2026/035: Cuckoo Song — Frances Hardinge

Trying to cling to the past, to the way things were, pretending nothing has changed. Everything changes and breaks and stops fitting – and we know that, even with our stopped clock. The world is breaking, and changing, and dancing. Always on the move. That’s how it is. That’s how it has to be. [p. 409]

Reread for book club: first read in 2014. I remembered very little except Triss' true nature and the scissors. That said, I find that my Kindle highlights match quotes from that earlier review... And I'm not sure I have much more to say about it, other than that this time around I really sympathised with Violet, who carries the winter with her, and who is definitely kicking against society's decrees about what nice girls do.

The parents' behaviour towards their remaining children -- who they only want to keep safe -- is borderline abusive. Pen is the scapegoat, Triss is the delicate flower, and nobody must ever mention Sebastian or talk about any of the problems within the family. (Sebastian's fate is cruel: I wish we'd had more of his letters. )

Hardinge's prose is deliciously visual, vivid and arresting: a cry 'sounded the way a scar looks'; 'so dark that she seemed to hear the hiss as it sucked light out of the air'; and, when they're pursued, the pursuers are 'cold on their heels'. 

We spent quite a while wondering where Ellchester was. I thought it had a northern feel but the consensus, eventually, was that it might be Bristol-adjacent.

2026/034: The Invention of Essex — Tim Burrows

I started to recognise an intrinsic feeling of accentuation when it came to Essex, between sparseness and density, bucolic abandonment and oncoming modernity, realism and poetry, country and city, rich and poor – buzzing dichotomies that meant that, as hard as I tried to pin Essex’s story down, it always somehow slipped away. [loc. 1151]

Burrows was born in Essex^*, and moved back there from London when he and his wife started a family. He has real affection for the county, but a solid grasp of its socioeconomics, and of the TOWIE-fuelled perception of Essex as 'a land of crass consumerism, populated by perma-tanned chancers and loose women with more front than Clacton-on-Sea'. 

Essex has long been viewed as a classless, uncultured wilderness -- apart, of course, from 'Constable Country', which Burrows describes as 'a shambling pastoral scene assiduously cultivated since the days of [the painter] Constable', and which attracts the kind of tourists who would flinch at the raucous glories of Southend seafront. Dismissed as 'the rubbish dump of London', Essex is the site of multiple, often toxic landfill sites where the majority of London's actual rubbish ended up. It's also where working-class Londoners moved in the hope of a better quality of life. And Essex has long been a hotbed of dissent, individualism (utopians, occultists, political and religious extremists), experiments in new ways of living (from communes to worker-oriented 'new towns) and, of course, crime.

Burrows often writes for the Guardian, and his piece on the Broomway and the stranded Amazon van prompted me to buy this long-wishlisted book. I learnt about plotlands, which I'd somehow been unaware of despite growing up with people who lived in them! And about the ecological impact of the London Gateway megaport, dredging for which has destroyed much of the local fishing industry. Burrows is also good at putting stereotypes such as 'Essex Man' and 'Essex Girl' into context, and he's quietly scathing about the superficial glamour, and the underlying classism and misogyny that informs those stereotypes.

Some weird hyphenation throughout -- Basil-don, South-end, Med-way -- but otherwise immensely readable, informative and well-researched.

^*I was also born in Essex, but nearer the edge of the map: Burrows barely mentions the area where I grew up, though it's less than ten miles from his current home in Southchurch.

2026/033: Mercutio — Kate Heartfield

Mercutio has never been in love. Not unless you count a boy whose face he can barely remember. Not unless you count the world. [loc. 2328]

Mercutio Guertio (yes, that Mercutio) meets Dante Alighieri at the Battle of Campaldino in 1289: they are caught in a freak storm -- where they glimpse spectral armies, and becomes certain that there is a third man with them -- but stumble back to the carnage of the battlefield, and subsequently become friends. Mercurio, though, has been changed: he sees people who are not there, and does not recognise the stars in the night sky. Then Dante, grieving the death of 'his' Beatrice, is pulled into Faerie, where he wanders in a dark wood...

Mercutio does not know the way to Faerie, but he's encountered their Queen, and she tells him that he can rescue Dante if he can find a doorway. Brunetto Latini, Dante's friend and teacher, suggests that Mercutio joins the expedition of the Vivaldi brothers, who want to find a route to Asia by sailing west from Spain. Surely Faerie is on the other side of the world, and thus can be found on the way to Asia?

En route, Mercutio encounters a female pope, sailors from China and Africa, a helpful friar who supplies a medicine made of henbane, and a hermit who claims to be the son of Abelard and Heloise. He's haunted by a silent, mysterious man who people seem to think is his brother: and he's differently haunted by memories of his lost love, a boy who he called Blackbird after mishearing the other's name as 'I fly'.

This is a splendid novel, packed with cosmology, Italian history (Guelphs and Ghibellines), Tarot imagery, and perfidious fae. The fantastical elements blend folk tales, ballads and mythology: to me, Heartfield's Faerie had a distinctly medieval feel, reminiscent of Chaucer and Boccaccio. The novel also provides an origin story for Dante's Divine Comedy: and, of course, Mercutio has to get to Verona and encounter the warring Montecchi and Cappalletti factions... 

