The plot’s pretty simple: Vulcan is having a debate over whether to stay in the Federation or leave it. Spock, Kirk, and McCoy have been called to Vulcan to assist in the debates on the side of staying in the Federation (obviously) but Sarek, Spock’s father and the Vulcan Ambassador to the Federation/Earth, is called to speak on the side of withdrawing from the Federation.

For fanpoodles of the new movie, please remember that because this is based on ST:TOS, Vulcan is intact, Amanda is still alive, Spock isn’t dating Uhura, and other random things one may not know about due to insufficient exposition to TOS prior to the reboot. However, there are funny bits if one is aware of the developments in canon post-1988(this book’s publication date). Sarek’s age was a bit off; the discussion of First Contact (between the Vulcans and Terrans) bears no relation to the movie First Contact; there’s some stuff in ENT about when the Surakian Vulcans came into control that, well, didn’t happen; and no one was quite sure what Dr. McCoy’s middle name is. (Fans found out in the sixth Star Trek movie that his middle initial was H.; canon doesn’t have an actual full version for it, but it sure isn’t Edward. Memory Beta says it’s Horatio, which is pretty much as bad as Tiberius. At least it’s pronounceable.)

Half the book, though, isn’t about Our Heroes and their debate, although the debate is reasonably lively and interesting. The alternate chapters are the Michener-like description of the entire history of the planet and sociology of Vulcan — well, confined to about 100 pages. At the beginning, it’s pretty slow, especially for those who aren’t huge fans of the Clan of the Cave Bear-like settings. (Like me.) Towards the end of the interludes, though, as the debate is heating up, we get things we recognize: Surak, the founder of the dominant school of Vulcan thought by the 23rd century, and Sarek and Amanda’s love story, which is particularly nice to see,

Ms. Duane’s conception of Amanda is, thanks to the time difference between when Spock’s mom first showed up (the late ’60s) and when the book was being written, significantly more interesting. In the TV show, she was a schoolteacher — but, well, really, how does a schoolteacher become an ambassador’s wife? Well, by not really being a schoolteacher; in this novel, she was one of the most important researchers for the Universal Translator working with the Vulcan language.

Of all the characters in the story, James T. Kirk is easily the least interesting. Despite his xenophobia (well-documented in TOS), it’s Dr. McCoy who shines in this story, with his dedication to the cause, lively debate, and zingers. Kirk mostly seems to be an adjunct to fill the gap between Spock and McCoy. Spock, of course, is the titular character and quite active, but he seems to be more useful as a symbol than anything else. He is one of the bridges between the two worlds, being half Vulcan and half Terran. He’s also . . . well, something more important, but then we’re getting into true spoiler territory.

Overall, I’d recommend it, if one is only going to read on Star Trek book. (What a coincidence — I’ve only read one Star Trek book.) It’s fairly well-written, although I’d avoid it if one doesn’t like long, philosophical narration (not data dumps) and a lot of historical data. Clearly, if one isn’t at all interested in the history of Vulcan, this won’t be terribly interesting. If one is looking for something more like an actual episode of TOS, with phaser fights and Tholian webs and Kirk seducing the green chick, this is not that book. The main conceit is a debate. (Fittingly, the friend who recommended it to me is the person with whom I coach middle-schoolers in debate.) Debates, while probably rousing in person, don’t make for high-action stories. And yet I liked it quite a bit and feel confident in recommending it. The audio book was read by Leonard Nimoy himself, in case one prefers those. 4.5/5 stars.

(1) ST:TNG = Star Trek: The Next Generation, and ST:TOS is Star Trek: The Original Series. DS9 is Deep Space 9; VOY is Voyager, and ENT is Enterprise, in case anyone cares and didn’t already figure it out.

There are a handful of publishers and authors who send me books for free. Generally, if I’m reading something from a small press, it was sent to me for free. Also, I’ll be notating if I received a book free in the future.

The rest of the books I review I, well, probably get from a library, buy used, or (very rarely) get for full price. I don’t have enough disposable income to buy three or five books a week new. I try to make up for the fact that authors don’t usually make royalties off of me by posting reviews.

