2026/015: Katabasis — R F Kuang

The first rule every graduate student learned was that at the base of every paradox there existed the truth. That you should never fully believe your own lie, for then you lost power over the pentagram. That magick was an act of tricking the world but not yourself. You had to hold two opposing beliefs in your head at once. [p. 229]

The novel opens with Alice Law, a postgrad in Cambridge's Department of Analytic Magick, drawing a pentagram that will take her to Hell. Her stated mission is to rescue the soul of her advisor, Professor Jacob Grimes, from Hell. Alice blames herself for his death: she didn't check that pentagram correctly. And without Grimes' mentorship and letters of recommendation, she won't be able to fulfil her ambitions.

But just before she closes the pentagram, an unwanted companion shows up. Peter Murdoch had been her closest friend and colleague, until he ghosted her. And it turns out he's also been researching Tartarology (the study of Hell), for much the same reason. Alice is not happy about his presence: but she concedes that he might be useful.

In Katabasis, the basis of magick is the paradox: Alice herself is a paradox, telling herself that everything is fine when actually she's falling apart at the seams, trying to balance the horrors of academia (long hours, poor pay, misogyny, sexism) against her self-image as a genius and a successful academic. (Peter, it turns out, is handling a similar, though less severe, crisis.) Hell, it turns out, is devoid of fire and brimstone but does resemble a university campus. The two sojourners encounter various threats and temptations, and Alice and Peter cooperate to conquer, outwit or flee Hell's manifold perils.

I enjoyed the Hell-building, particularly T S Eliot's 'The Waste Land' as a core text of Tartarology (Lewis Carroll also features) and the paradoxes. I also appreciated the way that Alice's Chinese background informed not only her magic, but her mode of encountering Hell's ruler. But I didn't much like Alice herself, even when it turned out that she hadn't been wholly honest about her motives: and I felt, as with Babel, that the horrors she'd experienced were hammered home too insistently. There's no nuance: we're just told, over and over. The final chapters felt rushed, too, with a deus ex machina flavour and a certain predictability. There is a happy ending but it doesn't feel wholly earned.

This reminded me in some ways of The Atlas Six (perhaps because of the friction between the leads), and in other ways of Ninth House (in which a character goes to Hell to retrieve another's soul). Perhaps those resonances coloured my expectations: I wanted to like it more than I actually did. The vividly-described death of an animal did not help.

I amused myself by trying to work out when this novel was set. Cambridge South station exists, but the NatWest tower is still being built; the music Peter likes is very much late 1980s/early 1990s, a range confirmed by Alice's TV viewing; Grimes' heyday was the 1960s, after brilliant work during WW2. On the other hand the Colossi of Memnon still sing at dawn, and in Britain people drive on the right. This is not our world.

“This is Lord Yama’s design. There’s a million things to keep a soul from writing, all in the service of making you better at it. Remember that, Alice Law. Hell is a writers’ market.” [p. 415

2026/014: Lazarus, Home from the War — E H Lupton

“I can either be your doctor or your boyfriend,” Eli said. “And if I have to choose, I don’t want to be your doctor.” [p. 165]

Lazurus Lenkov first appears in Troth as an angry, unstable war veteran with PTSD, jealous of his older brother Ulysses' relationship with ex-demigod Sam Sterling and plagued by occasional flashes of foresight. Laz, unsurprisingly, is the focus of Lazarus, Home from the War, a novel which not only explores his character in more depth but also gives a different perspective on Ulysses.

Laz experiences a PTSD-related flashback at the local store, and is tended by Eli Sobel, a British neurologist. Things escalate quickly (Laz breaks into Eli's car and fixes the timing belt; Eli tells Laz that there's more to life than being useful, and perhaps Ulysses is being less than reasonable asking Laz to risk himself) but peril, magical and otherwise, threatens their fragile relationship. Though there's a resolution, there are plenty of unanswered questions to be picked up in future novels in the series.