But at its heart, Mercutio is the story of the friendship between Mercutio and Dante, and the implacable vengeance of the Faerie Queen. Mercutio is vividly rendered, with a blend of self-doubt, cynicism and joie de vivre that seems fitting for the changes he witnesses in the world around him. I liked him a great deal: and I'll look out for Heartfield's other novels, because her prose is readable and this story full of surprises.

Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for the advance review copy, in exchange for this full honest review. UK Publication Date is 7th May 2026.

2026/032: Maria — Michelle Moran

Dear Mr Hammerstein,
It may come as a surprise that I am writing to you, as it appears that the theater industry believes I am dead and can now make up whatever they wish about me... [opening line]

I read this for the prompt 'based on the top-grossing movie in the year of your birth'. Set in 1959, it's a novel about Maria von Trapp and her response to the forthcomming stage musical of 'The Sound of Music': her letter informs Hammerstein that she has 'several ideas about how the script can be fixed'. Hammerstein -- already ill with the stomach cancer that would kill him within a year -- is too busy (and possibly too nervous) to talk to her, so instead his secretary Fran has a series of conversations with Maria.

Moran has thoroughly researched Maria von Trapp's life, and especially her religious faith. Maria tells Fran about her unhappy childhood, her religious calling, her time with Georg von Trapp (not a martinet: apparently Maria was the stricter of the two) and the family's life in America after escaping (not over the mountains but on a train) from the Third Reich. Maria is at pains to right the record: meanwhile, Fran is wrestling with a romantic entanglement of her own. Can Maria's account of true love with Georg set her on the right path?

This was a quick and pleasant read, though I didn't really connect with either Fran or Maria. There were some interesting scenes of pre-war Austrian life, and I found the later story -- refugees in America, literally singing for their supper, with one of the children experiencing severe stage fright -- more interesting than the main narrative. It would probably have helped if I was a fan of (or even very familiar with) the film and the musical! Moran is a very readable writer, though, and the story was well-paced and compassionate.

2026/031: Frankenstein in Baghdad — Ahmed Saadawi (translated by Jonathan Wright)

‘I made it complete so it wouldn’t be treated as rubbish, so it would be respected like other dead people and given a proper burial.’ [p. 27]

Baghdad, 2005: after the American invasion and occupation, just as the sectarian civil war is kicking off. Antique (junk) dealer Hadi, trying to retrieve a friend's remains after a car bomb, finds that body parts at the mortuary are all jumbled together, with little effort to reconstruct each corpse. He begins to assemble a body, picking and choosing from the scraps of anatomy that are in plentiful supply on the streets of Baghdad. But it's only when a hotel guard is killed by a car bomb, and his spirit is wandering in search of a body to reunite with, that the creature -- the Whatsitsname, says Hadi -- becomes animate. And the Whatsitsname is keen on justice: he wants to avenge the owners of each of his constituent parts. This endeavour is somewhat complicated by the fact that those parts will rot and fall off if he doesn't complete his vengeance within a certain, undefined period of time.

Add to this Hadi's neighbour Elishva, who's convinced that St George has promised the return of her son Daniel (lost in the Iran-Iraq war) and who believes the Whatsisname is Daniel, somewhat changed by his experiences; ambitious young journalist Mahmoud, who hears Hadi's story, writes it up as 'Urban Legends from the Streets of Iraq' and isn't happy when his boss retitles it 'Frankenstein in Baghdad'; and Co lonel Brigadier Majid, head of the Tracking and Pursuit Department, is wondering why his squad of fortune-tellers, astrologers and magicians can't predict where the Whatsitsname will strike next. (I did like this conceit: "... the Americans, besides their arsenal of advanced military hardware, possessed a formidable army of djinn, which was able to destroy the djinn that this magician and his assistants had mobilized." [p. 144]

As in Shelley's original, the creature is the most eloquent of the narrators. (Interestingly, most of the people who recognise the story as Frankenstein are remembering the Robert de Niro film.) When the Whatsitsname records his account of his actions, we begin to understand that there are many shades of criminality and innocence in both his victims and those he's avenging. He hopes for an end to the killing, so that he can rest. 'I’m the only justice there is in this country,' he laments.

This is a rambling novel, often blackly comic, sometimes phantasmagorical: a commentary on the continuing conflict, a satire on the American 'intelligence' that fails to predict or prevent 'serious security incidents'. The Whatsitsname's story is as poignant as Shelley's original, and his sense of a balance to be restored, of vengeance to be wrought, gives him more purpose than most of the other characters.

Sometimes gory, often featuring grim scenes of bombs and executions, Frankenstein in Baghdad was an unexpectedly enjoyable read. Perhaps there were slightly too many viewpoint characters: perhaps the ending is overly open. But it's a window opening on a culture, a society and a city that is constantly in the news: and it made me think.

2026/030: White Eagles / Firebird — Elizabeth Wein

I was born in a nation at war. I grew up in the shadow of war. And, like everyone else my own age, I had been waiting all my life for "the future war". [Firebird]

Two short novels written for less-confident readers, featuring young female pilots in the Second World War: I listened to the audiobook, read clearly and evocatively by Rachael Beresford.

In White Eagles, 18-year old Kristina Tomiak is called up to join the Polish air force -- the White Eagles. Her twin brother Leopold is envious that his call-up papers haven't arrived. A damaged plane lands at the airfield, reporting an encounter with the Luftwaffe: the pilot is injured, the passenger is dead. Kristina needs to get precious information to Lvov -- and it's the end of August, 1939.

