Tuesday, March 28, 2023

#Review - The Stolen Heir by Holly Black #YA #Fantasy

Series: The Stolen Heir (#1)
Format: Hardcover, 368 pages
Release Date: January 3, 2023
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Source: Library
Genre: Young Adult / Dark Fantasy

Return to the opulent world of Elfhame, filled with intrigue, betrayal, and dangerous desires, with this first book of a captivating new duology from the #1 New York Times bestselling author Holly Black. 

A runaway queen. A reluctant prince. And a quest that may destroy them both.
 
Eight years have passed since the Battle of the Serpent. But in the icy north, Lady Nore of the Court of Teeth has reclaimed the Ice Needle Citadel. There, she is using an ancient relic to create monsters of stick and snow who will do her bidding and exact her revenge.
 
Suren, child queen of the Court of Teeth, and the one person with power over her mother, fled to the human world. There, she lives feral in the woods. Lonely, and still haunted by the merciless torments she endured in the Court of Teeth, she bides her time by releasing mortals from foolish bargains. She believes herself forgotten until the storm hag, Bogdana chases her through the night streets. Suren is saved by none other than Prince Oak, heir to Elfhame, to whom she was once promised in marriage and who she has resented for years. 
 
Now seventeen, Oak is charming, beautiful, and manipulative. He’s on a mission that will lead him into the north, and he wants Suren’s help. But if she agrees, it will mean guarding her heart against the boy she once knew and a prince she cannot trust, as well as confronting all the horrors she thought she left behind.

  

The Stolen Heir is the first installment in author Holly Black's The Stolen Heir duology. Eight years have passed since the Battle of the Serpent. But in the icy north, Lady Nore of the Court of Teeth has reclaimed the Ice Needle Citadel. There, she is using an ancient relic to create monsters of stick and snow who will do her bidding and exact her revenge. This story starts as Oak seeks Wren out along with his knight, Tiernan, and a disgraced follower of Madoc’s, Hyacinthe, to ask for her help. 

Lady Nore, Suren/Wren’s mother, is planning an attack on Elfhame, and, in order to stop it, they need her help to command her to surrender (a power which Jude granted her in The Queen of Nothing). Suren, child queen of the Court of Teeth, and the one person with power over her mother, fled to the human world. There, she lives feral in the woods. Lonely, and still haunted by the merciless torments she endured in the Court of Teeth, she bides her time by releasing mortals from foolish bargains. 

She believes herself forgotten until the storm hag, Bogdana chases her through the night streets. Suren/Wren is saved by none other than Prince Oak, heir to Elfhame, to whom she was once promised in marriage and who she has resented for years. Now seventeen, Oak is charming, beautiful, and manipulative. He’s on a mission that will lead him into the north, and he wants Suren/Wren’s help. But if she agrees, it will mean guarding her heart against the boy she once knew and a prince she cannot trust, as well as confronting all the horrors she thought she left behind.  

Oak is often the target of assassination attempts, as well as false flattery and disingenuous relationships, and he doesn’t know which of those is more annoying. He hopes that Suren/Wren is the answer to what he is searching for. In many ways Suren/Wren reminded me of Jude, specifically her distrust of the Folk who hurt her badly, Oak in particular, as well as her constant need to outwit those around her and be accepted by them, at last. This journey is mind blowing. 

The ending to the story is incredible and you will have no choice into following Suren/Wren into her next journey. So, apparently, my sources are now saying that book 2, which will be the finale, will feature Oak's narrative. If you are searching for Jude or Cardan, don't. This book is all about Oak and Suren/Wren and their fight to defeat the Queen of Teeth who is as villainous as ever.





Monday, March 27, 2023

#Review - Arch-Conspirator by Veronica Roth #SyFy #Apocalyptic

Series: Standalone
Format: Hardcover, 128 pages
Release Date: February 21, 2023
Publisher: Tor Books
Source: Library
Genre: Science Fiction / Apocalyptic & Post-Apocalyptic

In this gripping and atmospheric reimagining of Antigone, #1 New York Times bestselling author Veronica Roth reaches back to the root of legend and delivers a world of tomorrow both timeless and unexpected.

“I’m cursed, haven’t you heard?”

Outside the last city on Earth, the planet is a wasteland. Without the Archive, where the genes of the dead are stored, humanity will end.

Antigone’s parents—Oedipus and Jocasta—are dead. Passing into the Archive should be cause for celebration, but with her militant uncle Kreon rising to claim her father's vacant throne, all Antigone feels is rage.

When he welcomes her and her siblings into his mansion, Antigone sees it for what it really is: a gilded cage, where she is a captive as well as a guest.

But her uncle will soon learn that no cage is unbreakable. And neither is he.



In Arch-Conspirator, Roth reaches back to the root of legend and delivers a world of tomorrow both timeless and unexpected. Roth creates an unusual reimagining of Antigone in a futuristic sci-fi world. Antigone is an Athenian tragedy written by Sophocles in (or before) 441 BC and first performed at the Festival of Dionysus of the same year. It is thought to be the second oldest surviving play of Sophocles, preceded by Ajax, which was written around the same period.  

Outside the last city on Earth, the planet is a wasteland. All goods are scarce, buildings are decaying, and blowing dust covers everything. Without the Archive, where the genes of the dead are stored, humanity will end. A quasi-religious value is attached to these Archives — the stored samples represent immortality for the dead, a way of saving and then resurrecting their souls.

Antigone and her siblings are considered soulless abominations — their parents conceived them naturally, rather than going through genetic manipulation to achieve best results. They’re scorned and shunned, but as the living children of the murdered king and queen, they also represent power and legitimacy. Antigone’s parents—Oedipus and Jocasta—are dead. Passing into the Archive should be cause for celebration, but Antigone’s parents were murdered, leaving her father’s throne vacant. 

As her militant uncle Kreon rises to claim it, all Antigone feels is rage. When he welcomes her and her siblings into his mansion, Antigone sees it for what it really is: a gilded cage, where she is a captive as well as a guest. But her uncle will soon learn that no cage is unbreakable. And neither is he.  

Roth provides multiple viewpoints to the characters which add complexity to the story. Arch-Conspirator is also a thin volume coming in at a little over 100 pages, which made for a quick read. I have no knowledge of the original story but I don't think that hampered my understanding of this. The main flaw with this was the amount of different perspectives there was for such a short text.





Friday, March 10, 2023

#Review - A Tempest at Sea by Sherry Thomas #Historical #Victorian #Mystery

Series: Lady Sherlock # 7
Format: Paperback, 368 pages
Release Date: March 14, 2023
Publisher: Berkley
Source: Publisher
Genre: Historical / Victorian / Mystery

Charlotte Holmes’s brilliant mind and deductive skills are pulled into a dangerous investigation at sea in this new mystery of the bestselling Lady Sherlock series.

After feigning her own death in Cornwall to escape from Moriarty’s perilous attention, Charlotte Holmes goes into hiding. But then she receives a tempting offer: Find a dossier the crown is desperately seeking, and she might be able to go back to a normal life.

Her search leads her aboard the RMS Provence. But on the night Charlotte makes her move to retrieve the dossier, in the midst of a terrifying storm in the Bay of Biscay, a brutal murder takes place on the ship.

