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Author’s note: Written in 2015
Vision in Silver is, as the title mentions, the third book in Anne Bishop's series The Others.
When we began this journey, we joined Meg and her new arrival into the Lakeside Courtyard, where the terra indigene hire her as their new Human Liaison for their post office. Suddenly, everything begins to change, including the way that the Others view humans and the way that they all interact. But Meg's Controllers from the compound where she'd been held, designated by a number, were searching for her, and getting altogether too close for comfort.
Thanks to the Courtyard's unprecedented attachment to Meg, the threat is neutralized and the world begins to change. The Humans First and Last movement, often shortened to HFL, has come over from Cel-Romano and begun to take hold of Thaisia, and they are beginning to create havoc. Drugs called Gone Over Wolf and Feel Good are being manufactured from the blood of the Cassandra Sangue, girls like Meg who see prophesy when they cut their precious skin. These drugs are being used as weapons not only against the terra indigene—but also against each other.
Vision in Silver comes in with the wild expansion of the HFL across Thaisia, with nebulous threats of upcoming food shortages that make no sense under the conditions. There is a group of other Cassandra Sangue the terra indigene are trying to help, but most of them self-destruct, except for a few. One draws instead of making cuts because the Controllers aren't there to bind her fingers—and her drawings are eerily expressive—and she eventually calls herself Hope. Lieutenant Montgomery's daughter suddenly arrives on a train by herself with a stuffed bear in tow, but no mother—and now there are people coming in search of the secrets she brought along. HFL attacks the terra indigene at the marketplace where the Human pack took the Crows for a field trip—and the Elders (those terra indigene much older than any others, those who inhabit the wild country and are unseen and unknown to the humans in Thaisia) have declared a breach of trust: the Lakeside Courtyard has a brief amount of time to determine what of humanity may stay, but the rest will be eliminated.
Throughout Vision in Silver, the same kinds of philosophical questions posed in Murder of Crows appear: Are you more sympathetic toward the humans or the terra indigene? What does it mean to support one over the other? But more than that, and this is the key point seen in this novel particularly: Who do we trust when we sabotage our own people? Where do you turn when the people who are supposed to be on your side have chosen some other side that is both against the supposed danger-force (terra indigene, in this case) but also against any human who isn't against the Earth natives? To the forces that distrust you and your kind, consider you "clever meat", disposable, threatening? What if that's your only option?
What if, at the end of the day, the most dangerous force in your life is actually your neighbor, and not nature?
Simon Wolfgard is working very hard to preserve some of humanity because Meg's presence in the Courtyard has changed everything: it allowed interaction with the Lakeside human police force, it precipitated the creation of a human pack inside the Courtyard where before there had been none. By the end of the novel, the question on humanity has turned into something a little different. How much 'human' will the terra indigene be able to absorb while still maintaining their core selves? And, furthermore, if they allow themselves to absorb more of humanity, will they change the kind of terra indigene that they are now?
Vision in Silver moved very slowly until about 75% of the way through, and then all of a sudden everything happened all at once. Up until I reached that point, I was a little disappointed in it, even though I could tell it was leading up to something particularly virulent (and I was right); I just wanted more. I'm moved to say that I was less impressed by this book than by the previous two, but I enjoyed it anyway. I'm very excited to see where book 4 takes us, and I eagerly await the culmination of Simon's and Meg's tiptoeing around letting each other know they care more than just casually. That isn't a spoiler; it's been obviously coming since they met. It's somewhat subtle and there are much bigger things going on in the world than their relationship, but it is kind of a really infuriating will-they-won't-they dance that I've found I really don't have time for anymore. For both Meg and Simon, life is complicated and difficult and there isn't enough time.
I really want to know what the Elders are going to do now, and I really can't wait for this son of a bitch Nicholas Scratch to get his comeuppance. Seriously, though.
So that's what I've got. I gave it a solid 4 stars on Goodreads just because of the disappointment mentioned above, but I'd have given it 4.5 if it were an option. Because it probably wasn't worth a full star. C'est la vie.