The rest of the story deals with Kristina's escape from the Nazis and flight across Europe, accompanied only an unexpected stowaway who's determined to get to England. It's an exciting and inspiring tale, told in the third person, with lots of grounding details (a pilot charging across a bed of marigolds to get to his plane; a friendly mechanic who's happy to be paid in Hannukah chocolate and apples) and all the peril, violence and terror that goes with the territory.  I enjoyed this, but loved Firebird more.

Firebird, set in 1941-42, begins with young fighter pilot Nastia (short for Anastasia: 'Naystia', not 'Nastier') defending herself to a tribunal: 'I am no traitor'. She's a loyal citizen of the Soviet Union, a true revolutionary: her father was involved in the execution of the Romanovs, and her mother was a spy. Now, as the Second World War descends on Russia, she must fight to defend the glorious Motherland. But all is not as it seems and when the battles begin, secrets are revealed and everything that Nastia once knew is challenged.

Despite having more flight experience than anyone else in her cohort, she's relegated to training pilots while the lads go off to the front line. But the Chief -- the only other woman instructor at the Leningrad Youth Aero Club, 'an abrasive, loud woman with bleached blonde hair... and a face that was always heavy with powder and lipstick' -- points out that new pilots must be trained. When they finally go to war, it's the Chief who inspires Nastia, and the Chief who Nastia follows in a desperate air battle. And when the Chief parachutes from her damaged plane, Nastia makes the decision that brings her in front of that tribunal.

The twist in this story delighted me: I've just listened to the final few chapters again. It's cleverly foreshadowed and thoroughly pleasing (and, as Wein acknowledges in her afterword, historically implausible). Nastia's first-person narrative, coloured with all the emotions of wartime, felt really immediate and compelling.

There's a third book in the 'War Birds' series, The Last Hawk, which I hope to be able to read soon. Though the novellas in this series were written for younger, less confident readers, Wein pulls no punches: there is brutality, assault and peril. And, alongside those, there is a strong sense of hope, pride and joy.

2026/029: Bread of Angels — Patti Smith

How can we leap back up? Get back on our feet, grab a cart, and start gathering the debris, both physical and emotional. Crush it into small stones, then pulverize them and as the dust settles, dance upon it. How do we do that? By returning to our child self, weathering our obstacles in good faith. For children operate in the perpetual present, they go on, rebuild their castles, lay down their casts and crutches, and walk again. [loc. 2494]

Another memoir from Patti Smith, author of Just Kids and M Train (the latter of which I have not read). Bread of Angels (the title refers to 'unpremeditated gestures of kindness') covers Smith's childhood, her years as a pioneering punk artist, and her 'walking away' from success to have a real life, marrying Fred 'Sonic' Smith and having children. That period is mostly elided: 'Our life was obscure, perhaps not so interesting to some, but for us it was a whole life' and later, 'The trials and challenges that Fred and I suffered were our own'. 

Then came a catastrophic period when she lost several of the men close to her -- Robert Mapplethorpe, Richard Sohl, Fred, and her own brother Todd. This sparked her return to music, and recording, after an absence of 15 years. Further touring, and another series of deaths, revelations and reunions: and travel, and touring. I saw her on the tour commemmorating the 50th anniversary of Horses ('bred in an innocent time and we did our best to now deliver it infused with experience') and she was marvellous -- exactly as I'd expected.

There are many, often abrupt, shifts of tone and language in Bread of Angels: from simple accounts of her childhood and family life to exuberant evocations of performance ('my whining Fender Duo-Sonic drew altruistic swords with the mournful wailings of Lenny’s Stratocaster, Richard Sohl introduced an unexpected melodic shift creating the melancholic beauty of Abyssinia'). Sometimes you can hear the voice of the woman who wrote the lyrics to 'Horses': sometimes she's talking about the boat in their back yard (I can sympathise!) or the beauties of the natural world, the 'many tongues of nature... the language of trees, and the clay of the Earth'.

A fascinating read: I'm now more inclined to read M Train, which apparently focusses more on her life with, and grief for, Fred.

2026/028: The Kite Runner — Khalid Hosseini

"There is only one sin, and that is theft... When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal his wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness.”

This novel, by an expatriate Afghani author, explores guilt, betrayal and redemption in Afghanistan. The narrator is Amir, son of a wealthy Pashtan father ('Baba'), whose mother died giving birth to him. His closest friend is Hassan, the son of Amir's father's servant Ali: his mother ran away when he was little. The Hazara (the ethnic group to which Hassan and Ali belong) are oppressed, discriminated against and mocked. Baba, to young Amir's horror, treats Hassan as well as he treats Amir himself. The boys enjoy the traditional Afghan sport of kite-fighting, and Hassan is Amir's 'kite runner', pursuing the conquered kites with preternatural accuracy.

Amir's greatest kite-fighting triumph -- when Baba will finally be proud of him -- is overshadowed by Hassan being attacked and raped by a local bully, Assef. Amir witnesses the attack but is too scared to intervene. He's unable to reconcile his guilt and their friendship, and becomes cold and cruel towards Hassan. Eventually he fakes a theft and forces his father to dismiss Ali and Hassan.

Five years later comes the Soviet invasion: Baba and Amir escape, ending up in California. And fifteen years after that, Amir -- now married, though childless, and still racked with guilt -- receives a letter from a family friend, asking him to come back to Afghanistan: 'There is a way to be good again'.