Instead of solving the crime, as she is accustomed to doing, Charlotte must take care not to be embroiled in this investigation, lest it become known to those who harbor ill intentions that Sherlock Holmes is abroad and still very much alive.


A Tempest at Sea is the Seventh installment in author Sherry Thomas's Lady Sherlock series. Key Characters: Charlotte Holmes who has been solving mysteries under the name of Sherlock Holmes and has been extremely successful to the point of earning her very own nemesis. Lord Ingram Ashburton who has become Charlotte's secret lover after divorcing. Mrs Watson is Charlotte's trusty sidekick and the woman who has risked everything to help Charlotte become the person she is now. Livia Holmes is Charlotte's older sister, and the woman who is slowly becoming a force of her own.

After feigning her own death in Cornwall *(See Miss Moriarty, I Presume) to escape from Moriarty’s perilous attention, Charlotte Holmes has gone into hiding for fear that Moriarty's people will find her and end any hope of Charlotte finding a way to defeat him. After receiving a tempting offer from Lord Remington Ashburton, who is an agent of the British government and Lord Ingram's older brother, Charlotte has an option to stop hiding. Find a dossier the crown is desperately seeking and she and Mrs Watson can expect a measure of safety from Moriarty.

Her search leads her aboard the RMS Provence a ship that appears to be heading for Australia.
Charlotte disguises herself as an elderly lady and boards a ship along with her partner, Mrs. Watson. But on the night Charlotte makes her move to retrieve the dossier, in the midst of a terrifying storm in the Bay of Biscay, a brutal murder takes place on the ship. Instead of solving the crime, as she is accustomed to doing, Charlotte must take care not to be embroiled in this investigation lest it become known to those who harbor ill intentions that Sherlock Holmes is abroad and still very much alive.

So, the mystery falls on Lord Ash, who is onboard with his children and their governess to work with Inspector Brighton, who first appeared in Murder on Cold Street and tried to ruin the life of a friend of Ash and Charlotte's, to solve the mystery. But this mystery has many suspects. Suspects who may or may not be working for Moriarty. Suspects like the Shrewsbury's who tried to ruin Charlotte's life way back in the beginning of this series. To top things off and to make things even more crazier, Charlotte and Livia's mother Mrs Holmes as well as Norbert, her ladies maid, also show up for the trip! And Mrs Holmes may be a murder suspect!!

The ending of this story leaves your imagination to run wild. Is this the final book in the series? Is this the final time that Charlotte will have to deal with Moriarty? Can Charlotte trust that nobody onboard found out who she was, and that she's still alive? Many, many questions still remain, and it appears that Livia is well on her way to her own adventure and maybe a reunion with a man who she fell in love with not that long ago. 
 




One

April 1887

There's something you're not telling me, Ash," said Charlotte Holmes.

The night was starless, the sky low and heavy. But spring was beginning to make itself felt as a certain fullness in the air, the swelling of blackthorn buds on the cusp of flowering.

Charlotte was warmly wrapped in an Inverness cape, a deerstalker cap on her head. No one who saw her in her masculine attire now-if anyone could see in the pitch-blackness-would have mistaken her for the pink silk-clad vixen who had successfully ambushed Lord Ingram Ashburton earlier in the evening.

It had been their first meeting since her terribly inauspicious "death" in Cornwall, where her body was said to have been dissolved in a vat of perchloric acid. Her closest associates had "mourned" in a manner befitting those who could not publicly acknowledge their grief. But they had also worried in truth as weeks wore on with no news from her.

Charlotte, even before she had been advised to stay away from her usual haunts following that spectacle on the Cornish coast, had decided on a safe haven: none other than Eastleigh Park, the country seat of the Duke of Wycliffe, Lord Ingram's eldest brother. The estate's hunting lodge had proved a peaceful abode for her and, of course, an excellent location in which to lie in wait for Lord Ingram to turn up for his annual Easter visit.

And now, after a few highly pleasurable hours becoming reacquainted in his bedroom in the main residence, he was escorting her back to the hunting lodge, as she could not be seen in his quarters come morning, whether as a man or a woman. The night was thick as a wall. She walked nearly blindly, but he had grown up on this estate and ambled along, guiding her with an occasional touch on her elbow or the small of her back.

"I'll tell you when we're inside," he said, in response to her earlier comment, his tone deliberately light.

But when they'd entered the hunting lodge and lit a few sconces, he did not divulge what he'd kept from her. Instead, he left with a hand candle to make sure that the structure, bigger than her ancestral home, was free from hidden intruders. Charlotte removed her caped coat and prosthetic paunch, strolled into the drawing room, and stretched out on a settee, the gold brocade upholstery of which was visibly fraying-the hunting lodge, an opulent addition to the estate a hundred and fifty years ago, had not been improved in at least two generations.

He returned, handed a biscuit tin to her, crossed the room to a padded chair upholstered in the same worn brocade, and leaned against its rounded armrest, one leg straight, the other half-bent. He was rarely so informal in his posture. But even so, his shoulders remained open, his weight evenly distributed. He lifted his head and seemed about to speak-but didn't.

A single lamp bronzed the antlers mounted above the door and delineated shadows in the hollow of his cheeks. Charlotte opened the tin, nibbled on an almond macaroon, and waited, though she had already guessed what he was about to tell her.

It was not about Moriarty-her lover was distracted, but not yet alarmed. Still the matter had made him concerned for her safety. A task that required her to leave Eastleigh Park then-a task for Sherlock Holmes? And who could make such a request and be sure that he would, in fact, relay it to her?

When she'd polished off the slightly too sweet macaroon and he still hadn't spoken, she flicked crumbs from her fingertips and said, "What does my lord Remington want, exactly? And is he not aware that the estimable consulting detective of 18 Upper Baker Street is not currently offering 'his' services to the public?"

Lord Remington, Lord Ingram's brother, was responsible for much of the intelligence gathering in the far-flung corners of the empire. But in recent months, he had taken a greater interest in the domestic side of things.

Lord Ingram expelled a breath. "Oh, Remington is more than aware of your absence from London. I believe he is of the view that rather than rusticating, you might as well lend him a helping hand."

No one who had attracted Moriarty as an enemy could afford to merely rusticate. Charlotte had been busy. "Is my lord Remington dangling safety from Moriarty as a lure?"

She had no plans to venture abroad on someone else's behalf for a lesser prize.

Her lover looked grumpy, very nearly irate. "At this moment, I'm not sure even the power of the crown-let alone Remington, merely a servant of the crown-could keep anyone safe from Moriarty."

"Surely that's too pessimistic an outlook?"

"Surely you're right, madam. All the same, I find it difficult to be pleased about anything that involves risk to you."

She smiled to herself, opened the biscuit tin again, and took out a jam tart. "What exactly is Lord Remington offering me?"

"More or less what Moriarty thought he might: When you decide to reemerge into the world, Remington will let it be known that to harm you would be to injure him."

A magical amulet it wasn't, but neither was it something to sneeze at.

"And in exchange," continued Lord Ingram, "he wants you to find a dossier that has gone missing-Remington has judged you very good at finding things."

"He is not wrong about that." Ever since her toddlerhood, Charlotte had always known not only where everything was located in the house but also if any items had been misplaced. "However, I imagine that what he wants found would not be as easy to locate as Mrs. Watson's reading glasses."

"No. Not only does Remington not know where it is, he cannot even be sure who has it."