I really warmed to Laz, and indeed to Sam (who tells Eli 'you're family'): Laz never intended to go to war, and the details of his military experiences are minimal, but he met a Buddhist monk in Thailand who seems to have been a powerful influence. (Hopefully we'll find out more about him, too.) Eli was a good foil for Lazarus, but perhaps not as richly characterised. He's clearly got some ideas about how to reach out to the community of magic-users, who typically avoid non-magical healthcare options. And he's good at dealing with Laz's lack of self-confidence, and fascinated by the neurological underpinnings of his foresight.

Looking forward to the next in the series, due later this year!

2026/013: Lingo: A Language Spotter's Guide to Europe — Gaston Dorran, translated by Alison Edwards

In autonomous Greenland, Danish initially retained more official functions than in the autonomous Faroe Islands. But that has since changed as well: in 2009, Kalaallisut became the one and only official administrative language. With this move, Greenland achieved a unique position: the only country of the Americas (yes, Greenland is part of the Americas), from Canada all the way down to Chile, where the indigenous language doesn’t play second fiddle to that of its colonial master. [p. 56]

Subtitled 'Around Europe in Sixty Languages' in some editions, 'A Language-Spotter’s Guide to Europe' in others, this is an entertaining and readable discussion of linguistic diversity in Europe. Translated by Alison Edwards from the Dutch Taaltoerisme (‘Language Tourism’), the book starts with the prehistoric origins of proto-Indo-European ('PIE'), the root of most European languages. (Maltese, which is Semitic and thus Afro-Asiatic, is one exception.) 

Lingo's sixty chapters are grouped into nine sections, dealing with language families, language histories, languages and politics, written and spoken, vocabulary, grammar, endangered and extinct languages, influential linguists, and 'linguistic portraits' of a few other languages (including various sign languages). Each chapter focuses on one language, and concludes with an English word borrowed from that language (if any), and a word in that language that 'doesn't exist in English, but perhaps should'. I especially liked 'Omenie – a Romanian word for the virtue of being fully human, that is: gentle, decent, respectful, hospitable, honest, polite.' [p. 39].

This is a great book for dipping into, as the chapters are short. As a native English speaker I struggled with the whole notion of cases, but now understand them rather better. I marvelled at the spelling rules for Gaelic, and was fascinated by the instructions on recognising specific languages: the alphabet, obviously (Latin, Cyrillic, Greek, Armenian...); specific letters (þ indicates Icelandic, ß indicates German, ħ indicates Maltese and does not have a 'name' in HTML); letter-patterns (if q is not typically followed by u then it's Albanian, if tx and tz occur regularly but no words start with r then it's Basque)...

And I learnt a lot of random facts. Artist Alma-Tadema's mother tongue was Frisian! Spaniards utter nearly eight syllables per second, as opposed to Germans who manage just over five! The last native speaker of Dalmatian was killed in a landmine explosion in 1898! The Cyrillic alphabet was legendarily created by St Cyril, a Macedonian: but his name was Constantine rather than Cyril, he wasn't Macedonian, and he didn't design the script!

Well-referenced and nicely illustrated (though some of the references to images 'on the previous page', 'above' etc should have been updated for the Kindle version): a fascinating and erudite read.

2026/012: Troth — E H Lupton

“Don’t be so bourgeois, darling. You’re a powerful magician and your lover is a retired god. Of course things are going to be a bit unusual.”
“It’s terrifying.”
“Eh, bien?” Mariah made a dismissive French noise. “It’s love. It’s supposed to be terrifying.” [p. 191]

Third in the series, and the last (for now) of the novels that focus on Ulysses and Sam. It begins with the two moving into a new apartment together, and meeting the neighbours (Vikram and Sita) who have a ghost problem -- and, it turns out, a connection to Sam's family.