This was a fascinating insight into Afghani life, and a harrowing story. (I listened to the audiobook, very well read by the author: I think I might have stopped reading if I'd had a print/Kindle copy.) Hassan's unrequited loyalty was pitiable: Amir's cowardice -- which extends into his adult life, in some respects -- was contemptible: I sympathised with both. At the heart of it, for me, was Amir's relationship with his father, and his fragile sense of superiority when it came to Hassan. Amir is shattered when he realises that his father, who's always insisted that theft is the worst crime and that a lie is theft of the truth, turns out not to have been wholly honest with him.

The final third of the novel, set in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, is horrific. Power corrupts, and bullies don't change... There is a happy ending of sorts, but that doesn't stop The Kite Runner being tragic, distressing and harrowing. It's also an excellent insight into life as a refugee in America, though sadly things seem to have been easier for immigrants in the 1980s than they are now.

One drawback of audiobooks is that I can't keep a record of the bits I really liked. But there were some excellent descriptions of daily life and of landscape, and the various journeys out of and back to Kabul were rivetting.

2026/027: Nonesuch — Francis Spufford

...here they still were, since they were not the dead ones, under the weary yellow lighting, sharing the unspoken knowledge that, every night the bombers came, ten thousand possible exits from life opened silently, and unpredictably, and without appeal, down which anyone and anything could fall. [loc. 4817]

My initial review: rereading for this 'proper review' was sheer delight, and I am eager to read the second half of this duology.

The story begins in August 1939. Iris Hawkins lives in a Clapham boarding house, works at a City brokerage, and is fascinated by economics. One evening, she flees a disastrous date and ends up at a bohemian dance club, where she encounters the other two protagonists: Geoff Hale, a gawky engineer who works for the BBC, and Lall Cunningham, the icy recipient of Geoff's unrequited love. Iris intends her seduction of Geoff to be a one night stand, but things become more complicated when she's pursued by a monstrous, inhuman creature which turns out to have something to do with Hale Senior's role as archivist of an occult society.

Spufford's depiction of London in the first year of the Second World War is tremendously evocative, often cinematic. The beauty of silently-falling incendiaries contrasts with the squalor of piss-reeking shelters: the ironwork of Leadenhall Market (still a working market back then, stinking of blood) with the soda-water effervescence of a liberated spirit. Did I mention that this novel has strong elements of the fantastical? There are Biblically-accurate angels in the architecture, and indications that history has been changed in the past -- and could be changed again.

I loved Iris, who is competent, intelligent and sensual. Her interest in economics made it interesting to me -- even the fluctuations of the Stock Exchange index, reflecting events in the wider world, felt integral to the story. (I think Spufford's said that she was partly influenced by C S Lewis' Susan: Iris demonstrates that you can like stockings and lipsticks and boyfriends, and still be clever and resourceful.) But I also found myself warming to Lall, despite her fascist allegiance. She too is smart and quick-thinking: she too is brave and determined. Though she's technically the villain of the piece, I kept cheering for her -- for instance, when she's confronting a pair of elderly perverts in pursuit of initiation into an esoteric order. (Also, she saves the cat.) Geoff, seen through Iris' eyes and her growing appreciation, is also intriguing: I'd have liked more of his viewpoint, and his engineering work for the war effort.

But the focus is always on Iris. This is a distinctly female-oriented, and feminist, novel. I was impressed by Spufford's sex scenes, written from Iris' perspective, and the ever-present practicalities of contraception. And I also enjoyed the ways in which Iris, denied agency by the double standards of the time, claims that agency by demonstrating her intelligence, courage and wit.

There's a lot more I could write about here: economics, and John Maynard Keynes, and the homoerotic murals in artist Eleanor's Sussex farmhouse; fascism ('practical patriotism') on the streets of Chelsea; the precarious calm and magic of Midnight Mass in 1940; the demographics of the clientele of a brokerage firm that's partly Jewish-owned. But instead I urge you to read this novel, because despite the setting and the stakes it is brimful of joy.

Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for the advance review copy, in exchange for this full honest review. UK Publication Date is 24th February 2026.

2026/026: Cleopatra — Saara el-Arifi

"They'll tell stories of you in years to come," Charmion continued.
Centuries. Millennia.
"I hope so."
I did not understand what it was I wished for. I hoped to become a legend, but I forgot what all stories must have: a monster.
I could not have known that monster would be me. [loc. 452]

Cleopatra narrates her own story from a perspective that remains obscure until the end of the novel. The novel begins with the death of Cleopatra's father Ptolemy XII and her own ascent to the throne of Egypt as the last Pharaoh: and it ends, of course, with her death.

Cleopatra, in this account, is a clever, learned woman, sometimes ruthless but also driven by love -- and not only romantic love, but also love for her children, her country, and even her siblings. The Egypt in which Cleopatra lives and rules is a magical land: the Ptolemies have been gifted by the gods, each having a birthmark and a magical talent bestowed by their patron deity. Cleopatra's patron is Isis, but she hasn't manifested any gift. In order to be accepted as a divinely-sanctioned ruler, she studies healing in secret.