Apparently, Lord Remington's underlings had been cultivating in secret a Prussian embassy attaché. But perhaps their practice of secrecy left something to be desired, for Herr Klein, the attaché, was abruptly recalled to the fatherland. Lord Remington's underlings, however, were convinced that before Herr Klein's hasty departure, he'd left them something.

But Herr Klein had not stepped out of his hired house in the days immediately preceding his removal. Moreover, his house had been watched by parties both British and Prussian. So, to whom had he entrusted this dossier?

The Kleins-husband, wife, and two young children-were no longer in Britain and would not have been available for questioning even if Herr Klein had remained at his post. Their servants, relying on delivery for foodstuff and laundered garments, had also not left the place during the period of greatest interest.

By the time Charlotte officially took on the commission, the house-and the servants-would have been searched multiple times by agents of the German Empire.

Moreover, while she would be furnished with a list of names, individuals who had entered and departed the consular assistant's household during the most critical span of time, she would not be permitted to question anyone on the list for their connection to the Kleins or their reasons for visiting the Klein household. She was only to observe and search-while keeping her involvement an absolute secret, naturally.

Lord Ingram's lips thinned as he finished enumerating the parameters of the task.

"Well," said Charlotte dryly, "it is understood that the task must be arduous for a reward as Olympian as my lord Remington's protective aegis."

Her lover snorted. "You'll take it?"

"I can't decide on that until I hear more details and speak to Lord Remington's emissary myself."

"You should keep in mind that by assigning you this task, he is sparing his own agents the risks that you would face."

"And I've never said that I'll accept an incomplete assurance of safety as my entire payment. Worry not, I shall name a commensurate price."

On that, Mrs. Watson had trained her well.

"Now tell me your other news," she said, weighing the jam tart in her hand. It was small but felt substantial, exactly how she liked her jam tarts. "The one that you considered, however briefly, as a substitute answer."

At this her lover betrayed a slight surprise, but only for a moment. They'd observed each other for years. He would have expected her to have noticed that he'd been about to speak and thought better of it.

He sighed. "The other news is that Mrs. Newell, Miss Olivia, my children, and myself are going on a voyage together."

Charlotte's chest constricted. She felt . . . wistful.

I have my sisters to think of, and you your children. But if-if someday the conditions should be conducive, would you like for all of us to go away together? Spain, Majorca, Egypt, the Levant? By the time we reach India, it will probably be unbearably hot in the plains, but the hill stations should still be pleasant.

When she had uttered those words the year before, it had been less a proposal of itinerary than a statement of hope, that perhaps many things would be possible in a lovelier, more idyllic future. Many things had indeed changed for the better since then, not the least that they were now lovers, but they also found themselves in circumstances far more dangerous than she could have anticipated a mere six months ago.

The pang in her heart was as much regret for not being able to join everyone on the trip as nostalgia for a time when she'd believed the world to be a safer, simpler place.

She exhaled. "Livia has always yearned to travel."

"A change in scenery seemed a good idea for us all," he said quietly.

She left the settee. But when she stood before him, she didn't know what to say, precisely. So she offered him the jam tart in her hand, expecting him to turn it down. Instead, he pulled her closer by the wrist and took a bite. And then he took the jam tart from her and offered it back to her.

The pastry was short and crumbly, the jam sticky and sweet.

"We were hoping you could join us for a segment of the journey-or several segments, if safety allows," he murmured.

He brought the jam tart to his own lips again, but this time, he only kissed the spot she'd bitten. Charlotte reacted more strongly than she thought she would, and with a hunger that was not only for his delectable self.

"Perhaps-perhaps I still could," she said after a minute. "After all, how long can it take to find this thing of Remington's?"

Three weeks later

Livia Holmes stepped out of her hotel room, feeling as if she were in a dream.

All her life, she had longed to travel. And not just to London, or Cowes, or someone's country house for a fortnight, but far, far away, a voyage for no other reason than to comprehend the height and breadth of the known world.

And now that the moment was here, now that she had but to walk down the stairs, exit the hotel, and head for the Port of Southampton, she was desperately afraid that she might wake up after all and find that everything was but a dream.

Like all those dreams she'd had as a child, running away from home, just Charlotte and her. And all those dreams she'd had of late, of holding her Mr. Marbleton by the hand and sprinting toward a carriage, a train, a ship, and once, even a hot air balloon, which only needed its ballast removed to float into the sky.

She tightened her fingers around the handle of her satchel. Perhaps she was all the more anxious because it had already been such a lovely trip.

According to Lord Ingram, who had arrived first, he and his children had spent a few wet, chilly days in the port city. But as soon as Livia and Mrs. Newell reached Southampton, the weather had turned sunny and mild. Together, everyone had driven out to nearby New Forest and visited the ruins of a thirteenth-century abbey. They had made a tour of Southampton's stretches of medieval town walls. And yesterday afternoon they had strolled along the sinuous River Itchen, then flown kites in a nearby park. Livia, who had only intended to watch, had found herself with a spool in hand, running on bright new grass, laughing as her butterfly kite caught the current and shot straight up.

On the way back to their hotel, young Master Carlisle, Lord Ingram's son, had leaned against his father in the carriage, and Lord Ingram had pulled the boy closer. And Livia had felt almost as warm and safely ensconced.

"Are you ready, my dear?" asked Mrs. Newell, stepping into the passage after Livia. She was both Livia's second cousin and her official sponsor for this trip.

Livia took Mrs. Newell's arm and felt steadier. She loved the dear old lady, and it was her very great fortune to set out with someone who had always watched out for her. "Yes, ma'am. I'm ready."

With a smile, Mrs. Newell patted Livia's hand. They walked down the passage in the direction of the stairs. May I stride ever closer to the journey of a lifetime, Livia silently petitioned the universe. May I begin a new life altogether.

They reached the stair landing. A man and a woman descended from above, the woman clad in the most beautiful traveling costume Livia had ever beheld.

The cut of the dress was impeccable, the construction precise, the material understated yet luxurious. It moved with the smoothness of cream pouring from a pitcher, but more sumptuously-the simple-looking grey skirt was lined with several layers of tissue-thin blush pink silk chiffon. Together the pink and grey were delicate and evocative, reminiscent of a cherry sprig in blossom just visible in a spring mist.

The only imperfection, Livia was sorry to note, was the wearer of this sartorial sorcery.

She was about Livia's age, twenty-eight or so. Her figure served the dress well, but her features were more prominent than pretty. Had she evinced some vivacity or a steeliness of character, she might have made for an unconventional beauty. But she was simply . . . there. To say the dress overwhelmed her would be too generous. The dress, in all its splendor, existed independently of her.

Her companion was a tall, broad man whose day coat nearly burst at the seams to accommodate his shoulders and upper arms. His features, like hers, were oversized. On some men, that translated into a brooding handsomeness. But this man's countenance seemed only ferocious-and vaguely misaligned, as if God had been in a hurry on the day of his creation.

Livia and Mrs. Newell emerged onto the stair landing as the man and the woman reached the bottom of their flight of steps. Everyone hesitated. Then the man motioned toward the next flight, indicating that Livia and Mrs. Newell should proceed. A courteous gesture, but it came across to Livia-who, granted, was wildly sensitive about such things-as tinged with a trace of impatience.




