Humouress at home - second thread

review posted/ rated/ written/ read/ (released)
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June

✔     41) Northern Lights (BBC Radio Dramatisation by Philip Pullman (1995/ 2004) 🎧
✔     40) The Soulmate Equation by Christina Lauren (2021)
✔   39) The Foxglove King by Hannah Whitten
✔        38) Penelope Goes to Portsmouth by M.C. Beaton 1991/ 2011
✔     37) The Spellshop by Sarah Beth Durst (2024)
✔     36) The Silkworm by Robert Galbraith (2014) 🎧

review posted/ rated/ written/ read/ (released)
✔ /  / (#) / Title

May

✔   35) The Undertaking of Hart and Mercy by Megan Bannen (2022)
✔        34) Elven Blood by Mark Stanley (2024)
✔   33) The Murderous Marriage/ 'The Disappearing Trick' by M.C. Beaton (2009)
✔     32) Jade Dragon Mountain by Elsa Hart (2015)
✔     31) Belinda Goes to Bath by M.C. Beaton (1991/ 2011)
✔   30) The Guinevere Deception by Kiersten White (2019)
✔     29) The Smoke Hunter by Jacquelyn Benson (2016)
✔          28) Foothills Fae Academy Book Three by Callie Woodridge (2024)
✔     27) A Mere Formality by Ilona Andrews
✔     26) Silver Shark by Ilona Andrews
✔        25) Silent Blade by Ilona Andrews (2009/ 2018)

review posted/ rated/ written/ read/ (released)
✔ /  / (#) / Title

April

✔        24) The Lily of Ludgate Hill by Mimi Matthews (2024)
✔   23) The Penderwicks at Point Mouette by Jeanne Birdsall 📚
✔     22) A Stitch in Time by Kelly Armstrong
✔     21) Other Aether edited by Greg Schauer and Danielle Ackley-McPhail (2024)
✔     20) Princess of the Sword by Lynn Kurland
✔     19) The Husbands by Holly Gramazio

review: LT/ rated/ written/ read/ (released)
✔ /  / (#) / Title

March

✔   18) The Wizard of Evesham by M.C. Beaton {BBC adaptation} (2009)
✔     17) Who's Sorry Now? by Maggie Robinson (2019)
✔        16) Stars Beyond Realms by Marie-Hélène Lebeault (2023) 
✔     15) Love in Lockdown by Chloe James (2020)
✔   14) The Call of the Sword by Roger Taylor (1988)
✔        13) The Spare Room by Laura Starkey (2024)
✔     12) Emily Goes to Exeter by M.C. Beaton (1990)
✔     11) The Belle of Belgrave Square by Mimi Matthews (2022)
✔   10) Abhorsen by Garth Nix (2003)
✔     9) The Mage's Daughter by Lynn Kurland (2008)
✔     8) Sorcery of Thorns by Margaret Rogerson (2019)

February

✔   7) Blood Spirits by Sherwood Smith (2010)
✔     6) Funny Story by Emily Henry (2024)
✔   5) Star of the Morning by Lynn Kurland (2008)
✔        4) The Iron King by Julie Kagawa (2011)

January

✔     3) Starling House by Alix. E. Harrow (2023)
✔     2) Race the Sands by Sarah Beth Durst (2020)
✔     1) Assistant to the Villain by Hannah Nicole Maehrer (2020)

‘That’d be great,’ he says. ‘Just gimme a sec. The attic light was out when I was up there yesterday, let me change it while I remember.’
‘Yeah,’ she says, ‘okay.’ She heads into the kitchen while he stays on the landing and pulls the ladder down – hears him jerk it to one side at the place where it always catches, like he’s lived here for years. In the fridge, she is confronted by three different milks in a row: oat, cashew, dairy. God, and what if he drinks it black? He’s an architect, after all. She’ll just have to ask, and if he thinks it’s weird then so be it. Maybe it’ll be a way into a conversation that she still doesn’t know how to start. ‘Do you want milk?’ she calls out, stepping back on to the landing with the blue mug in her hands.
‘What?’ says an entirely different man, climbing down the ladder from the attic.