El-Arifi's prose is sweeping and emotional, filling in the gaps in the historical accounts of Cleopatra's life. Cleopatra herself is aware of these accounts, and comments wryly that 'history is a disease, masquerading as truth'. Even in her lifetime she encounters prejudice based on the stories told by Romans and dissidents: she reminds Anthony that 'you must always know the story of the storyteller'. 

Throughout the novel, Cleopatra speaks directly to the reader, commenting on her lack of foresight or her growing ruthlessness. Her siblings have plotted against her, and her lovers haved wives to return to. There is war, famine, and civil unrest. The breaking of the 'fourth wall' is at first intrusive, but becomes easier to accept as the story progresses -- though its rationale isn't clear until the devastating finale.

I didn't find it easy to warm to Cleopatra, though her love for her children (and to a lesser extent her lovers, Caesar, Marcus Antonius, and Charmion) made her more likeable. I also found the pacing uneven: major events in the final third of the novel were skimmed over, while Cleopatra's disguised adventures among commoners became repetitive. There were also some vexing typos: 'familial' rather than 'familiar', coins 'exchanging' hands rather than 'changing' hands. And when Cleopatra and Anthony admire some flowers, they're apparently looking at bougainvillea -- an anachronism, as it's native to south America.

Overall, though, this was an interesting and engaging novel. I liked the touches of magic realism, and the mundane trickeries that helped Cleopatra convince her people that she and her children were blessed by the gods. I also liked the emphasis on Cleopatra's intelligence and her taste for learning: 'the Library of Alexandria was my haven'. And that ending!

Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for the advance review copy, in exchange for this full honest review. UK Publication Date is 26th February 2026.

2026/025: The Dispossessed — Ursula Le Guin

... all the operations of capitalism were as meaningless to him as the rites of a primitive religion, as barbaric, as elaborate, and as unnecessary. In a human sacrifice to deity there might be at least a mistaken and terrible beauty; in the rites of the moneychangers, where greed, laziness, and envy were assumed to move all men’s acts, even the terrible became banal. [p. 130]

Technically a reread, but when I read this at the age of 14 or 15,  I didn't really understand it: I recalled very little of characters, themes or incidents.

The brilliant physicist Shevek comes to realise that the collectivist society of Annares, a moon colonised by an anarchist movement, is not conducive to his work. He travels to the 'home world', Urras, which is ebulliently capitalist. Eventually he realises that Urras, too, stifles his scientific creativity.

That's a brief and reductive summary of a complex novel, in which two separate timelines -- the years before Shevek's departure for Urras, and his time on Urras itself -- are twisted together, in alternating chapters, to show how neither cold, bleak Annares or lush, corrupt Urras nurture those who dwell there.

To me, the setting had a Cold War flavour: there's even a Wall between Annares and (access to) Urras. It borders the spaceport: does it keep the Annaresti in, or the Urrasti out? Annares' collectivism, and the relative lack of sexism, reminded me of Soviet Russia, as seen through the lens of Spufford's Red Plenty and Pulley's The Half Life of Valery K. Anarchists and revolutionaries on Urras dream of being reincarnated on Annares: 'a society without government, without police, without economic exploitation': there's little sense of the reverse being true, despite the kinder physical environment of Urras. And Annares society doesn't always adhere to its lofty ideals: academic infighting is part of the reason why Shevek has to leave.

This was written in 1974, and in some ways shows its age. The term 'Terran' feels dated, a golden-age word for Earthlings. And there's one scene, in which Shevek sexually assaults a manipulative socialite, that really jars my modern sensibilities. Nothing happens as a consequence: we never see the woman again: Shevek apparently forgets the incident. I wonder if Le Guin would have written that scene differently now?

Still not sure I fully appreciate the political elements, but I'm fascinated by the ways in which Odo's Revolution colours Annaresti life: in language, in custom, in the ways it's acceptable to speak. (No 'egoising', even for children. No private ownership: 'the handkerchief that I use' rather than 'my handkerchief'.) And how it has shaped Shevek, a man who will not compete for dominance and is thus indomitable [p. 116].

On Anarres he had chosen, in defiance of the expectations of his society, to do the work he was individually called to do. To do it was to rebel: to risk the self for the sake of society. Here on Urras, that act of rebellion was a luxury, a self-indulgence. [p. 271]

2026/024: Wolf Worm — T Kingfisher

Some thoughts burrow into your mind as thoroughly as a wasp larva burrows into an unsuspecting caterpillar. [loc. 3387]

Set in North Carolina in 1899, this novel taught me more than I ever wanted to know about various parasitic insects. The narrator, Sonia Wilson, is a scientific illustrator who's accepted a position with the reclusive Dr Halder, who lives in an isolated, decaying house in the woods. En route, Sonia's local guide warns darkly that he's seen the Devil in these woods, but Sonia has been raised by a scientist and discounts this as mere superstition. 

She's not wholly charmed by her new employer, who won't tell her about the artist who painted half of his collection but wants her to finish the job. Sally, the maid, has a nice line in lurid tales of blood thieves, and local Native midwife Hezekiah Kersey says darkly that the land is 'alive and all of a piece'. But despite the Gothic ambience and Dr Halder's paranoia ('Are you spying on me, girl?') Sonia is determined to work hard, painting botfly larvae and certainly not following her employer as he sneaks out to the woods at night.