Both Ulysses and Sam are growing up. Ulysses has finally left the family home, has won a prestigious prize, and is a professor: Sam has a real job, and is slowly rebuilding his relationship with his father. The magical bond between the two is intensifying and starting to cause problems, as is the return of Ulysses' brother Lazarus, home from Vietnam / Thailand and not sure how to fit himself back into his former life. And there are government officials literally chasing Sam; mutant spiders; and, in the mundane world, the university being bombed by anti-war protesters.

The building tension in this novel does make for some repetitive scenes, but it's interesting to see Ulysses somewhat less breezily competent than usual, and Sam more comfortable with the fact that he's an ex-god. There's a hint of past homophobia, and an apology for it: and discussions of marriage, and whether it's just a government mechanism for deciding which relationships are important. I found Mariah, Ulysses' mother, delightful and formidable (you may read that with a French accent if you wish) and the finale wholly satisfying. I did feel, though, that the spiders and the tentacles were insufficiently addressed.

This would probably have been a good place to stop, at least for now. But I was intrigued by damaged, prescient Lazarus, and his difficult relationship with his brother...

2026/011: Old Time Religion — E H Lupton

...there was something delightful about being able to feel Ulysses’s emotions, even if it was also sort of terrifying. Ulysses had big, messy, complex feelings that reminded Sam of dahlias, so bright and intricate. [p. 153]

As soon as I'd finished Dionysus in Wisconsin I went on to this sequel, set a few months later. Ulysses has almost finished his dissertation (which is about Sam and 'the problem of demigods') and winter is over. All seems promising until Livia, Ulysses' ex, turns up with a tale of woe about a murdered husband. She flirts outrageously, and meets up with Ulysses and Sam 'wearing a dress that looked like someone had crocheted it, and stopped early because they’d run out of yarn'. 

Cue jealousy from Sam -- though, to be fair, he and Ulysses do discuss this and agree that Sam has no reason to feel threatened -- and self-doubt from Ulysses. To complicate matters, there's a cursed book; further discoveries about Sam's grandfather and his nefarious plots; and compost zombies. And the concern, raised by Dr Lesko -- Ulysses' formidable thesis adviser -- that the magical bond between Sam and Ulysses may have negative effects.

A great deal changes in the course of the novel: Sam is still experiencing the side-effects of being possessed by a god, while Ulysses is forced to reassess his life, his ambition and even his family. (The Lenkovs are delightful, and we get more of their history, including Cambridge and Paris: Sam's family are conspicuous by their absence, which is nice.) There is philosophy, blood magic (not a good thing) and a play about Macbeth and the witches. And the majority of the characters are likeable, imperfect, and interesting. The perfect read for a dull winter's day.

2026/010: Dionysus in Wisconsin — E H Lupton

Kitty narrowed her eyes at him. “A bit pompous, aren’t you? To think you can find a solution to a problem that people have been working on for over a millennium?”
“That’s academia, baby.” Ulysses folded his arms across his chest. “Anything else I can help you with?” [p. 205]

Madison, Wisconsin: 1969. Ulysses Lenkov is a 'human lightning rod', a magician who can attract and talk to spirits, but can't decide a subject for his dissertation). Sam Sterling is a mild-mannered archivist who's moved back to Madison to be near his family, who he doesn't especially like. Warned by a fellow-magic user that something big is coming -- something connected with the god Dionysus -- Ulysses seeks out Sam and discovers that his first name happens to be Dionysus ... and that there's a strong mutual attraction between them.

Together, Sam and Ulysses ... well, they do fight crime demons and magical malfeasance, but that's very much background, alluded to rather than the focus of the story. Ulysses is determined to save Sam from being used as a meat-puppet by a powerful supernatural force: Sam is determined to discover his grandfather's role in imperilling him, and whether the immense good fortune enjoyed by the rest of his family is connected with his imminent doom.