Thursday, March 9, 2023

#Review - Missing Clarissa by Ripley Jones #YA #Mystery

Series: Standalone
Format: Hardcover, 256 pages
Release Date: March 7, 2023
Publisher: Wednesday Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Young Adult / Mysteries

In a gripping novel perfect for fans of A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder, two friends start a true crime podcast—with dangerous consequences

In August of 1999, dazzlingly popular cheerleader Clarissa Campbell disappears from a party in the woods outside the rural town of Oreville, Washington and is never seen again. The police question her friends, teachers, and the adults who knew her—who all have something to hide. And thanks to Clarissa’s beauty, the mystery captures the attention of the nation. But with no leads and no body, the case soon grows cold. Despite the efforts of internet sleuths and true-crime aficionados, Clarissa is never found—dead or alive.

Over twenty years later, Oreville high-school juniors and best friends Blair and Cameron start a true crime podcast, determined to unravel the story of what—or who—happened to this rural urban legend. In the process they uncover a nest of dirty small-town secrets, the sordid truth of Clarissa’s relationship with her charismatic boyfriend, and a high school art teacher turned small-town figurehead who had a very good reason for wanting Clarissa dead. Such a good reason, in fact, that they might have to make him the highlight of their next episode…

But does an ugly history with a missing girl make him guilty of murder? Or are two teenage girls about to destroy the life of an innocent man—and help the true killer walk free?

Ripley Jones' Missing Clarissa is the story of two best friends, Cameron Munoz and Blair Johnson, who start a true crime podcast—only to realize they may have helped a killer in the process. In August of 1999, dazzlingly popular cheerleader Clarissa Campbell disappeared from a party in the woods outside the rural town of Oreville, Washington and is never seen again. The police question her friends, teachers, and the adults who knew her, especially her boyfriend Brad Bennett who she apparently had an argument with, are who all have something to hide. 

Thanks to Clarissa’s beauty, the mystery captured the attention of the nation. But with no leads and no body, the case soon grows cold and the Sheriff doesn't seem to care. Despite the efforts of internet sleuths and true-crime aficionados, Clarissa is never found—dead or alive. 20 years later, Oreville high-school juniors and best friends Blair and Cameron start a true crime podcast called Missing Clarissa, determined to unravel the story of what—or who—happened to this rural urban legend. 20 years later, Clarissa's mother still thinks she is alive and refuses to move on.

In the process they uncover a nest of dirty small-town secrets, the sordid truth of Clarissa’s relationship with her charismatic boyfriend, and a high school art teacher turned small-town figurehead who had a very good reason for wanting Clarissa dead. Such a good reason, in fact, that they might have to make him the highlight of their next episode. But does an ugly history with a missing girl make him guilty of murder? Or are two teenage girls about to destroy the life of an innocent man—and help the true killer walk free?

Cameron is a head strong young woman who is very good at school but dragged Blair into taking a journalism class to add more depth to her already large resume. Blair is also an athlete who is hoping her own skills will get her a scholarship into the school of her choice. Cameron tends to be blinded by her surroundings, not realizing the girl she makes fun of, might actually be a pretty nice person, as well as someone who you could call your girlfriend. Blair often gets caught up in Cameron's ideas which lead to questionable actions. 

So, overall, this isn't a bad story. My complaint is that authors today tend to use their personal issues and politics into the story instead of just letting the characters themselves tell you who they are and why you should care about what they have to say or do. The villain of this story hides in plain sight. I think the podcast part of this story was probably the most interesting in that we really see how deep Cameron and Blair get while telling the story. The story is told by both protagonists, which provides more background for the girls' friendship as well as making for a more well-developed plot.   





Wednesday, March 8, 2023

#Review - The Golden Spoon by Jessa Maxwell #Cozy #Mystery

Series: Standalone
Format: Hardcover, 288 pages
Release Date: March 7, 2023
Publisher: Atria Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Mystery & Detective / Cozy

Only Murders in the Building meets The Maid in this darkly beguiling locked-room mystery where someone turns up dead on the set of TV’s hottest baking competition—perfect for fans of Nita Prose, Richard Osman, and Anthony Horowitz.

Every summer for the past ten years, six awe-struck bakers have descended on the grounds of Grafton, the leafy and imposing Vermont estate that is not only the filming site for “Bake Week” but also the childhood home of the show’s famous host, celebrated baker Betsy Martin.

The author of numerous bestselling cookbooks and hailed as “America’s Grandmother,” Betsy Martin isn’t as warm off-screen as on, though no one needs to know that but her. She has always demanded perfection, and gotten it with a smile, but this year something is off. As the baking competition commences, things begin to go awry. At first, it’s merely sabotage—sugar replaced with salt, a burner turned to high—but when a body is discovered, everyone is a suspect.

A sharp and suspenseful thriller for mystery buffs and avid bakers alike, The Golden Spoon is a brilliant puzzle filled with shocking twists and turns that will keep you reading late into the night until you turn the very last page of this incredible debut. 

Jessa Maxwell's The Golden Spoon is the authors debut novel. Only Murders in the Building meets The Maid in this darkly beguiling locked-room mystery where someone turns up dead on the set of TV’s hottest baking competition—perfect for fans of Nita Prose, Richard Osman, and Anthony Horowitz. Every summer for the past ten years, six awe-struck bakers have descended on the grounds of Grafton, the leafy and imposing Vermont estate that is not only the filming site for “Bake Week” but also the childhood home of the show’s famous host, celebrated baker Betsy Martin.
 
At Grafton Manor, Betsy welcomes Stella Velasquez (a former journalist from NYC), Hannah Severson (from Eden Lake, Minnesota who is the second youngest contestant ever on Bake Week), Gerald Baptiste (Bronx, NY), Pradyumna Das (CEO of the company called Spacer, an app that identifies free parking spaces who sold his company for millions), Lottie Byrne (RN from Kingston, Rhode Island), and Peter Gellar (from Woodsville, New Hampshire). Plus former Cutting Board Host Archie Morris along with the crew.

They will compete from Monday to Friday in a series of five intensive, daylong competitions, leading to a showdown between the final two bakers on Friday for the coveted Golden Spoon trophy and a future cooking book of their own. Unknown to Betsy, the producers of the show has chosen to shake things up. Things quickly get strange when one contestant's sugar and salt containers are switched causing an elimination. Then another contestant gets eliminated after his own personal ingredients are sabotaged. To top it off, Archie is found dead after falling on top of the tent holding the contestant. 
 
One of these contestants is likely a killer. One of these contestants tries to get a leg up on the competition by bedding a member of the case. And, one contestant has reasons to believe that Betty knows what happened to her mother when she was a child in a shocking revelation as to why she knows Grafton Manor. If you are a person who watches a whole lot of cooking shows, this book should be added to your pile of books to read. This book alternates between the 6 contestants as well as Betsy Martin.

This debut thriller includes several of fan favorite ingredients, a gothic mansion, locked-room murder mystery, and a baking competition, and diverse characters who are eager to change their lives and their futures. I think this is a good beginning as a future writer for Maxwell. If I were to nit pick, which I do, I think the idea of each chapter being a new character was tiresome. I think certain characters had the same voices. Most of the characters were not fully fleshed-out or developed, and so they ended up being more caricatures of people rather than real people.
 