Sonia is an excellent protagonist. The author's afterword mentions that she was formerly a scientific illustrator, and that depth of knowledge shows in the descriptions of Sonia's work: how to blend watercolours, depict an insect's eye, and use a patented caterpillar inflator. I won't go into the specifics of the creeping horror pervading this novel, because I don't want to think too closely about that. But I will say that it's extremely effective, refreshingly unusual and thoroughly revolting. Ah, nature in her manifold glories!

Kingfisher's prose is smooth and readable, and often very funny: her imagination is ... unsettling, and her characters odd and interesting. I really enjoyed Wolf Worm, while simultaneously wanting to stop reading because ewww. Happy endings for many, though!

Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for the advance review copy, in exchange for this full honest review. UK Publication Date is 26th March 2026.

2026/023: Universality — Natasha Brown

What allowed some people to ‘make it’ while others faded away, as Hannah herself almost had? She knew it wasn’t a matter of hard work; she couldn’t have tried any harder than she did those last few years. Luck was a possible answer, but it seemed too callously random. Increasingly, Hannah felt another, truer word burning in her throat: class. The invisible privilege that everyone tried to pretend didn’t exist, but – it did. Hannah knew it did. She recognised it, and saw its grubby stains all over her own life. [p. 63]

A short novel about class, truth and culture wars. It begins with a 'long read', journalist Hannah's account of a lockdown-busting rave on a farm at the height of the Covid pandemic, and the drug-fuelled attack in which a radical anarchist is bludgeoned by a young man named Jake, wielding a gold bar. Except, of course, it's not quite as simple as that. Hannah's article takes considerable liberties with the truth, ruins the reputation of the farm's owner -- wealthy banker Richard Spencer -- and attracts the attention of anti-woke columnist Lenny, who is Jake's mother.

This short novel unravels and recolours the events described in Hannah's article, and shows us Hannah, Richard, Lenny and Jake in their natural habitats. (Also Pegasus, the victim of the attack.) Unfortunately, I didn't find any of them likeable, and though I appreciated Brown's satirical take on late-stage capitalism and cancel culture, I didn't find this an enjoyable read. Structurally interesting: mercifully short.

2026/022: Boy, With Accidental Dinosaur — Ian McDonald

Under a high blue heaven, under the zealous sun, the kid and his dinosaur travel a hot, empty highway. [first line]

Tif (short for Latif) is an orphan of Arab descent, whose ambition is to become a buckaroo at one of the dino rodeos. The novella's opening presents him, with his dinosaur, on a journey: only gradually are we shown where he's going, and why -- and where he's come from.

This is the post-apocalyptic future of the country formerly known as the United States of America, now a dangerous wilderness of miliciano gangs, religious states, and aggressive Dominion raiders. Tif's parents were killed in the South Dakota purification. He's recently been sacked from Dino! Dino! after a Timursaur escaped and wreaked havoc. Subsequently he's undertaken to return an old, maimed Carnosaur to the B2T2 time portal in the mountains of Colorado, and let it live out its remaining years 'under its own sun'. En route, he joins Memphis Red’s Tatterdemalion Circus; falls in love (or lust) with its star, the enigmatic Prince; and, perhaps, finds family.

That's the novella in a nutshell, but there's a novel's-worth of worldbuilding and characterisation here. McDonald doesn't waste time explaining the post-Chaos future, or the cyberpunk-flavoured Silver Clowns, or the Dust Tarot with which a Clown reads Tif's future. The B2T2 portal is a natural phenomenon, 'a place where two times lay up against each other, close as kittens, separated only by the finest layer of space-time fur, that could be stroked, and parted' [loc. 515]. That's where the dinosaurs are captured, and where they must be returned: 'leave no dangling timelines'. Naturally, the approach to the B2T2 is festooned with various flavours of protest camp.

There is danger, chaos and glamour; there is a strong sense of the cruelty involved in parading living creatures for entertainment. And there is so much emotional honesty and truth, in the backstories of the characters Tif encounters as well as his own journey. I would have loved this even more at novel length: but kudos to the author for keeping it tightly focussed and leaving the reader wondering about the wider world, the stories that happen outside the scope of Boy, with Accidental Dinosaur.

Something wild and magnificent and innocent is trapped and caged. Betrayed. For stardust, for floodlights, for the ronda and the roar of the crowd. For beer and nuts and nachos. [loc. 958]

2026/021: The Earl Meets His Match — T J Alexander

“The fact of your existence is a miracle,” Harding said in a tone that brooked no argument. “... the scrutiny that you must have lived under...”
“Well, I also have pots of money,” Christopher pointed out, “so let’s not pretend it’s all been a chore.” [loc. 3139]

Delightful and cheering Regency romance. Lord Christopher Eden must, according to the terms of his inheritance, marry before his twenty-fifth birthday. That gives him four months to find a bride -- which is the last thing he wants. For Christopher is no ordinary man: he has a singular secret, which only his tailor is privy to.

In order to present the proper appearance to the Ton, Christopher must engage a valet, even though he's never allowed another man to dress him. Enter James Harding, handsome and stoic and surprisingly understanding. Harding has secrets of his own, though, and their mutual attraction can never come to anything.

Or can it? ☺

Apart from a third-act crisis which gets the prize for 'most ridiculous miscommunication of the year' (yes, I know it's only February), this rolled along merrily, with some interesting insights into gender roles and practicalities in 19th-century England. Excellent female characters, too. I particularly liked the twist at the end, which was perfect for both Christopher and Harding.