I really enjoyed this. Lupton's 1969 is not quite ours. There's a war in Vietnam, race riots and rock music in America, but there is no obvious homophobia and perhaps less sexism / misogyny: magic works and is an acknowledged and accepted fact of life, but not everyone has ability or interest. Period details such as landlines, microfiche, vehicles and fashions all feel familiar. Ulysses and Sam are delightful characters, with very different backgrounds and families. (I want much more of the Lenkovs, with their Russian origins and various magical specialities. The Sterlings are a less appealing, but very interesting, bunch.) The central romance feels balanced, credible, warm-hearted. And I liked the college setting, and the theatrical productions, and the strong sense of place. 

And it's January, when traditionally I dive into a new series and stay there until the midwinter slump has passed. There are three more novels (so far) in the Wisconsin Gothic series... Onwards!

2026/009: Sister Svangerd and the Not Quite Dead — K J Parker

...we dig up their filigree and cloisonné and their rusted-solid clocks, we conserve and steal their books, and we know deep in our hearts that there are some things -- a lot of things -- that human beings used to be able to do once upon a time but can do no longer: that as a species we've shrunk and diminished, and we'll never be smart like that ever again. [loc. 220]

I was a great fan of Parker's earlier work, but lost enthusiasm somewhere around Sixteen Ways to Defend a Walled City -- an enthusiasm that I have now regained, and look! one and two-thirds trilogies to catch up on! Not including the new trilogy that begins with Sister Svangerd and the Not Quite Dead ...

The eponymous Sister is a former prostitute turned deadly assassin: our narrator, Brother Desiderius, is her partner -- in a strictly professional sense, of course -- and a talented forger. Unlike Sister Svangerd, he happens to be an atheist. The two are sent to the fifteenth ecumenical council in Choris Anthropou to assassinate a princess: but of course it is not that simple. There are angels and/or devils; ancient gospels acquired by what might look like coincidence; heresies and schisms, convenient and inconvenient demises, and ... well, the titular Not Quite Dead. Desiderius spends a lot of time bemoaning the fall of the old empire (which gives the novel a somewhat Dark Ages feel) and refusing to believe in either the Invincible Sun or the Loyal Opposition. He clings to that atheism despite all signs to the contrary: I do love a stubborn protagonist, especially one who's given to philosophising.

I liked this a great deal, though recognised some familiar Parkerian tics: overuse of pronouns, a world-weary narrator who regards himself (probably rightly) as more competent than those around him, a certain cynicism (wholly reasonable, considering the setting and the events). I liked Sister Svangerd -- also fearsomely competent, and as flawed as Desiderius in completely different ways. The setting feels medieval, and not especially magical. (This is a good thing.) And I am vastly intrigued by the Loyal Opposition, of whom I expect to see more in the remaining two-thirds of the trilogy.

I would love a map and a timeline encompassing the whole of Parker's oeuvre: I'm pretty sure it all takes place in the same world, with its echoes of Classical and medieval history, its familiar technologies, its fierce and pointless wars, its great cities and fallen empires.

Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for the advance review copy, in exchange for this full honest review. UK Publication Date is 27 JAN 2026.

2026/008: The Brightness Between Us — Eliot Schrefer

I will live in these current moments as fully as possible. Then I will be gone. Ambrose will be gone. ... It arrives. The brightness between us. [p. 387]

Sequel to The Darkness Outside Us, which I read and liked a lot last year: I have many^many books in my TBR, but needed something instantly engaging and positive to counter world news, so bought this and dived in.

Read no further if you haven't read the first book!

There are four narrators: Owl (a girl) and Yarrow (a boy), growing up with their dads on Minerva; and the original Ambrose and Kodiak, who discover that the mission to Titan is a lie and that heart-throb Devon Mujaba (one of the voices of the OS in the previous novel) is not just a pop star but a revolutionary. Owl, Yarrow, and two versions each of Ambrose and Kodiak all face catastrophe, from war to sabotage to the blind danger of the universe: each is misunderstood, or misled, by those closest to them.

The scenes on Minerva were interesting, though I felt very sorry for Owl ('the only human alive with a womb') and sympathised with her desire to explore the rather unpromising planet. The episodes back on, or above, Earth felt more engaging, though: perhaps because the protagonists were more familiar, perhaps because there was romance, perhaps simply because it was a future Earth. It would have been interesting to see how the Minervan dads perceived things, but I can understand why Schrefer chose not to write from their viewpoints.