Overall, however, I would recommend this book to those who enjoy cozy mysteries and as I previously said, cooking shows.



Prologue: Betsy
Prologue BETSY
Betsy presses her cell phone to her ear, trying to hear. The wind and rain howl at the windows, rattling the glass. “We’re stuck out here. We won’t be able to come back for a while,” Melanie’s voice crackles with static. “This weather has taken down a bunch of trees. We’re waiting for emergency services to get them out of the road, but there’s no sign of them yet. We won’t be—”

“You’re cut off from Grafton?” Betsy can feel the panic rising in her chest. The whole crew has already left for the day, packing up quickly and going into town to avoid driving in the storm, and now it’s just her and Archie and the contestants alone in the manor. The thought fills her with dread. She shudders and pulls her thin cashmere sweater closer around her.

“What? The line keeps cutting out. Someone is going to have to go check on the tent. There’s a ton of camera equipment out there. I know the tech stuff isn’t your domain, but could you just go outside and make sure the flaps are sealed? I am just praying that tent is sturdy enough to make it through the storm. They’re saying it’s going to get worse tonight before it gets better. I’m sorry to ask you but there’s no one else. I tried calling Archie, but he didn’t pick up. Maybe you could—”

“I’ll do it,” Betsy snaps. There is no way she is going to ask anything of that man after what he’s done. “But this is really… unacceptable.” She feels a surge of anger as she hangs up. In the ten years she has been the host of Bake Week, she has never had to do any of the grunt work. Checking on the tent in the dark in the middle of a torrential downpour is not in her job description. She takes a deep breath. It was partly her fault, she realizes, for making the crew stay in town. She could never bear the thought of them traipsing through Grafton Manor with all their equipment and dirty shoes.

There’s a flash of lightning at the window followed by a violent bang of thunder. Betsy goes into her walk-in closet and reaches for her father’s heavy yellow rain jacket. As she slides her arms into it, she is disappointed to find it no longer smells of his cigars, only of the slightly mildewy musk that comes with neglect. It’s a smell and a state she is constantly battling at Grafton Manor. She feels a pang of guilt. Richard Grafton would be devastated to see this place so down at the heels. He was always devoted to the manor. He’d have found a way to keep it going, no matter the cost. She sighs, stretching to get an old metal flashlight off the shelf.

Betsy makes her way through the corridor and out into the main stairwell. Rain taps frantically on the two floor to ceiling windows in the foyer. She hurries down the steps to the front door, already feeling vulnerable. She pulls her hood up and forces the heavy wood door open, struggling against the wind. The tent is only ten feet away at most, but the rain is so heavy it appears as a white blur. She steels herself and steps outside. The wind drives the rain sideways, nearly blinding her as she descends the front steps, flanked by two stone lions. Their heads rest wearily in their crossed paws, as if they’ve given in to the storm. She crosses the short patch of gravel drive to the lawn, the rain pelting her in sheets. As soon as her feet hit the lawn, the heel of her right shoe descends into the fresh sod. It sticks there, making her nearly lose her balance. She hops on one foot, pulling the shoe up from the mud with a sucking sound and shoving her wet foot back inside. She is already drenched. She angrily anticipates the cleanup they’ll have to do before filming resumes. It will delay everything. It will cost money, lots of it. This season is turning into a horrible mess.

“Their chemistry is lacking,” that’s what The Post wrote recently after the footage from the first day was leaked. It was under the headline “What Will Happen to Bake Week?” As if somehow the press believes that the problem is both of them. No one ever complained about her chemistry before he got here. There was no problem with anything until he got here.

Angrily, she pulls open the flap at the back of the tent, switching on her flashlight. The rain hits the tent in noisy bursts drumming at the peaked canvas ceiling. She sweeps the flashlight around the open space. Each table is immaculately arranged, as is usual after the crew cleans them at the end of the day, before the bakers will return in the early morning to dirty every surface imaginable with dustings of flour and gobs of dough. Now every stand mixer is perfectly aligned with the next, each carefully arranged colander of baking utensils on display. It’s an optimistic scene of pastel colors and light woods. One that lends itself well to the show’s folksy niceness. And generally it’s true that the bakers, chosen and vetted to within an inch of their lives, are also nice. Betsy makes sure of it. Some of them can be a bit curmudgeonly. But they try so hard, they want so desperately to be perfect, to win, so you have to give them that. Betsy knows she hasn’t ever had to work so hard as some of them. This group is no different. Sure, there have been… challenges. It certainly hasn’t been easy this time around.

There’s another crack of lightning, a violent bang as it connects to something nearby. Betsy shudders and makes her way up to the bank of cameras on the right. They look secure enough. The ground around them is dry.

She swings the flashlight around the tent one last time, ready to go back inside and warm herself up with a glass of port. To try to forget today ever happened. But then she notices something at the front of the tent. There is an object sitting on the judging table. She trains the flashlight on it, approaching slowly. It looks like a cake. Someone must have left it there from today’s baking challenge, which is odd. Usually everything is cleaned up after filming. As she moves forward, she can see that it’s already baked, a slice cleaved neatly from it. Cherry red liquid dribbles from the stand, down the back of the table where it mingles with a deep puddle of water. The rain has found its way inside. She steps closer, her heart sinking. A mess this big will cause a delay in filming. It will be expensive and taxing.

A drop of water lands on her face and she jumps. She reaches her hand up to wipe it away. The liquid feels smooth and slippery. Reaching her fingers in the beam of the flashlight, she is shocked to find they are streaked with bright red. It feels like—

She turns her flashlight up. Its spotlight trails into the peaked roof of the tent until it stops on something. Before her eyes even make sense of the horror above her, she starts to scream.


1. Gerald

GERALD


I wasn’t surprised when I got the call, though my heart rate did accelerate rapidly. I know this because my watch lit up and gave me one reward point for exercising. And I wasn’t surprised at all when they told me I’d been accepted as a contestant on Bake Week because I am an excellent baker. Anyone can be an excellent baker if they’re disciplined enough. It’s just chemistry. To make a perfect cake, all you need are the right equations. Measurements must be precise to yield a crispy mille-feuille, a lacy Florentine, a perfectly chewy pie crust. Temperatures must be controlled and deliberate, if you want to make a soufflé rise or chocolate glaze shine like glass. You can find equations everywhere in life, if you look in the right places.

Say you want to take public transportation all the way from your apartment in the Bronx to a country estate in Vermont for a televised cooking show, as I am doing now. You just need to be fully acquainted with the timetables. You’ll take the D subway line to 34th Street, exiting out of the northwest entrance and coming out onto 34th Street. Then you’ll walk two avenues west to the northeast entrance of the Moynihan Train Hall, leaving you exactly eleven minutes to wait for the Vermonter train, which departs at 8:15. That will get you into Brattleboro at exactly 3:45. There, you’ll have time for a coffee at a café across from the station before you hop on the shuttle you’ve scheduled to drive you out to the entrance of Grafton Manor.

I’ve mapped Grafton Manor out using blueprints I downloaded from the Vermont Historical Society’s online database. It’s an enormous house, but I feel like I know the place now, which brings me some comfort as I do not generally enjoy being in new places, particularly not with strangers and for an entire week. I’ve memorized routes from the guest rooms to the dining room, the dining room to the tent, and calculated the length of time it will take me to get to each.