Oh, and no one ever pays me for review content. Ever. That’s immoral. I will, occasionally, choose not to review a book that I’ve been sent due to, well, not being able to say anything at all nice about it, but I can only think of a couple instances of that in the two and some years I’ve been doing this.

In three weeks, I’ll be on Xmas break, so look for a pile of reviews then.

I’m cutting plot discussion, just in case Dalziel’s identity isn’t known to those reading this review. Royce Varisey, commonly known as Dalziel, was merely his father’s heir when he disobeyed the pater’s wishes and went into the service, in some sort (as a spymaster). Now his father has died, and Royce is now the duke of a giant marcher duchy, up near the border of Scotland. Not only does he not have any closure, but before the funeral is even over, the grandes dames in the ton have decided that he must be married ASAP. Oh, and the last conspirator in the giant web of Napoleonic agents that he’s spent the last few years ferreting out is still on the loose. Can his life possibly get any more complicated? — Oh yes. Enter his obliviously perfect chatelaine . . .

Stephanie Laurens’s heroes are almost identical, and her heroines generally get the same cavalier treatment. Her heroes are always unreasonably large (men that tall aren’t terribly common today, let alone nearly two hundred years ago), super-alpha, and usually desperate for land and family. The ones who already had land are very, very possessive about it. As a matter of fact, they’re generally possessive about everything, especially their potential wives. As strong as those last few lines are, they’re really an understatement. What it comes down to is that these men are sort of vaguely-civilzed versions of Genghis Khan, although, of course, they’re so much better-looking and phenomenal in bed and they occasionally have a thought about the idea of consent. Royce Varisey is no exception to this rule, although he’s got a good set of Daddy Issues that they don’t all have.

The women are usually feisty, or at least stubborn, and very smart and generally above polite society in so many ways. Minerva Chesterton has been running a giant duchy for quite a few years, even if most of it is managing the duke, and she is, of course, in most ways a match for Royce. But not QUITE a match: she, of course, succumbs to her charms, even though she is completely untouched and has never found a man other than him she has ever even found remotely attractive. (Did I mention that she’s known him nearly her entire life?) I should mention here that Stephanie Laurens is also guilty of the ‘virgin widow’ trope, although not in this volume. (Given, she explained it almost adequately, but still.)

I think the worst part about this is that I KEEP READING HER NOVELS. I really LIKE the Stephanie Laurens novel, since it’s the same one written over and over. My favorites — please keep in mind that I read the first eleven or so in a very short period of time, so there wasn’t the time-lapse fatigue — are the first Bar Cynster novel, Devil’s Bride, and the twelfth volume, The Truth About Love (the hero is the brother of the heroine of the second novel). What I think is so addicting about them is the level of overwrought passion, and the well-described and copious sex. It’s really a heck of a lot of fun, especially in small doses — say, two books a year.

The Bastion Club books are, in general, not as good as the Cynster books, but this is a relatively common example of Stephanie Laurens’s style and subject matter. Royce is actually a little too close to ignoring the concept of consent for my tastes; other heroes are at least more subtle about their domineering, or in the case of Devil and Honoria, better matched. The idea that one good shagging will cause a heroine to be inextricably entwined with the hero bothers me, and in this volume, it’s a bit too blatant for my tastes. Readers who loooooove alpha heroes with every ounce of their souls will find Royce quite appealing, and those who want the cap to the Bastion Club novels will definitely find closure here (even if it is a bit trivial, after all that buildup). If Devil’s Bride is a five-star Stephanie Laurens book (not an absolute five-star book; it’s maybe 3.5/5 stars overall), then this is probably more like a 3.5/5 or 4/5 star Stephanie Laurens book which — and my math is really sketchy — means it’s about a 2.75 or 3/5 star book overall. Again, though, it’s essentially a ‘if you like these, you’ll like this one’ type of book, and I do recommend it for those who are addicted. Not a good place to start, though: try the aforementioned Captain Jack’s Woman (the prelude to the Bastion Club series) or Devil’s Bride (first book in the Cynster series).