Recommended to me by a friend: thank you, Nina! I shall look out for more by this author.

2026/020: Once Upon a Time I Lived on Mars — Kate Greene

What if a mission to Mars didn’t have as its main goal a barrage of scientific studies, or the demonstration that humans can build ships to send us to faraway lands and keep us alive in the harshest environments? What if it’s not driven by the fear of our eventual extinction or by opportunities afforded it by current economic systems—mining for resources, etc. Or what if it is those things, but also, in its design, it contains questions about what it means to be a human being alive and alone and unable to achieve contact with others in this universe? [p. 131]

In 2013, Kate Greene spent four months as second-in-command of the Hawai’i Space Exploration Analog and Simulation (HI-SEAS) mission, which was designed to simulate life on Mars. The six crew members lived in cramped quarters, with artificial communication delays, pre-packaged food, constant surveys for one another's experiments, and compulsory spacesuits for excursions beyond the habitat. The essays that comprise Once Upon a Time I Lived On Mars -- subtitled 'Space, Exploration and Life on Earth' -- are all rooted in Greene's HI-SEAS experience: but that's a launchpad to discuss climate change, the breakup of her marriage, the history of space flight, and the thorny questions of whether humans should go to Mars, and who gets to decide.

In some ways this book, published in 2020, feels very dated. There's such a sense of hope for the various planned Mars missions (some of which were cancelled or postponed due to Covid) and for the possibilities offered by spaceflight. Reading in 2026, after Trump's cuts to the NASA budget and the damage to Russia's only launch facility at Baikonur, it feels like a lost future. And though Greene has major reservations about Elon Musk's role as cheerleader for the space programme, the book was clearly written before his more egregious exploits.

Yet there is a great deal of interest here. Greene is a science journalist, and her background shows in areas such as the assessment of whether all-male crews are the best option. (They're not: small women use half as many resources as large men, according to former NASA researcher Alan Drysdale.) I also learnt that Neil Armstrong's spacesuit was designed by Playtex, that Jeff Bezos 'dumps roughly $1 billion of his Amazon stocks into Blue Origin to keep the company in cash' [p. 175] and that, four billion years ago, the Moon was only 20,000 miles from Earth.

Often lyrical, often hopeful, but more about life on Earth than life on Mars.

I wonder about the arguments against going to Mars that claim we need to first focus on fixing problems here at home. Might going to Mars be a way to help us see our planet and ourselves anew? Couldn’t a human expedition to Mars be good for those on Earth too? Though, as with many things, it could very well depend on who does the going. [p. 162]

2026/019: Helm — Sarah Hall

There they are, the exuberant, flamboyantly dressed couple, petting beneath a gargantuan inflammable. Helm is buoyed by the aerial company, and oddly nauseated. Something about the creepy, crêpey surface of the inflatable, and the oo of the balloon, and the balloon itself, its potential to burst and issue forth a loud, deflationary, unfunny raspberry. Cue, globophobia. [loc. 1090

A luminous wild tale whose protagonist is Helm, Britain's only named wind, an accident of geology and meteorology who's as vivid a character as the humans with which Helm interacts. (Helm's pronouns are Helm/Helm's.) After an intensely lyrical opening that depicts Helm's existence before the coming of humans, the novel skitters backwards and forwards in time ('Time happens all at once for Helm, more or less') focusing on a handful of individuals. These include a Neolithic seer, a medieval warrior-priest, a nineteenth-century meteorologist and his wife, a neurodiverse child growing up in the 1960s, a glider pilot, and a researcher studying microplastics in the environment. Helm likes to collect what Helm calls 'trinkets', souvenirs of encounters with humans -- 'so fun and terribly worrying'. These include an ejector seat from a Tornado jet, an iron skullcap, a tobacco pipe, an iPhone... And Helm is not always invisible to humans: some think of Helm as a demon, others as a friend, or a deity, or a fragile natural phenomenon, or a wild destroyer.

All of these are valid.

Hall's prose is marvellous, literally and metaphorically. Each of her characters has a unique voice (I liked Helm best) and each character's arc -- not always told sequentially -- could have been a novel in itself. I loved the Cumbrian dialect (cowp, spelks, glisky) and the sense of place. The chapter from the perspective of glider pilot Jude is an excellent evocation of the joy and terror of unpowered flight, too. And Janice, who draws Helm for the doctors at the asylum, has a unique and profound connection with Helm, which Helm clearly reciprocates.

Perhaps the division of narrative was slightly uneven, but researcher Selima Sutar, whose narrative is most detailed and subjective, serves as our modern viewpoint, coming to understand that Helm is under threat by humans. Helm, I think, knows that: when Michael, a priest sent to exorcise the fiend of the fell, asks in a dream how long Helm will live, the answer is 'Eight more centuries. Until you kill me.' [loc. 2319]

I was delighted to see this novel on the British Science Fiction Association Awards Longlist: it is about climate, and arguably about non-human intelligence and making contact.

2026/018: Tools for Life: 10 Essential Therapy Skills Everyone Should Know — Dr Kirren Schnack

Our environment can influence the way our genes are expressed through a process known as epigenetics, with both positive and negative experiences influencing how our genes work... nature and nurture are constantly working together, reminding us that who we are is not set in stone. [Chapter 1]

Read by the author, who has a warm and restful voice, this is an overview of some common psychological issues and how to address them. There are ten chapters, ranging from 'How You've Become Who You Are' (which examines the role of genetics, culture and trauma in shaping personality, and discusses attachment theory) to 'Healing from the Pain Caused by Others' (which focuses on relationships ending, forgiveness and closure, and how to move on). 