She looks at the dark square. ‘Up there. Is Mich– was there anyone in the attic?‘
‘Like a squirrel? Mice? I don‘t think so. Do you want me to check?‘ He stands, one hand on the ladder, teetering between irritation and concern. The mug is still warm in her hands.
‘Yes,‘ she says.
‘Are you sure you‘re okay?‘
‘Yes. Yes, if you could check, please.‘
The husband tightens his shapely lips and climbs partway back up the ladder, and then continues, up, up, all the way in, his bare feet (uncalloused, perfectly formed) disappearing before her eyes. There‘s a moment of movement and brightness above her, like a flash of sunlight through train windows, and a sharp crackle.
A moment later a blue furry slipper emerges from the trapdoor. And another.
Huh.

He sounds very industrious. She doesn’t have a vegetable patch, but perhaps he’s brought it with him.

With a late-February husband she finds crocuses coming up in her garden, and she relaxes her search for a while, resting in a world where someone bothered to plant bulbs in autumn. Over the course of a week the flowers crest the dirt and start to open. They're wonderful. But the husband himself is not to her taste; she moves on when the crocuses start to fade and she finds that nobody has planted daffodils for March.

He bid farewell to various and sundry progenitors, thanked King Uachdaran profusely for his hospitality and the loan of his smithy, then turned to the business of convincing the horses they wanted to fly again. Hearn's horses were, surprisingly, chomping at the bit to once again wear dragonshape. Even the elvish horses were looking fairly enthusiastic. Miach turned them all into powerful dragons, glittering and fierce-looking.

“She says you're the archmage now. And that Adhémar is king.” Miach nodded. “I'm surprised there's anything left of Neroche with him looking after it,” Keir said with a snort.

Keir shook his head. “Nay, not now.” He bowed his head briefly, then looked back up at Miach. “My mother goaded him into the whole thing, of course. He had become so . . . agitated. Nothing pleased him. Worse still, he became convinced that we were plotting against him. My mother felt she had no choice but to push him into doing something foolish and hope that he would destroy himself.
I suppose we could have brought ourselves to kill him eventually—since he threatened the same against us so often—though it wouldn‘t have been easily done. My father's power was formidable, and he wasn't one to be caught unawares.”

“The mountain kami are true; they are here—” as he placed a hand against the stone wall, “all our ancestors… They care for us all.” He turned with a snort, shuffling down the rows of gauges, their glass fronts removed so that he could feel their needles with his fingertips.

I stepped around the dog drinking from a dip in the paving stones intentionally designed to collect water

Gaining Alec’s trust made her trust herself more. Maybe they really could manage all this on their own. “ ‘Sol, a needle pulling thread,’ ” sang Aunt Claire in her sleep. Or maybe not, thought Skye. Her work had just begun, and she was already worn out and wondered longingly if she dare take a nap. Of course not—what kind of a message would that send to the others? She needed to do something practical and soothing. “All right, troops,” she said. “Let’s have lunch.”

Jane had occasionally tried to develop her own hidden depths, but she never could decide what to hide and how far down.

At last, and just in time, the proper reinforcement arrived. The screen door opened, and out stepped Skye—still rumpled from bed, her hair going in all directions.
“She’s in charge,” said Jane, sagging with relief.
The balance of power shifted immediately. Skye was not at all pleased to see the interloper from Arundel, and a displeased Skye could be a mighty force, especially when she hadn’t had any breakfast

She felt a pang at Merlin's name. It should be him here. He was so much better suited to this. Smarter. Stronger. But he was not exactly marriageable material for a young king.

And Mordred, always watching. He was beautiful, smooth-faced, with mossy-green eyes. She was reminded of the elegance of the snake gliding through the grass.

“Did Merlin teach you this?” Arthur asked, curious.

“No, he—yes.” Guinevere paused, trying to remember. Merlin would never stoop to knot magic, even to demonstrate it. It was far too human. Frail and temporary. She tried to conjure a memory of Merlin explaining it to her, teaching her. It would have been at their sturdy table. Or in the forest? She remembered her neat bedroll, the cottage she kept tidy. The trees and the sun and the birds. Staring at her own hands in wonder. Night and day, sleeping and waking, hunger and food and everything swirling and obscured as though she were searching through fog…

Merlin, frowning, pushing his fingers against her forehead. “This should be enough,” he had said. “Do not look for more.”

She rubbed at the spot on her forehead. He had pushed the knowledge into her brain. Willed it to be there, rather than teaching her himself. He could be very lazy.

“Yes, he taught me, in his own way.” She finished the knot.