I wasn't 100% convinced by the solution found on Earth for Minerva's problem -- or, for that matter, by the explanation of that problem as described by the perpetrator -- but that didn't stop me enjoying the story.  There's a larger cast in The Brightness Between Us, a broader stage, and the focus is no longer on Ambrose and Kodiak alone: but I enjoyed their interactions almost as much as the gradual romance of The Darkness Outside Us.  

Now I want to reread the first novel again and to wishlist Schrefer's other YA novels. And forget, for a while, about the crises-riddled world in which I live: a world in which I feel Devon Mujaba has a point. 

2026/007: Aberystwyth Mon Amour — Malcolm Pryce

I sat in the corner and gazed through red throbbing eyes at the lurid pageant: drunks and punks and pimps and ponces; young farmers and old farmers; pool-hall hustlers and pick pockets; Vimto louts, card sharps and shove ha’penny sharps; sailors and lobster fisherman and hookers from the putting green; the one-armed man from the all-night sweet shop, dandies and dish-washers and drunken school teachers; fire-walkers and whelk-eaters, high priests and low priests; footpads and cut-throats; waifs, strays, vanilla thieves and peat stealers; the clerk from the library, the engineer from the Great Little Train of Wales … it rolled on without end. [p. 31]

Wales is independent, and has fought a colonial war in Patagonia: the veterans haunt Aberystwyth and its environs. The town is pretty much owned and run by the Druids, as corrupt and wicked a crew as any mob. Private detective Louie Knight is engaged by local chanteuse Myfanwy Montez to investigate the disappearance of a schoolboy -- the first of several to vanish without trace. Louie, with his teenaged sidekick 'Calamity' Jane, unravels a heinous plot involving an ark, an antique Lancaster bomber and a forensic knitting expert.

I'm not sure why this didn't work for me. Possibly the inherent misogyny of the noir genre, which Pryce has retained; possibly Louie's haplessness (he doesn't recognise his own car); possibly the author's dislike of commas. Some of the prose is great, but not enough of it to keep me interested.

Read for bookclub: the general consensus was that the humour felt dated and the book could have done with tightening up.

2026/006: The Land in Winter — Andrew Miller

It was, he knew, outrageous to watch her, but how rare the chance to see someone sitting in the maze of herself, all unsuspecting, bare as a branch. Doctors should be trained like this, at windows, at night. [p. 274]

The novel opens in December 1962, in an asylum. A man named Martin Lee wanders the halls at night and discovers the body of another patient, Stephen Storey, who has killed himself. Martin is haunted by memories of the Second World War: The Land in Winter, set in a village near Bristol, plays out in the long shadow of that war, and the 'Big Freeze' of winter 1962-63. 

Neither Martin nor Stephen are protagonists, but they have connections to the quartet at the centre of the novel. The focus is on two married couples, near neighbours: Dr Eric Parry and his wife Irene, incomer farmer Bill Simmons and his wife Rita. The women are pregnant: the men work hard. Eric is having an ill-advised affair, and Bill has secret plans for the deserted airfield near the village. Rita likes to read science fiction novels, while Irene is busy planning a Boxing Day drinks party. The past of each character is slowly revealed, and their secrets uncovered. And each suffers sudden change.

What I loved most about this novel was Miller's writing. There were so many sentences that snagged my attention, brought me up sharp and made me slow down and reread. The Sixties setting -- tuna croquettes, institutional racism, Mariner 2, green grass over bomb sites, Acker Bilk's 'Stranger on the Shore' -- felt impeccably accurate. (It was before my time, but not by much: when I was a child 'the war' was still very much on my parents' minds, and a frequent subject of discussion between adults. Of course, it was more recent for them than 9/11 is for me...)