Along the way, there are many useful techniques, examples and case studies: while not all of these were relevant to me, I really appreciated the sensible and straightforward way in which Dr Schnack presented them, and her encouragement to those who felt stuck with their own issues. 'You are not broken and you can change.' There are also good guidelines on how to identify and live by your own values, and how to deal with intrusive thoughts.

This was a pleasant and interesting listening experience, though I think I'd have found a paper copy more useful: it feels like the kind of book one wants to mark up, to scribble notes and exclamation marks and check marks. On the other hand, the meditation guides at the end of the book work very well in audio format.

Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for the review copy, in exchange for this full honest review. UK Publication Date was 01 JAN 2026.

2026/017: The Scholars of Night — John M Ford

'...through the grace of God and friendly governments we are allowed a certain number of immoral acts, but we are obliged to avoid merely stupid ones.'[loc. 1878]

Long unavailable, Ford's Cold War spy thriller with added Christopher Marlowe is a delight. There are two major plots, very much entwined: the discovery of an unknown Marlowe play, 'The Assassin’s Tragedy', and the theft of some cutting-edge military hardware. Marlowe's play deals with spycraft, a mysterious fellow who might have royal blood, and the narrow line between patriotism and treason. The modern narrative also explores these issues, via role-playing games, divided loyalties, and scholarly imagination.

The Scholars of Night begins with the assassination of college professor and Soviet agent Allan Berenson, and the theft of the Marlowe manuscript from his office. (I would love to read the excellent forgery left in its place, which apparently features a Big Mac.) Berenson's lover, a spy known as WAGNER, and his protege Nicholas Hansard -- who reads the Marlowe manuscript 'reading not for content but for inference, looking for the mind behind the lines' and mentally recreates scenes from its author's life -- both have good reason to regret, and avenge, Berenson's death.

There are riddling codenames, wargames in several formats, feints and counterfeints, and a number of excellent secondary characters, each of whom has a fascinating backstory and a web of connnections. Ford revels in the revealing detail, in vividly-described locations (I especially enjoyed the scenes in London and Cambridge) and in the fine nuances of character. This is a complex novel, which rewards close attention and probably a reread -- soon.

Written and set in the mid-1980s, which feels like a very different world. (Charles Stross's introduction describes some of the differences: "the weirdest, most alienating difference a time traveler from the world of 2021 to that of 1986 would notice is not the bipolar macho politics of nuclear superpower confrontation, but that nobody saw the victory of capitalism as inevitable. History had not yet turned a very important corner. In 1986 there existed a globe-straddling colossus, a revolutionary superpower that—with its satellite states and fellow travelers like China—represented a third of the planetary population and held two-thirds of its weapons. The Soviet Union...") Thus, characters marvel at 'a notebook-sized portable computer': nearly all telephones are fixed landlines: CCTV is not present. On the other hand, plus ça change: AI, not yet a reality when the novel was written, is a Bad Thing.

2026/016: Nowhere Burning — Catriona Ward

"We're here because we want to understand them, right?"
"Right."
"Not because we are them. Not because it wants us here... You know what they say. Nowhere draws lost kids to it. Are we lost kids too?" [loc. 2044]

Riley and her little brother Oliver live with Cousin. Their mother committed suicide a couple of years before the novel opens: Riley never knew her father, while Oliver's father is dead. Now Riley is biding her time until she can graduate from high school and escape Cousin's brutal regime. 

One night a girl in green appears at her second-floor window, and gives Riley directions to Nowhere, an abandoned and ruined mansion that used to belong to famous film star Leaf Winham. Now, years after Winham's death and the fire that destroyed the house, Nowhere has become a sanctuary for runaway children, the lost and unwanted and abused.

Oliver is only seven, and he's starting to believe the things that Cousin says: that there's a demon inside both of them, that they need to starve it out. Riley knows she's run out of time: so she takes Oliver and flees into the Rocky Mountain National Park. Turns out Nowhere is indeed a sanctuary, with a broken ferris wheel in the grounds of the house, with teenagers hunting and fishing and planting while the younger children play. It's an idyllic life and Riley finally starts to relax.

It's not only Riley's story. She is one of three protagonists, and probably (at least to start with) the most compelling. There are also chapters focussing on Adam, an architect employed by and drawn to Leaf Winham, and Marc, a documentary maker who's fascinated by the stories of Nowhere. How, and why, all those stories tie together is only clear in the final few chapters, though there are plenty of subtle hints at connections.

Beside the obvious elements of Peter Pan -- lost boys and girls, a crocodile named Tinkerbell, the fear of growing up -- there are aspects of the story that bring to mind Michael Jackson, and The Lord of the Flies, and the darker aspects of fairytales. Ward's writing continues to impress me immensely, as does her ability to describe emotional states and responses without ever approaching them directly. There are some dark -- though never gratuituous, never too explicit -- scenes in this novel, but I feel that it's ultimately hopeful: that even the broken and damaged can help one another, that forgiveness can be granted as well as earnt, that kindness matters.

Thanks to the publisher and Netgalley for the advance review copy, in exchange for this full honest review. UK Publication Date is 19 FEB 2026.

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.