Satisfied, she turned and almost ran into Arthur. He had come up behind her to watch her work.

“Sorry!” Her hands were on his chest. She pulled them back quickly. “I am sorry. I should go. I am tired.”

He walked her to the tapestry, pulling it aside again and holding it for her. “Thank you. I am glad you are here, Guinevere.”

“Me, too,” she whispered, surprised to find how much she meant it. And surprised by how much she wished she had told him her name after all.

As the door closed behind her, leaving her holding a candle in the dark passageway, she closed her eyes and leaned close to the flickering light. She whispered her name directly into the flame.

And then she blew it out.

In the palace of the capital of China, there ruled a Sultan.”
“There are no sultans in China!” This declaration came from a salt merchant with plump cheeks. As he spoke he flung up his arm, spilling wine onto the scarlet silk sleeve of his robe.
...
Hamza was the sole figure on the covered outdoor stage. In front of him, tiered rows of potted camellias burst with pink and red petals. The roof above him was supported by lacquered blue columns. From the courtyard tables where the audience sat, it was just possible to glimpse the back wall of the stage, across which mosaic dragons, whiskered and serpentine, stretched from floor to ceiling. They grinned and spread their claws, appearing in the flickering light to float in weightless revelry behind the seated figure of the storyteller.
He was dressed in gold and crimson, and a turquoise coat embroidered with flowers. A dark jewel suspended from a blue cap glinted on his forehead. His black beard was sculpted and sleek, and his eyes were in deep shadow. The only indication that he was cold was the faint cloud of his breath as he spoke into the chilly night.
“Allow me to clarify,” he said. “I am not speaking of this China. This China is in the thrice tenth world. The story I am going to tell now takes place in the thrice seventh world, where there exists another China. I once met a blind fortune-teller who knew the way to that land. She told me of the peach trees that blossom in the morning and bear fruit the same evening. She also told me that in that place, the rivers are made of tiny jewels that tumble over each other until they chip away to nothing and fill the air with rainbow mists. The mountains in that world are lodestones that draw nails from the hulls of sinking ships and wear them like bristling armor.”

In the palace of the capital of China, there ruled a Sultan.”
“There are no sultans in China!” This declaration came from a salt merchant with plump cheeks. As he spoke he flung up his arm, spilling wine onto the scarlet silk sleeve of his robe.
...
Hamza was the sole figure on the covered outdoor stage. ... He was dressed in gold and crimson, and a turquoise coat embroidered with flowers. A dark jewel suspended from a blue cap glinted on his forehead. His black beard was sculpted and sleek, and his eyes were in deep shadow. The only indication that he was cold was the faint cloud of his breath as he spoke into the chilly night.
“Allow me to clarify,” he said. “I am not speaking of this China. This China is in the thrice tenth world. The story I am going to tell now takes place in the thrice seventh world, where there exists another China. I once met a blind fortune-teller who knew the way to that land. She told me of the peach trees that blossom in the morning and bear fruit the same evening. She also told me that in that place, the rivers are made of tiny jewels that tumble over each other until they chip away to nothing and fill the air with rainbow mists. The mountains in that world are lodestones that draw nails from the hulls of sinking ships and wear them like bristling armor.”

'You remember that hairdresser I was telling you about?'
'Ah - the one who you thought was blackmailing his customers ...'
'I think he's dead.'
'Oh Aggie, not another one!'
'I'm afraid so - some women have the power to drive men wild; I have a gift for making them drop down dead.'

'I'm going in alone.'
'Alright then, I'll go to the police station and tell Bill Wong!'
'James ... when did you go from being the naughty boy in the tuck shop to the boring head prefect?'
'I think it was when I grew up!'

He paused. Was that... flirtatious? Was he flirting? But neither of them was speaking of dancing here. This was a metaphor, and Hart was hardly likely to be found at a party anyway. Besides, this was a letter to a person he never intended to meet. That was the beauty of it. He could be completely honest with someone who would never see him, never know him in reality.

There and then, he decided that he would never again cross something out or start over. He wouldn't censor himself. He would be exactly who he was.

He wrote the letter and folded it into fourths, making a mental note to buy envelopes the next time he resupplied. Because there would be more letters. He was certain of it.

Once the lanterns were put out, Hart lay on his back, staring at the night sky, at the stars that had once been gods. He couldn't sleep, and he didn't want to. He listened to Duckers's baby-soft snores, and in his mind, he read the words of his friend's letter over and over again.