Author’s note: Written in 2015
Alexia Tarabotti is back! Now married to Conall Maccon, Alpha of the Woolsey pack, and promoted to Muh Jah on the Shadow Council for the Queen of England, life is busier than ever. All of the military regiments overseas have returned to England—and there's at least one setting up camp on her front lawn—and there's a rather peculiar force turning all members of the supernatural set human, at least in a particular area. When that space begins to move northward toward Scotland, following her husband, Alexia decides to follow him via dirigible. Forced into traveling with escorts, Alexia is joined by her French maid Angelique, her husband's claviger Tunstell (who is entirely in love with her friend Ivy Hisselpenny), her antagonistic half-sister Felicity—who is particularly angsty as the youngest sister is in the throes of planning her marriage, and—not to be outdone—her close friend Ivy Hisselpenny, who is newly engaged to one Captain Featherstonehaugh (but kind of irrevocably in love with Tunstell).
Before she leaves, however, she meets one particularly interesting French woman by the name of Madame Lefoux, who daylights as a hatmaker, but is a brilliant inventor behind closed doors, and was commissioned by Conall to make her one helluva parasol... that does everything but function as a parasol.
What's most interesting about Madame Lefoux is that she dresses in men's clothing, tailored to fit and accentuate her female body. She wears pants and waistcoats and cravats and the whole bit. It's glorious, if a bit scandalous. There are also some indications that she may be bisexual, as there is an interesting sexual/romantic tension between her and Alexia, and this all makes a very interesting commentary on sexuality and power in [modified] Victorian society. Whether that says anything about Alexia is kind of unspecified, although her "discomfort" might lend some clue.
On the dirigible, it becomes apparent that somebody is trying rather hard to rid England of Alexia, first by poisoning her food (which unfortunately affects Tunstell instead) and then by pushing her off the edge of the deck and apparently wrestling with Madame Lefoux. Alexia saves herself on the side of the beast, however, and makes it back to safety no worse for wear.
Once in Scotland, the group meets up with her husband and travels to Kingair Castle, where they are met with a surly, unattractive woman who is introduced as Conall's great-great-granddaughter. Alexia doesn't take too kindly to the sudden realization that her husband had been married once before and he never told her. Frankly, I can't blame her.
While in Kingair, at least as many issues arise as are solved. The source of the humanizing agent turns out to be a mummy brought back from Egypt. The individual ransacking Alexia's room and trying to kill her is her French maid, who had at some point in her past—surprise!—been romantically involved with Madame Lefoux.
But the real kicker to this book is the ending. And I'm telling you, I got so mad I fumed. I almost threw my book.
Alexia is pregnant. Surprise of the ages, since, theoretically, supernaturals are incapable of producing offspring. But despite the fact that Alexia couldn't possibly have slept with anyone else and certainly wouldn't lie about it, her bloody husband flips out and starts swearing at her in front of everybody until she and Madame Lefoux leave for London.
Now. Believe me. I understand that it looks bad. And Conall is emotional (at best). But this was simply uncalled for. He married a preternatural, which had never been done before, so I don't know why he couldn't believe that the union would be capable of producing something no one ever had before: a baby.
Author’s note: Written in late 2014
Murder of Crows is the sequel to Written in Red—reviewed here. Published in March of this year, this book is only available digitally or in hardcover—for a whopping $26.95, I should mention (which I definitely don't have right now). I downloaded a digital copy to tide me over until a paperback copy is available.
The start of this novel is not immediate after the end of the previous, although the temporal distance between them is essentially negligible. Things in the human spaces are tense, and "gone over wolf"—the drug unveiled in Written in Red—is making its way around Thaisia.
Humans are baiting the Crows by putting "shinies" (i.e. anything that might attract a crow's attention) into trash cans on collection day and then poisoning food with GOW: attempted mass murder proceeds. Why Crows? Because they see everything and communicate with their crow counterparts—to put it simply: They know too much.
Although I am thoroughly enjoying Murder of Crows, I do have to admit that it doesn't start out—by which I mean the first 20-some chapters—at quite the same level of intensity. The main drama takes place outside of Lakeside—and in a different region, though growing ever-closer—and the body of what's taking place in Lakeside Courtyard is relationship drama between Meg and Simon. And we all saw that coming. The shoulders over which we're peeking are frequently new to us, the names being dropped are not familiar ones—and while this can feel random to the unseasoned, perhaps unprepared Bishop reader, it provides one with a set of puzzle pieces illuminating different areas on a multi-faceted situation--because this thing is bigger than a puzzle, and more complicated than a sphere; it has edges that can't be seen around and thus require new shoulders to illuminate those planes. I hope you're following.