I’ve gone over the variables of my journey so many times that I barely need to look at the schedule I’ve made up for myself as I get off the subway car with my bags and walk briskly down the platform. A man is playing the violin on the platform, Bach. I recognize it immediately as Violin Sonata No. 1 in G minor. As I was able to get an express train, I allow myself two minutes to listen. I close my eyes. The music carries me away from the filthy station back to my childhood kitchen table. I remember every detail, every nick in the wood, every tear in the vinyl-backed chairs my mother would make me sit at until I finished my homework. She would switch on the radio, filling the tiny kitchen with grand symphonies. Classical music was good for studying, she said. While I solved mathematical equations, she would bake, the air becoming thick with the fragrance of cakes in the oven, melted chocolate, sugary fruit reducing on the tiny stovetop.

My mother was an immigrant from Grenada. She’d been trained as a chemist, but when she came to the United States she was unable to use her degree, so she took a job cleaning for a rich family in Manhattan. When the wife got wind of her cooking ability, she was tasked with providing meals for them as well. It was her cakes that garnered her the most attention. Soon all the families in Tribeca were asking for my mother to make treats for their children’s school birthdays or their evening cocktail parties. My mother took baking very seriously and practiced at home, and often in the middle of the night I would wander out and she’d give me a glass of warm milk and a taste of whatever she was cooking. Finally, the year I turned fifteen, after nearly two decades of patiently practicing and saving, she opened her own bakery. I begged to work there instead of going to school, but she never relented. My baking education was to be done after schoolwork if time allowed. I explained all this in the application video, plus my expertise in hand-ground flours.

Filming falls during my school’s summer break, so I am not bound to my teaching job right now. Of course, I still have a routine I adhere to when school is not in session. I’ve broken down the benefit-to-detriment ratios, though, and the numbers always come out in favor of going. If I win, which I have at least a one in six if not higher chance given my expertise, I will have proven to myself that I am what I think I am, that my calculations are correct. If I lose, I will return to my normal schedule in just a week’s time.

I give the violinist ten dollars and carry on to the exit, emerging into the bright New York morning. I make my way down 34th Street, jostling with tourists and pedestrians, dodging men on the sidewalk selling knockoff sunglasses and flavored ices. I’ve allotted time for them in my schedule. Finally, I arrive at the northeast entrance to the train station. I check my watch: 8:04.

I feel the warm assurance of being on time, of having gotten it right. I carry my bags into the central hall, scanning the timetable to be sure, though I know it by heart.

I look for the Vermonter, but it is not listed where it should be, right between the Northeast Regional and the Acela service to Washington. I instantly scan and find it farther down the list flashing in red: Delayed, stand by for more info.

A cold dread descends on me. Things never go well when they don’t go according to plan.




Tuesday, March 7, 2023

#Review - A Sinister Revenge by Deanna Raybourn #Mystery #Victorian #Historical

Series: Veronica Speedwell (#8)
Format: Hardcover, 320 pages
Release Date: March 7, 2023
Publisher: Berkley
Source: Publisher
Genre: Mystery / Victorian / Historical

Veronica must find and stop a devious killer when a group of old friends is targeted for death in this new adventure from the New York Times bestselling and Edgar Award–nominated author Deanna Raybourn.

Veronica’s natural-historian beau, Stoker, has been away in Bavaria for months and their relationship is at an impasse. But when Veronica shows up before him with his brother, Tiberius, Lord Templeton-Vane, he is lured back home by an intriguing job offer: preparing an iguanodon for a very special dinner party.
 
Tiberius has received a cryptic message—along with the obituaries of two recently deceased members of his old group of friends, the Seven Sinners—that he too should get his affairs in order. Realizing he is in grave danger but not knowing why, he plans a reunion party for the remaining Sinners at his family estate to lure the killer out while Veronica and Stoker investigate.
 
As the guests arrive and settle in, the evening’s events turn deadly. More clues come to light, leading Veronica, Stoker, and Tiberius to uncover a shared past among the Sinners that has led to the fatal present. But the truth might be far more sinister than what they were prepared for. 


A Sinister Revenge is the 8th installment in author Deanna Raybourn's Veronica Speedwell series. Months after Stoker walked away from Veronica, and decided to clear his head, Veronica Speedwell, and Tiberius Templeton-Vane travel all the way to Bavaria hoping to find the elusive young brother. Meanwhile, Stoker has been on the hunt for a mythological creature known as Wolpertinger. In German folklore, a Wolpertinger is an animal said to inhabit the alpine forests of Bavaria and Baden-Wurttemberg in southern Germany. 

It has a body comprising various animal parts – generally wings, antlers, a tail, and fangs; all attached to the body of a small mammal. The most widespread description portrays the Wolpertinger as having the head of a rabbit, the body of a squirrel, the antlers of a deer, and the wings and occasionally the legs of a pheasant. Veronica and Tiberius soon find Stoker and explain to him that Tiberius has received a threat to his life. Twenty years ago, Tiberius and six friends, known as the Seven Sinners, traveled the continent as young men, sowing their wild oats. On a visit to the Templeton-Vane family estate, one of the young men died.

Tiberius has received a cryptic message—along with the obituaries of two recently deceased members of his old group of friends that he too should get his affairs in order. Realizing he is in grave danger but not knowing why, he plans a reunion party for the remaining Sinners at his family estate to lure the killer out while Veronica and Stoker investigate. As you know if you've read this series from the beginning, Veronica and Stoker are basically untrained investigators who have gone through Hell and Back and solved some really creepy and dangerous mysteries which has left scars on both.

As the guests arrive and settle in, the evening’s events turn deadly. More clues come to light, leading Veronica, Stoker, and Tiberius to uncover a shared past among the Sinners that has led to the fatal present. But the truth might be far more sinister than what they were prepared for. Veronica and Stoker's relationship is all but finished, for the most part, until they are forced once again to look danger in the eye, and finally realize that they two of them are a couple whether they like it or not, whether Veronica actually wants to get married or not. 

There is a fairly large cast of characters who Veronica is forced into dealing with. One of them might be the killer, or could there be more than one and this is an elaborate plot to destroy all of the remaining Sinners for the death of one of their members 20 years ago? Veronica Speedwell is smart, quick-tongued, vivacious, and loyal. She knows who she is and won't sacrifice that based on other people's expectations. She is full of moxie and gumption and she won't stand by while Stoker throws a hissy fit or tantrum because of a slight by Veronica herself.




1

Bavaria, September 1889

You must not go into the forest at night," the innkeeper warned, his voice trembling with fear. "Something dangerous walks there in the darkness."

He carried on in this vein for some time as I applied myself to a stein of Weissbier and a plate of crisp, excellent sausages. My friend and travelling companion, the Viscount Templeton-Vane, listened politely as the fellow grew more vehement.

"The creature that walks by night, it is part wolf, part man. It has but one eye, the other a gaping hole of deepest black. It keeps to the shadows, and if you dare to come near, it snarls like a bear," he went on, his eyes round in his chubby, shiny face. He was a character straight from a storybook, plump and bearded, an imp of a fellow, with lines of good humour etched upon his face. But there was no mirth to be found upon his visage as he told his tale, only fear, brightening his eyes and causing his mouth to tremble ever so slightly.