For the first time in a long, long while, he wasn't alone.

Gabriel snorted. “The peerage likes to do just enough to think they‘re helping without inconveniencing themselves. What‘s in fashion moves fast, and it‘s easier to donate clothes you wouldn‘t be caught dead in after a season than it is to keep them in storage.”
Her brow arched. There was a low poison in Gabriel‘s voice, made more potent by the way he tried to hide it. “You seem to know the court well.”
A long pause. Gabriel shifted uncomfortably, his impressive shoulders inching toward his ears. “Better than I‘d like,” he said finally.

After that, entirely by accident, they ended up in a library.
The Citadel was a study in opulence, dripping excess in every corner, but this was the room that really made Lore‘s jaw drop. The library had three levels, all of them visible from the bottom floor—balconies ringed the walls, accessible by small, polished-wood staircases set into the shelves. All three levels were filled to bursting with books, glowing in the gentle light through the solarium window above. Small chairs upholstered in brocade were grouped in various places on all levels, ready-made reading nooks that held no readers.
“There‘s got to be buckets of gold in here,” Lore breathed. “Do you know how expensive books are?”
“I do.” A scowl darkened Gabe‘s face. “All that money, and hardly anyone here reads.”
“No one, really? What a waste.”

Gabriel snorted. “The peerage likes to do just enough to think they‘re helping without inconveniencing themselves. What‘s in fashion moves fast, and it‘s easier to donate clothes you wouldn‘t be caught dead in after a season than it is to keep them in storage.”
Her brow arched. There was a low poison in Gabriel‘s voice, made more potent by the way he tried to hide it. “You seem to know the court well.”
A long pause. Gabriel shifted uncomfortably, his impressive shoulders inching toward his ears. “Better than I‘d like,” he said finally.

After that, entirely by accident, they ended up in a library.
The Citadel was a study in opulence, dripping excess in every corner, but this was the room that really made Lore‘s jaw drop. The library had three levels, all of them visible from the bottom floor—balconies ringed the walls, accessible by small, polished-wood staircases set into the shelves. All three levels were filled to bursting with books, glowing in the gentle light through the solarium window above. Small chairs upholstered in brocade were grouped in various places on all levels, ready-made reading nooks that held no readers.
“There‘s got to be buckets of gold in here,” Lore breathed. “Do you know how expensive books are?”
“I do.” A scowl darkened Gabe‘s face. “All that money, and hardly anyone here reads.”
“No one, really? What a waste.”

Anton‘s bright eyes tracked to Lore and the Night Priestess. “I‘m still owed a village,” he said, almost irritated, as if he didn‘t have a knife to his throat.

"He's attractive but has a brooding vibe." She put it in Nana Jo context:
"Think Mr. Darcy, but without the lovely proclamations. He called me average, didn't hold the elevator, speaks with less emotional fluency than the Alexa in your kitchen, and doesn't know a thing about parking lot etiquette."

Fizzy held up a hand. "They're typ - Oh." Her brows furrowed. "Okay, you're right. This is weird." She handed the phone back, and Jess's stomach twisted as she read the note. Do you mind coming in? it said.
We'll send a car

Juno growled, collapsing onto the couch. Jess walked over and sat down, drawing her in for a cuddle.
She was seven but small; she still had baby hands with dimples on the knuckles and smelled like baby shampoo and the woody fiber of books. When Juno wrapped her small arms around Jess's neck, she breathed the little girl in.

Juno growled, collapsing onto the couch. Jess walked over and sat down, drawing her in for a cuddle.
She was seven but small; she still had baby hands with dimples on the knuckles and smelled like baby shampoo and the woody fiber of books. When Juno wrapped her small arms around Jess's neck, she breathed the little girl in.

Fizzy held up a hand. "They're typ - Oh." Her brows furrowed. "Okay, you're right. This is weird." She handed the phone back, and Jess's stomach twisted as she read the note. Do you mind coming in? it said.
We'll send a car

"He's attractive but has a brooding vibe." She put it in Nana Jo context:
"Think Mr. Darcy, but without the lovely proclamations. He called me average, didn't hold the elevator, speaks with less emotional fluency than the Alexa in your kitchen, and doesn't know a thing about parking lot etiquette."