All the cassandra sangue are prophesying the same thing, regardless of the questions asked, and even the euphoria can't mask the resulting terror/horror. Intuits--a breed of humans with terra indigene-like instincts—are sensing storms that have nothing to do with the weather. "Humans First and Last" is unfortunately gaining traction. Humans in Cel-Romano are building "flying machines." The terra indigene have evicted an entire hamlet for their crimes against the Crows. In essence: Shit's about to go down.
As the novel progresses, it becomes clear that Bishop is placing the reader in a very precarious moral, or ethical, debate: whose side are you on? Are you more sympathetic of the humans and their effort to gain more control over the world in which they're trying to live? Or are you more sympathetic to the Others, whose concern for the world outweighs their interest in the production of goods/services and the use for humans? While reading these novels, I am, of course, provided with the perspectives from both sides, and so I can sympathize with both humans and terra indigene. But am I supposed to sympathize with humans more because I am one, although am obviously living without the existence of a being higher up on my food chain? And if I am, what does it say if/that I'm not on the side of the humans? What does it say about me that I can ethically/morally/psychologically rationalize the motions of the terra indigene and their feelings? I don't entirely know at this point—although I will say that as an environmentalist who has hit "fuck humanity, bro" so hard, I'm really just on the side of the terra indigene—but it's an interesting question, and it's one that won't really leave me alone. I think that's kind of the point.
This isn't the only issue readers face: in dealing with the cassandra sangue, Namid's wondrous and terrible creation, was it ethical to allow for benevolent ownership? Was it ethical for these girls to be 'owned' and essentially have their lives run as if they were prison inmates? Considering the self-destruction they caused if left to their own devices, was it ethical to let them exist on their own, without guardianship? Could we rationalize putting these girls into concentration camps to prevent them from potentially killing themselves?
While the issue is hardly literally relevant to society, it may be metaphorically ethical when thinking about other things or situations. In some respects, it somewhat mirrors the complicated issue that the United States had with the mental institution framework back in the 70s, with note to the abuse within the system. With a little thought—and perhaps some extrapolation—I'm sure the ethical question can be overlaid like a projection transparency* upon certain situations.
Murder of Crows was significantly shorter than Written in Red, coming in at 35 chapters and 354 pages--please don't ask me to drop the chapter and page count of the first novel, but it at least felt like at least half again that long, if not twice. Consequently, I had it read in a very, very short amount of time—I bought it yesterday afternoon and finished it about an hour ago—and I have to admit that I'm kind of disappointed in its length. The ending is good, is concise, but definitely leading into another.
*Did I just date myself by referencing that technology? I'm not even that old! The technology that we had in my school growing up was pretty old because we were a small school with few students (I graduated with a mere 21 other kids) and so we didn't get all that much funding. Granted; I started school before 2000, so it's not like other places had SmartBoards and we didn't. But still.
Author’s note: Written in late 2014
Having thoroughly enjoyed Ms. Bishop's Black Jewels series, I admit that I had very, very high expectations for this novel. However, where Black Jewels was often crass and indelicate—particularly in terms of sex/uality—The Others has none of that, although as of yet the sex has been glossed over when it's appeared. I suspect that the glossing is more because it's irrelevant than because she's not intending to highlight it ever; it wouldn't be the author's style. Written in Red so exceeded my expectations that I have shirked my duties the past two days just to read it. Now that I've finished it, I'm slightly perturbed that I didn't buy the second book at the same time.
Written in Red is the first book in what looks to be perhaps the most interesting fantasy series I have ever read—even more interesting than Bishop's Black Jewels series, a set of novels I devoured several years ago as a middle schooler, and have revisited tirelessly throughout the last 10 years since. First published last year, but released in paperback in March of this year, the obvious question that follows that claim is: What makes this book different?
As seen in three series prior to this from Bishop (by me, specifically), the author is far from averse to creating her own universes. Black Jewels, Ephemera and Tir Alainn are all series set in unique landscapes, designed to facilitate the types of events that play out within them. Unlike the three series listed above, The Others is a series that takes place in a world quite similar to our own, but with some very key differences.