Behind him, a lurking barmaid whose ample charms were scarcely contained by the lacing of her dirndl threw her apron over her head and fled through the door to the kitchens.

The viscount-Tiberius to his friends-quirked up one expressive brow. "My good man, calm yourself. Surely this is some piece of local lore meant to frighten the feeble. We English are made of sterner stuff."

"But it is true," the fellow insisted, colour pinkening the cheeks above the white fringe of his beard. He glanced around and lowered his voice. "I have seen it, a hulking shadow, moving in the silence of the firs. And when I stepped in its direction, it reared back and it growled with the fiendish fury of a hound of Hell."

Tiberius, usually a man of cool logic, looked startled. "Growled, you say?"

"Like a wolf," the man confirmed.

I sighed. It was time to put an end to this. "My good man," I said politely to the innkeeper, "whilst I must concede that your use of alliteration is impressive, I think we can dismiss the notion of a hybrid monster roaming these mountains."

He gave me a look of profound injury and slunk away, muttering.

Tiberius met my gaze. "Can we? I realise the local folk are a superstitious lot, but how exactly would you explain the existence of such a creature?"

I ticked off the qualities as I said them. "A tall, unsociable creature that keeps to the shadows, shuns the society of respectable people, and growls its displeasure? Tell me, who does that seem to describe?"

Tiberius' mouth went slack, then curved into a smile. "You mean-"

"Yes, Tiberius. I think we have, at long last, found your brother."


The Honourable Revelstoke Templeton-Vane-Stoker, familiarly-had not been lost so much as slightly misplaced. For some months Stoker and I had enjoyed an intimate relationship that had proven thoroughly fulfilling, indeed enrapturing, in all the particulars. We were work colleagues, engaged in the endlessly fascinating task of preparing museum exhibits for our employer, Lord Rosemorran. We were also neighbours, each of us inhabiting a small folly on his lordship’s Marylebone estate.

And we were occasional partners in detection, as falling over corpses had become something of a habit. In short, our lives were so fully entwined it was difficult to say where one left off and the other began. We enjoyed it all-from the scientific work to the investigation of crime, to the exuberant physicality of our more private endeavours. (Stoker is singularly suited to the amatory arts through a combination of bodily charms, robust stamina, and an enchanting thoroughness that might have startled a less experienced or enthusiastic partner than I.)

But following a painful interlude, Stoker had taken himself off to nurse his wounded feelings. When last he and I had been together, there had been a complication regarding my marital status. Not a complication so much as a husband-one I had believed dead and whose resurrection was most unwelcome. The fact that we had nearly died as a result of Harry's dramatic appearance into our lives had not endeared him to Stoker, and he had taken his leave of England whilst still believing me bound forever to a man with criminous tendencies. As his parting words had been a directive to grant him time and privacy to smooth his ruffled feathers, I had naturally concurred. By the next morning he was gone, leaving only a hastily scribbled line to explain he was off to Germany in pursuit of a trophy-as a natural historian, his employment entailed procuring and improving a vast array of specimens-but no invitation to join him ensued.

At almost precisely the same moment, a letter had arrived from Tiberius urging me to come to Italy, where he had persuaded his hostess, an aging papal marquise, to part with a prized collection of rare birdwing butterflies. I am, first and foremost, a lepidopterist. I did not hesitate to pack my carpetbag and board the first train out of London. Through the end of the spring and the whole of that summer I accompanied Tiberius as he made his way through Italy, sending boxes of butterflies back to Lord Rosemorran's burgeoning museum.

From Stoker, I had not a single line, although Lord Rosemorran frequently alluded to Stoker's peregrinations through the Black Forest in his own letters. I thus had a vague idea of where Stoker was, and I was not at all distressed by our lack of communication. I knew two things: the depth of our feelings for one another and the fact that absence makes the heart as well as the libido grow stronger. I had little doubt that Stoker missed me-all of me.

No, the fact that he had taken his leave so abruptly and with no effort at a proper good-bye did not distress me in the slightest. And while another woman might have grown increasingly irritated that the post forwarded from England brought not the merest scrap of a postcard, to say nothing of a proper letter, I naturally devoted myself entirely to the study of lepidoptery. I passed my days in hunting specimens that flittered and fluttered from the Dolomites to the Sicilian hills and back again. I grew leaner and more firmly muscled from scrambling over peaks and pastures. I set out at daybreak each morning from our lodgings, when the night's dew still bespangled the grasses at my feet. I did not return until the languid golden sun dropped beyond the horizon, leaving a few last gentle rays to show me the way back. I never used my net; its presence was merely a habit from my previous expeditions. Instead I followed the butterflies, making careful study of their mazy meanderings, their behaviours and habitats.

And when I returned to the solitude of my room, I spent long hours writing up my findings both for my private notes and for publication in the Aurelian journals. Invariably, I dropped into bed exhausted by my exertions, only to rise at dawn and repeat the process. Not for me the languid evening passed in mournful contemplation of the distance-both literal and figurative-between myself and the person I considered to be my twinned soul. I would not permit myself to waste away in pining and regret. I had the celibate consolations of science, and I made full advantage of them.

If I am to be strictly honest within these pages-and I have sworn to be so-then I will admit to the occasional wakeful night or interminable afternoon when I found my thoughts inhabited by his familiar form and face. When these moods came upon me, so strong was my longing for him, it required all of my discipline to refrain from flinging my things into a bag and dashing to him. The only remedy was another strenuous day spent in pursuit of my studies, driving myself physically harder than ever before even as I enumerated his flaws. I catalogued them as I strode the Italian hills, whipping up my annoyance.

"What sort of man just leaves? And without so much as a proper kiss good-bye," I muttered to the nearest rock in a fit of particular frustration on the isle of Capri. "What kind of fellow thinks it is acceptable simply to disappear for months on end and send no assurances of his well-being? Not a telegram, not a semaphore flag, not so much as a hint of a postcard with his current address? An ass," I told the rock.

But even as I said the words, I knew Stoker was not entirely to blame. He had left still believing I was the wife of another man. Only a handful of hours had passed between Stoker's departure and my learning the truth of my marital status-that I was not, and never had been, legally married.

Why then did I leap at Tiberius' invitation instead of rushing after Stoker to stop him before he left England?

It was some months before I could face the answer: I was a coward. When I learnt of Stoker's resolve to leave, to take time for himself to consider our attachment, my initial reaction, the longing of my heart, had been to go to him. And therein lay my terror. I, who had laboured and loved independent of real connection for so long, was entirely and besottedly enraptured with this man. When I most had need of a confidant, I had not turned to him out of fear of dependency, and when he left, the desire to run to him had kindled that fear once more.

So I drove it out with hard physical exercise, with time and distance, hoping I could blunt the sharp edge of my resistance to committing myself fully to Stoker. My demeanour, ordinarily so tranquil as to be remarkable, was frequently waspish as I came back, always, to the fact that even if I wanted to go to him, he had insisted upon the gift of time. If time was what he wanted, he should have all the time in the world, I decided. In fact, I would grow weary and withered and ancient before I would stir a single step towards him. If I suffered from the loss of his company, then he should suffer as well, I decided. I had my dignity, after all.