At the ends of their wits, one day three young women become frustrated with the general quality of the young, eligible men in the ton, and determine to teach three of them — one each — lessons. In The Rake, the first volume, Lady Georgianna Halley decides to instruct Tristan Carroway, Viscount Dare, with whom she has had an adversarial relationship for the last eight years. Of course, their adversarial relationship is masking the fact that there’s a deep attraction there. A year or so later, Lucinda Barrett, the last of the three friends, realizing that the other two ended up marrying the objects of their lessons (oh, come on, not a spoiler), chooses Lord Geoffrey Newcombe. Lord Geoffrey, aside from being handsome, is safe and her father, General Barrett, likes him. Unfortunately, Robert Carroway, Tristan’s younger brother, has sort of gotten in the way . . .

I very much enjoy The Rake, because it is the best possible use of the Big Mis(understanding) plot. It’s not annoyingly offensive in the way that most Big Mis plots are. The entire issue of Georgianna trusting Tristan couldn’t actually be resolved by one conversation, although they do have that conversation well before the end of the story. A normal Big Mis plot, of course, uses some sort of stupid idea — like the heroine thinks the hero is poor (see On a Wicked Dawn, Stephanie Laurens) and agrees to marry him because of that. (Something that is generally rather easily resolved, unless there’s a series of misunderstandings based on that, or a time-lapse issue.) Not so with this one.

England’s Perfect Hero is rather well-known throughout the romance-novel world for being the best discussion of post-traumatic stress disorder in a romance novel, ever. Even in the first book, it’s pretty obvious to those who know something of the symptoms of PTSD that Robert suffers from it, due to his experiences in the Napoleonic Wars. Unlike other romance novels with PTSD characters, especially historical ones, this one doesn’t magically heal Robert twenty pages in so that he can get to Lucinda. He isn’t really even healed by the end of the book, although he is significantly better. He struggles, though, on nearly every page, and Lucinda’s love isn’t the Magical Healing Device(TM) that it can be in so many other novels.

This volume is pretty much my favorite romance novel of all time. As a matter of fact, I have three copies of it at present. I understand this book has issues; apparently there’s some stuff with the horses that isn’t terribly realistic. But, more than many other books, for Robert, there are actual consequences to his actions. He dances all evening, after having not danced for years (and having a knee blown out), he cannot walk for the next few days. He forces down panic attacks, and they build up to a later, larger one. (Most of that happens off the page, though.) He disappears and comes home late, on more than one occasion, and his littlest brother Edward is mad at him. (Or all of his brothers.) Robert is cool to Lucinda one day, and she merely leaves.

The characters, who are generally the same between the two books, are outstanding. Robert has one quite useful scene in The Rake that sets up his story in the third volume (and the idea that he can even be a romance novel hero, despite his tortured past). I can’t remember if I actually read vol. 3 before vol. 1, because I think I read them originally in 2005, but it seems likely, based on my vaguely-remembered reaction to Robert’s appearance in the first volume. (In other words, don’t overlook him.) I love all three of the heroines — Georgiana, the highest-born, most outspoken, and the one with the most to hide; Evie, the still waters that run deep; and Lucinda, the calmest and most organized one. Their personalities — which are even developed back as far as the mostly-shared prologue to each volume — definintely influence their stories (in other words, these are not interchangeable heroines) and their choices of mates.

There are some minor characters, like Tristan and Robert’s brother Bradshaw and Lucinda’s father General Barrett, who are outstanding as well. I rather enjoyed every moment that they appear on stage in both volumes. Bradshaw is rather not as exemplary as his brothers; I can’t see that she ever gave him a short story or anything, so he remains a rogue with some suspect taste. It’s nice to see men of good family who are actually sort of mixed, as opposed to both Tristan and Robert who had to be at least partially reformed (good intentions at the very least) at some point.

Overall, these two (and, of course, the intermediary volume, my copy of which is 750 miles away and not recently re-read) come highly recommended, and I would actually suggest that they form a good introduction to Regency-era historical romance. 4/5 stars for The Rake, and 5/5 for England’s Perfect Hero.

This is, as the introductory note says, Julia Quinn’s marriage-of-convenience story. Two weeks before his time runs out, Charles, Earl of Billingsley, falls out of a tree onto Miss Ellie Lyndon, the sister of Miss Victoria Lyndon and a vicar’s daughter. Due to some vague attraction and the determination that she might not be so bad to be married to, he explains the situation — if he doesn’t marry in the next two weeks, he loses all of the monetary portion of his inheritance. Ellie understands this, being that she’s in her own monetary difficulties — she’s been investing her pocket money and cannot get to it. (Also, there’s an Evil Stepmother involved.) So they have a go of it. Will it work?