Namely, humans are definitely not at the top of the food chain. Taking their place in Namid, the name for the world in which they live, are the terra indigene, or, the 'Earth Natives'. Preceding the story is a brief history of the world, which explains that when humans tried to spread out onto new continents, the Others ate them. All of them. The third human to lead his people into the Others's territory was smarter than his predecessors and brought trade items, which paved the way for human–terra indigene interaction over the course of the next several generations until hamlets became towns became cities, but were still under the thumb of creatures far from averse to eating them.
The novel follows a young woman (age 24) by the name of Meg Corbyn, who has escaped from somewhere and is seeking someplace to live freely. She finds herself in a Courtyard (areas fully controlled by Others in which human law does not apply) and applies for a position called "Liaison"—not even knowing what it meant. Simon Wolfgard (a Wolf, but for the first time in my fantasy career, never a werewolf) hires her instead of turning her away, even though her hair stinks (she dyed parts of it orange in an attempt to disguise herself) and it is apparent that she's not quite telling him the whole truth. It turns out that the Liaison's job is actually a mail collector/sorter/distributor, and must be human because of a slew of impertinent-here reasons.
As Meg acquaints herself with the position, she sets numerous terra indigene on edge, irritates many, confuses many others, and yet somehow befriends every single one of them. Meg's life before running away was a caged one, in which she was considered property and designated CS759—cassandra-sangue 759: Meg was a blood prophet, whose skin was deliberately sliced open in order to obtain prophecies from her... for a price. A steep price, as it were, which is why her Controller is rather insistent upon her return.
The main plots in this novel include the plot for requisition of Meg Corbyn, an aspiring actress's attempt to gain forbidden information and ultimately steal a Wolf pup, and the sudden appearance of a terrifying new drug that cannot be explained by humans or terra indigene until the very end, when Simon Wolfgard figures it out—this is a note that becomes enormously important to the play-out of the sequel.
Through a dramatic series of frustrating events, told through a cycle of perspectives not limited to Meg and Simon, we get to know a relatively large cast of characters through not only their own consciousnesses, but also through the minds of those around them. While the novel is packed with drama and high tension, there is also a massive amount of humor—two things Bishop is very, very good at pairing and balancing. Because Meg manages to befriend nearly everybody—including those the Sanguinati (based on Vampires, but definitely more dangerous than that) and Wolves privately fear: the elementals (for lack of a better word)—her health and well-being are highly important to a number of persons, and when those two things are threatened, the human populations (especially her enemies) are essentially attacked via weather until the threat is, how shall I say, neutralized.
Written in Red begins to touch upon what will become the core themes of the book series, which tend to revolve around a very Us versus Them dichotomy, where 'Us' consist of the Others, and 'Them' consists of the human populations trying to expand their territories and economic power—at least until the narration-perspective changes. What happens, as with any sociopolitical/socioeconomic dispute, is that you find people caught in the balance who understand the need for groups to work together instead of against each other, and those people become "sympathizers" who are subsequently lumped in with "Us" by "Them". Is this beginning to sound familiar? If you're even remotely globally conscious, it should.
But tagging onto this theme is the notion of sympathy and loyalty. The Others are old, and have had control of their world, of protecting Namid for centuries. The humans want a mile if given an inch and are very bitter about being restricted. They need more to accomplish more: the constant struggle of humanity, no? Do you sympathize with the "monsters" who go so far as to eat wayward humans? Do you sympathize with humans because you are one? Do you sympathize with Others because they're doing what they believe is right? Do you sympathize with humans for wanting to be more? It's a really tough call, and Bishop's use of constant narration switching between persons and sides makes it a very difficult question to answer. Frankly, I think moral questions rarely have a clear answer, and if they do you're probably not thinking broadly enough (with exceptions).
At no point in this book (or series, for that matter) does Bishop ever begin to explicitly philosophize or wax poetic about this issue either externally or through the mind of the current narrator—at least not obtrusively. The struggles are there, and apparent, if you are open to them, but they are not force fed to you through exposition. For this, I was enormously grateful as a reader. This is a very overt example of the effectiveness of scene over exposition (although I am definitely not opposed to expository writing, even in novels), and absolutely deserves the attention of any die-hard fantasy reader.
Even if, or especially if, you have read Bishop's other material and not found it particularly to your writing, The Others is a breath of fresh air for anyone who likes fantasy with integrity.
Bishop's novel has received five brilliantly shiny gold stars from this lit critic and novel enthusiast. As an enthusiast, my opinion may be a bit biased—especially considering how fond I am of the author—but nobody's complained about my interpretation yet, so I guess I can't be that opaquely slanted. Or maybe I am, and that's not a bad thing yet.