I do not know how long I might have maintained my lofty determination to wait for him to make the first move. I might still be wandering the Lombard hills, butterfly net in hand, had Tiberius not appeared one morning at breakfast, bags packed and travel arranged. Our hotel, a converted castello, was very fine and comfortable but with few of the comforts so beloved of the English traveller. The beds were hard, the pillows nonexistent, and the mosquitoes particularly aggressive. Worst of all possible woes, the tea was unspeakable and I had almost resigned myself to drinking coffee. I was peering into the murky depths of the teapot when Tiberius took the chair across from me.

"I wish to find Stoker," he said flatly. "Do you know where one might run him to ground?"

I put aside the crime that passed for tea in those parts and gave him a level look. "Somewhere in Bavaria, if Lord Rosemorran's letters are accurate. But his lordship can be vague about such things, and this is, after all, Stoker of whom we are speaking, a man inclined to follow his most wayward impulses. He might be in Batavia. Or Bolivia. Or Bechuana." He did not respond to my little witticism and I gave him a close look. Tiberius was, like all the Templeton-Vane men, a singularly handsome fellow. But there were plummy shadows under his eyes, and a line, slim but severe, etched its way across his brow. "Tiberius, why do you want to find Stoker?"

He hesitated, itself cause for alarm, and then said three words which chilled me to my marrow.

"I need him."


The fact that Tiberius Templeton-Vane, ninth viscount of the same, expressed any emotion as lowering as need of another person was mildly terrifying. He was the most self-possessed man I had ever met, his character having long since been shaped by the ineffable knowledge that he was the firstborn son of an aristocrat, heir to a fortune, a title, and an estate. His privilege was as much a part of him as his elegant hands or his superb sense of dress. Tiberius, so long as I had known him, needed no one and nothing-least of all his scapegrace brother. Stoker had, almost since the cradle, been considered the cuckoo in the nest. (The fact that their mother’s dalliance with an Irish painter was actually responsible for Stoker’s paternity only augmented this division.) Stoker had rebelled against the family’s strictures, taking himself off for the first time when he was twelve years of age. His putative father, the eighth viscount, had him apprehended and returned to Cherboys, the family estate in Devon, but Stoker simply ran away again. And again. Every time he was hauled back to Cherboys, he bided his time and then left. In due course, the viscount stopped retrieving him and Stoker fell in with a travelling circus before studying medicine in Edinburgh and later becoming a surgeon’s mate in Her Majesty’s Navy.

Through his perambulations, he had lost the thread of connection with his family, and by the time I had met him, some three years previous to these events, there was almost no communication between Stoker and his three brothers, their father having died the year before I came into his life. He had been independent for so long that it had almost become a matter of pride for him that he did not rely upon the Templeton-Vane name or its influence to open doors for him. He lived by his own talents, and this was met by his brothers sometimes with good-natured bafflement and sometimes with resentful envy. Their own lives had been laid out for them by the late Lord Templeton-Vane, and none of the three had the courage or will to deviate from the appointed path. Tiberius, as the eldest, had succeeded to the title. The second, Sir Rupert, had been granted a baronetcy for his services to the Crown as a barrister who dabbled in secret diplomacy. The youngest, Merryweather-shoved into the Church, possibly against his will-had been granted the living of the parish of Dearsley, the village nearest to Cherboys. The brothers were settled, with varying degrees of satisfaction, in their roles.

And yet. Now and then, so fleeting I could almost believe it my own fancy, each of them had looked at Stoker with something akin to jealousy. I was not surprised. It was the same expression frequently aimed in my direction, usually by women with too many children and too much time spent embroidering tea cloths. To make one's own money, to direct one's own destiny, these were heady gifts indeed.




Monday, March 6, 2023

#Review - Conquer the Kingdom by Jennifer Estep #Fantasy

Series: A Gargoyle Queen Novel # 3
Format: Paperback, 432 pages
Release Date: March 7, 2023
Publisher: Harper Voyager
Source: Publisher
Genre: Fantasy / Epic

Magic reigns, plots abound, and a new love might not conquer all, in this must-read finale to the epic Gargoyle Queen trilogy by international bestselling author Jennifer Estep.

Time is running out for crown princess Gemma Ripley. Despite being a cunning spy and a powerful mind magier, Gemma hasn’t been able to track down the most dangerous enemy her kingdom of Andvari has ever seen. Adding to her worries is the Sword and Shield tournament. With gladiators flocking to the capital city of Glanzen, Gemma can’t tell who is friend—or foe.

Determined to protect Andvari at any cost, Gemma hatches a bold plan, but things aren’t what they seem. Soon, everything she holds dear is being threatened, including her burgeoning relationship with Prince Leonidas Morricone.

With the kingdom she holds dear slipping through her fingers, Gemma will have to conquer her fear and unlock the true secret of her magic—or watch her friends and family die and her beloved Andvari fall . . .  

Conquer the Kingdom is the third installment in author Jennifer Estep's Gargoyle Queen trilogy. This book picks up a few months after the ending of Tear Down the Throne. Gemma Ripley (Crown Princess, Spy, bounty hunter and mind magier), and her friend Reiko Yamato (dragon morph and spy), have been on the hunt for any sign of Milo Morricone and Captain Wexel for their attempts on Gemma's families lives, as well as his intention of using a secretive weapon go destroy Gemma's kingdom of Andvari and take over the entire continent.

With 100,000 gold pieces for Milo's head, he has thus far avoided being seen or captured. After several hits and misses, Gemma prepares to play Princess again for this years Sword and Shield Tournament which is being held this year in Andvari. Gladiators from all over are preparing to battle to see who is the best gladiator. Reiko's former lover Kai Nakamura is the odds on favorite, but the team from Fortuna Island isn't to be taken lightly. Gemma also did the unthinkable by inviting her nemesis Queen Maeven to act as a lure for Milo. 

Gemma, who hasn't exactly accepted her powers and often times struggles to use them to save herself and others, isn't always on the winning side of a fight. She is also still playing a long game where she hopes to not only defeat Milo and Wexel, but flip the script on her long time nemesis Queen Maeven who nearly killed both Gemma and Everleigh Blair 16 years ago. It's not always true that villains are what you see. In this book, you get to see a new side of Maeven, and get to know more about who she is not just as a queen, but as a mother and as a person. 

But there's also a bit more interesting information on Gemma's long dead mother and her apparently connection to Maeven as well as a prophecy. With her relationship with Prince Leonidas being scrutinized by everyone in Glatzen, and Milo devoting his entire life to Gemma and her kingdom's destruction, one small mistake could spell doom for everyone who is not loyal to Milo. That includes Maeven as well as her daugher Delmira. Meanwhile, Gemma's family is working hard to accept Leonidas, but the people of her kingdom haven’t exactly been welcoming to him, and she isn’t sure if their relationship can withstand the external pressures placed on them.  

Without spoiling anything, including the ending, there are some interesting twists to this story, including flashbacks to 16 years ago when Gemma survived, and found her companion gargoyle Grimley. I adore Grimley as well as Gemma's new Strix baby Violet. But there's also a bit more interesting information on Gemma's long dead mother and her apparently connection to Maeven which involves in a prophecy about 3 Queens. See where I am going with this bit? We've already had Everleigh, we now finish with Gemma, so whose next? Could it be a certain Princess from Morta who just happens to help save Gemma? ::wink::

I do suggest that you read these books in order they are released. While the author does a good job of summarizing events, it's better to actually read the books, rather than skip over them to get to the ending.