Jane at Dear Author did a pretty good job of explaining why this plot is absolute bunk, which I can’t find, but I’ll send her an email and update this if I do. She’s a lawyer, and should know. However, the whole must-marry-to-save-inheritance, generally due to some weird clause in a father’s will, is a pretty common one — and for good reason. It’s one of the few ways to force a marriage of convenience in this particular society. (Although it can be said that most marriages during the time were marriages of convenience, I’m not going to make that argument today.) And, of course, marriage-of-convenience plots are really a lot of fun and quite compelling, despite the essential disconnect between what can happen and what did happen, and this one is no exception.

Charles isn’t quite as attractive a hero as his friend the Earl of Macclesfield (Robert); however, that may be my own personal biases showing. Charles is a bit of a playboy; as a matter of fact, that precise piece of information causes one of the misunderstandings in the course of their story. The Earl of Macclesfield is (while undoubtedly also a rake; this is Regency England, after all) a bit of a nerd, as well, and seems more genuine to me. Charles, though, has more of a sense of humor, and the fact that he loves Ellie does sneak up on him in quite a bewildering and appealing fashion.

Ellie is stubborn and really spends a lot of the book having people not believe in her. I found frustrating, a bit, but pretty realistic, given the circumstances. Ellie’s lack of power frustrates her to no end, and I liked seeing her struggle, even though I wanted the best for her and wanted her to find her happy ending. All in all, it’s really quite a delightful little tale. It’s not particularly possessed of any sort of deep insights, or particularly deep currents of emotion, but I wouldn’t say that detracts from its eminent readability or a reader’s enjoyment. The characters are sweet; the tale is pleasant, and I believe it’s exactly what it purports to be. 4/5 stars.

*I tried. I forgot Colin Bridgerton and Penelope’s volume’s title (which turns out to be Romancing Mr. Bridgerton). Also, I can’t remember Daphne Bridgeron’s husband’s name. Other than those, though, I was spot-on. *sigh* Other than that, I got ‘em all. Sad, huh?

The Enchantment Emporium is set in a new universe, just a bit removed from our own (or maybe it IS our own) where there’s a family of powerful women, surnamed Gale, who nudge the universe around by immense personal ability. Alysha Catherine Gale (Allie), our heroine, is twenty-four, jobless, and single when her grandmother (the family’s black sheep) gives her a store to run — the eponymous Enchantment Emporium. However, that means moving away from the family, out to Calgary. Obviously they can come visit, but apparently everyone is too busy actually to come with her. And then the strange things start happening — a tabloid reporter (very attractive, by the way) comes by, dragons start flying over the store, and faerie beings start showing up. What has Gran gotten Allie into?

The print on this book is different from most of the previous Tanya Huff books I’ve read — it’s finer and situated differently. I don’t know why this caused me to go into the book with a bit of trepidation, but it did. I wasn’t expecting it to be, well, so precisely Tanya Huff, but fortunately, it was. The magic structure reminded me a bit of the Keeper books, what with Aunts and Cousins all over the place, but other than similar terminology (and ontology), it was (I believe) distinct. Here we have a single family, albeit incredibly extensive (everyone seems to have tons of siblings) that, well, tends to intermarry (although the aunts make sure that they’re second cousins or more) and keep the same surname. In the Keeper books, none of that was necessarily true — I think there were many different families.

Once we get past the family and its first wacky set of family members, we get to Calgary and its wacky set of inhabitants. There’s a leprechaun (a bit tall for one, really), a few Faeries (one who lives in the river), some incredibly attractive and incredibly dangerous dragons, a wizard or two (all wizards are evil, by the way), and a tabloid reporter. Believe me when I say that the tabloid reporter isn’t quite the most normal member of the batch. Tanya Huff has always been good at creating believable but
entirely unbelievable characters, if that makes any sense. Perhaps it’s more that I wish I lived in a world where the Aunties exist, where ritual magic can change the world, and where there are shapeshifting dragons who may or may not eat people.