Glorious: and a reminder of how much I like Miller's work, and how many of his novels are in my TBR.

...though he was not much given to thinking about love, did not much care for the word, thought it had been worn to a kind of uselessness, gutted by the advertising men and the crooners, and even by politicians, some of whom seemed, recently, to have discovered it, it struck him that in the end it might just mean a willingness to imagine another’s life. [p. 82]

2026/005: The Debutante — Jon Ronson

This is the story of a Tulsa debutante who, as a result of a series of unlikely and often very bad life choices she made in the ‘90s, found herself in the midst of one of the most terrible crimes ever to take place in America. [opening line]

I don't think this really counts as a book: it's more of a podcast, complete with hooks and a 'special bonus episode'.

Jon Ronson explores the history of Carol Howe, adopted at birth by a wealthy family in Tulsa. She was a debutante, but a rebellious one, and became part of a white supremacist group (plus swastika tattoo, 'Dial-a-Racist' phone line etc). She was involved with a white supremacist Christian cult in Oklahoma with ties to Timothy McVeigh, the Oklahoma Bomber. Then, apparently, she decided to become an informant for the ATF (Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms) and kept a detailed diary of events. The ATF claim she was 'deactivated' because of mental instability. Howe claimed she warned the ATF about the cult's plans to bomb a major target, but was ignored.

Ronson didn't manage to track down Howe, but he did -- in the 'special bonus episode' -- discover what happened to her: dead in a house fire in January 2025, after years of paranoid behaviour. An interesting investigation, but I would have preferred a straightforward narrative to the 'tune in for our next instalment' ambience of a podcast.

2026/004: The Wood at Midwinter — Susanna Clarke

All woods join up with all other woods.
    All are one wood.
        And in that wood all times join up with all other times.
            All is one moment. [loc. 140]

A short story, more beautifully calligraphed and illustrated in print (to judge by photos online) but still lovely on a Kindle. It's apparently set in the same world as Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell^*, but I didn't spot any overlap, and it certainly doesn't require familiarity with the earlier, much longer work.

Ysolde Scott has devised a cunning stratagem: she'll arrange visits, and let her sister Merowdis -- possibly a saint, possibly neurodivergent, possibly just antisocial -- alight en route and spend time in the woods, where she is happiest. Meanwhile Ysolde will maintain the social niceties.

Merowdis does not wander alone: on this particular excursion she has for company two dogs (Pretty and Amandier) and a pig (Apple). There is also a fox, though Pretty disdains it. And, of course, there is the Wood: which doesn't really understand why Merowdis' most fervent wish is for a midwinter child of her own, but can frame it as 'the hidden Sun'. Hence a vision: hence a choice.

This story is haunting me: I'm glad I read it just as the snow was starting, and I'm happy that Clarke's 'Afterword: Snow' teased out the resonances that reminded me of Kate Bush's album Fifty Words for Snow. A lovely wintry read -- also available, in a slightly different form, in audio format (14 mins).

^* Now there's a book ripe for a reread: I haven't read it since 2004, when it was first published.

2026/003: The Salt Bind — Rebecca Ferrier

"Does your family know what you are? Born with too much salt, fey-blooded, siren-bound..." [loc. 2616]

Kensa lives in the Cornish fishing village of Portscatho, with her mother, her stepfather and her half-sister Elowen. Her father was hanged for smuggling, and she crept up onto the gallows to steal a hagstone from his pocket: that and her red hair (and the stubborn temper to go with it) are all the legacy he left. One night, a sea monster washes up on the shore, and Kensa and Elowen go to see. Kensa claims to have been the first there, and so she becomes apprentice to the local wise woman, Isolde. From her, Kensa learns about the Pact between Land and Sea, and the Bucka, a sea god also known as the Father of Storms. Isolde also attempts to teach Kensa that there are limits to the Old Ways: that wisdom is as important as witchery. But when Elowen sickens, and none of Isolde's potions can help, Kensa is determined to save her sister -- whatever the cost.

