now, were not William Loxley at all, but an unwitting imposter—would that not explain a lifetime of peculiarities? Would it not excuse certain inclinations, if he could say that he was not human, and thus not bound to human law or nature? [loc. 498]

England, 1810. William Loxley wakes in a faerie ring, somewhere in Yorkshire, dressed in his nightclothes and his coat. He can't remember how he got there: he lives in London, though he grew up in Pickering. The only person in sight is a rough-looking gentleman who breaks the circle to free Loxley, introduces himself as John Thorncress, and recommends that Loxley return to his comfortable London home.

But Loxley has been targetted by something out of Faerie, and it will not permit him to head south. Instead, he is drawn to return to his childhood home. He remembers very little about his life there, except that there was a hawthorn tree in the garden, and branches -- were they branches? -- scratching against his bedroom window. Strangely enough, there's a hawthorn berry in his pocket: he does not show it to Thorncress.

I really enjoyed this atmospheric novella, set in wild November weather, with the Faerie hounds howling in the distance -- they must not be looked upon, or death will follow -- and the mysterious Thorncress gradually revealing his own history and the story of what he has lost to Faerie. A warm, companionable, soft-focus romance builds between the two men, in stark contrast to the creature that haunts Loxley. And there's a surprising, yet satisfactory, conclusion to the tale.

In some respects I was reminded of Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell, though the similarity is more in ambience (and in the acknowledged, but seldom-glimpsed, reality of Faerie) than in plot. There's little sense of the wider world here -- aside from an offhand mention that America has no faerie magic -- and indeed very little about Loxley's life in London.

A few nitpicks: nobody in 1810 would address a spinster as 'Ms'; the term 'yard' is not used in the British Isles for a garden; 'switchblade' seems anachronistic. But these are minor vexations: i enjoyed this very much, and intend to read more by the author.