Author’s note: Written prior to 2014, this writing style is no longer indicative of my modus operandi, but I stand by the gist of my points herein.
The Midnight Mayor by Kate Griffin
And so it continues.
Surprise! Swift survived the first novel. It got a bit hairy back there what with all the fighting and the murderous intentions. Secret societies, organizations pitted against magic (for "religious reasons"), psychotic colleagues, etc.
This novel opens just as abruptly as the last one did.
Matthew answers a public phone (because he will always answer the phone when it rings; it's part of who he is) and is blasted back down the street. And now he's being attacked by spectres, which are particularly rare for London. All I'll tell you is that the tools for their demise include beer and a cigarette. Happy imaginings. =]
Let me give you a visual of a spectre:
You've ever been strolling around a city and you see that kid shuffling along in a hoodie with the hood up and headphones going in, bobbing along to a beat that only they can hear? Now imagine said kid without a face. Just a gaseous space holding clothes in the proper shape. Now you've got a spectre--but you can hear their beats, and not all spectres bob to the same rhythm.
It's been said that, should the Ravens ever leave the Tower of London, should the Stone ever break, should the Wall be defaced, the city of London shall be damned. The Midnight Mayor's job is to protect the city--provided the Midnight Mayor actually exists, since Swift seems terribly skeptical--but if the city requires a protector, clearly there are things it requires protection from. Correct?
I am sure you have already deduced a few things with the help of the above paragraph coupled with the title. Namely, that the Midnight Mayor has died, that the position has been transferred to Matthew Swift, and that the city is in pretty deep shit.
Suddenly, the phrase "GIVE ME BACK MY HAT" is graffitti'ed across the city, written on the London Wall, on the wall where the Ravens were killed, on the window of the business housing the broken Stone--everywhere. Significant? You bet your ass.
Griffin does such a marvelous job creating suspense and then systematically untying knots which tie more knots until finally the whole thing comes undone at the end. You can't help but be drawn in, be captivated by her vivid imagery and intense, peculiar descriptions of things. She uses such unexpected language that catches you off guard but gives you a perfectly exact picture of what it is you're looking at and it's amazing. She has swiftly (hahahaha) become one of my very favorite and most inspiring authors--and it only took two novels. (One, actually, but we'll say two.)
Happy reading!
Author’s note: Written prior to 2014, this writing style is no longer indicative of my modus operandi, but I stand by the gist of my points herein.
And so it begins.
Matthew Swift is a sorcerer in London, but it is immediately apparent that he is more than that. He has been resurrected after having been dead for approximately two years.
Before the night is out, Matthew is attacked by a "litterbug" (a summoned monster composed of, you guessed it, garbage. Which, for the record, he defeats with a dustbin. Not to ruin it. It's a marvelous scene.
Newly resurrected, Swift's sole missions are to (a) find his murderer and return the favor, and (b) find who resurrected him, find out why, and then, quite likely, kill them as well.
So the novel progresses and you learn more and more peculiar things about this Swift, but things are still left unsaid, left in the dark and unexplained, leaving an air of mystery and suspense until finally the truth is spilled--but not all of it. Only one set of truths. As the book progresses, truths are revealed in clusters until finally the book ends and the final shoe finally drops. The perpetual mystery and vague confusion coupled with the peculiarity of the narrative--due to the intrinsic peculiarity of the narrator--are large parts of what keep the novel moving at the Andantino cum Accelerando (a little faster than "a walking pace" but steadily speeding up) tempo that it does.
The prose is marvelous and intriguing; Griffin doesn't write in chapters. Sections are broken up with white space or " * * * "; larger sections are broken up as "Part One: [Title]", "The First Interlude: [Title]". It's fascinating. And I totally love it. But there's also a number of places where the writing totally breaks into stream of consciousness style, which is also terribly moving in-context. (Also because I know things you don't. hahaha.) It can catch you off-guard if you allow it to, but if you just get lost in the text as you're reading, it just works right into the story. Some of the paragraphs are these great, barely-connected run-on sentences (one or two sentences total in the paragraph) and it's magnetic. It really keeps you moving through the material because it's different in that it's a frequent change in prose style, which catches your attention even when you aren't conscious of it.
Happy reading!