The first half of the novel is a gentle, and rather slow, historical fantasy. Kensa isn't an especially likeable character but she is determined, confident and heedless. Isolde, a fascinating character in her own right (and neither gentle nor slow), gives as good as she gets: she and Kensa become fond of one another. But then there's a sudden change, a sea-change, and the gentle fantasy develops into gory horror. The pacing picks up to match it, and the second half of The Salt Bind is full-tilt adventure.

I liked the setting -- 18th-century rural Cornwall, more or less untouched by the Enlightenment -- and was happy that the romantic subplot was secondary to Kensa's journey from lonely, angry child to responsible young woman. For me, the change of pace and tone midway through was too abrupt, and the final chapter -- a return to a sort of peace, and the introduction of new characters -- rather facile.

There's some lovely evocative writing here: stormy seas, half-ruined cottages, the carnage of the pilchard catch. And Ferrier definitely has an eye for detail, and an ear for dialogue. I look forward to reading her next novel.

Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for the advance review copy, in exchange for this full honest review. UK Publication Date is 22 JAN 2026.

2026/002: The Witching Hour — various authors

No snow in forty years, no true winter, no true Christmas, just the water and the mildew; it was whatever you called the reverse of a miracle. [loc. 2134: 'The Signal Bells', by Natasha Pulley]

From the creators of The Haunting Season and The Winter Spirits, this is another collection of ghost / horror stories with a wintry theme and a historical setting. I read one a day over the Christmas / New Year period, which gave me time to reflect on each: definitely a better way to appreciate the individual stories than reading them back to back.

There are Arctic explorers, ghost-hunters, witches, schoolgirls, ageing academics and an excellent shepherd: there are also unexpected visitors, mad scientists and necromancers. A couple of the stories didn't especially hook me, but others are lurking in my subconscious and continuing to haunt.

The three I enjoyed most were Natasha Pulley's 'The Signal Bells' (unsurprisingly, as I greatly admire her work); Catriona Ward's 'Macaw' (ditto) and Imogen Hermes Gowar's 'Two Go Together'. I also liked Michelle Paver's 'Dr Thrale's Notebook', though the setting (Arctic) and characters (unemotional scientist confronted with horrors) reminded me perhaps too much of her novels.

One aspect I did like was that not all the stories were horror: many featured ghosts of one sort or another, but not always malevolent ghosts, and some examined familiar tropes through new lenses.

‘We shouldn’t really say dead any more. It doesn’t mean anything now, does it? There’s only life. More life. A different form of life. We endure. We can be brought back. Isn’t that marvellous?’ [loc. 1504]

2026/001: The River Has Roots — Amal el-Mohtar

Something, you might think, happened here, long, long ago; something, you might think, is on the cusp of happening again. But that is the nature of grammar—it is always tense, like an instrument, aching for release, longing to transform present into past into future, is into was into will. [p. 4]

A short novella from the co-author of This is How You Lose the Time War. The River Liss runs from Faerie, past the Refrain (an assemblage of standing stones) and through the Modal Lands, between two ancient trees known as the Professors, and between ordinary fields to the town of Thistleford. The Hawthorn family have tended the magical willows along the riverbank for centuries, singing to the trees. Sisters Esther and Ysabel Hawthorn are very close: Esther is being courted by unlikeable Samuel Pollard, but prefers her fey love Rin. They (distinctly non-binary) require an equitable exchange between themself and Esther.

The River Has Roots is rooted (hah) in ballads -- Tam Lin, The Two Sisters, The Riddle Song -- though it reframes 'The Two Sisters' as a story of loyalty, rather than hatred, between Esther and Ysabel. And while Ysabel loves murder ballads, Esther prefers riddle-songs, which she composes for Rin. I was also reminded of Hope Mirrlees' Lud-in-the-Mist, for the ambience: steeped in English folklore and rich with imagery, metaphor and wordplay. And a frightful pun -- a riddle! -- involving rings and swans which made me grin like the Cheshire Cat.