Overall, the book is definitely going to appeal to fans of Tanya Huff’s work, and probably fans of other funny urban/contemporary fantasy authors. Those who like, obviously, strong characters and exciting magical showdowns will like this; those who are really invested in complicated mystery plots probably will figure out what’s happening well before the end, but the ride is great. The ending is somewhat deus ex machina-esque — okay, very deus ex machina-esque — but it’s forgivable, given the circumstances that precede it. I’m looking forward to see if Ms. Huff ever writes more in this world, although the volume
definitely stands alone. 4/5 stars.

Verity Durand is the most famous — and infamous — chef in England. Famous, because her food makes angels weep and grown men slaver; infamous because, well, she had an affair with her last employer, Bertie Somerset. Of course, Mr. Somerset has since died and his younger half-brother, Stuart, has inherited the entire place, including Verity’s services — as a chef, of course. Stuart Somerset is a politician; originally a barrister, he’s now an MP and holds the ear of the Prime Minister; he works twenty-four hour days trying to get bills past. He rarely has time to eat, let alone enjoy his food. Oh, and he’s engaged to a Miss Lizzy Bessler. However, ten years ago, he had one amazing night with a lady he’s never seen since, despite searching. Only a totally crazy situation would throw them back together . . . wouldn’t it?

I keep forgetting that Sherry Thomas is about the best historical-romance writer out there. I continually read good-enough historical romance (see: unfortunate taste for Stephanie Laurens novels) where the men are homogenized to the point where they’re all heavily dominantly Alpha under all circumstances. The women, to match, are exactly feisty enough to be attractive but, of course, completely submissive in bed for absolutely no reason. The plots generally have some sort of random mystery thrown in just to provoke a confession of love at the point where either the hero or the heroine is about to die. This novel reminded me that there’s more than just that.

To start, her prose is on a level all its own. I can’t pinpoint the differences, but when I read it, I immediately knew the difference between ‘adequate’ and ‘good,’ or even ‘good’ and ‘exemplary.’ The book starts with a comparison to a Cinderella tale (pointing out that the narrator/author is self-aware) and then goes on to a description of a kitchen, which nonetheless kept me rapt. (For those interested, the opening can be found here.) Her structuring, with time jumps between 1882 and 1892 (1892 being ‘the present’ for the story), was quite well-orchestrated, and I never felt as if she left part of the story hanging unintentionally or improperly. The way she chose to unfold all the details of the story made it feel as if there was a real mystery (without the amateur sleuthing of the more recent Stephanie Laurens tales). While the ‘mystery’ had a lot of importance to the lovers involved, it didn’t have much impact on society or the greater world (even bringing a murderer to justice is an impact on society), and I felt it was the sort of ‘mystery’ plot that amplified the emotion, rather than just providing a convenient excuse for actions.

Her characters are — different. Yes, of course, there’s the requisite members of the nobility (duchesses and whatnot), but Bertie Somerset is merely a fairly well-off country gentleman (no title), and his brother is a barrister, having been born out of wedlock but later legitimized. (That’s not much of a spoiler.) Verity Durant has been a cook for years — an upper servant, sure, but that’s all. While we are talking about the late Victorian era — 1892, after all — I don’t particularly remember too many historical romances about almost ordinary people. (Although that’s a very big ‘almost.’) Also, Stuart is not terribly alpha male. Certainly he stands up for that in which he believes, but he’s, well, a nerd. I thought he was fantastic.

The story is very intensely emotional, but a smidge lighter than Private Arrangements. It isn’t all sweetness and light by any means; there are a lot of thorny patches on the way to the happily-ever-after. (Readers will, I trust, forgive my mixing of fairy tales.) The emotion, though, was another factor that kept my attention steadily in the story. Most romance novels manage to keep my interest, usually by the will-they-obviously-yes-but-when line of the emotion, but in this one, it wasn’t so much that as the sheer quantity and depth of the many different kinds of love shown in the story. Overall, I’d definitely recommend this to fans of historical romance, and those who haven’t read much but are willing to be convinced. Be warned, though: most of what you find won’t be nearly this good. 5/5 stars.

Here’s the general setup of the series: We have Anita Blake, the short, assertive, overly-weaponed necromancer (zombie-raiser)/vampire hunter. More under the cut, actually, in case there’s a person left in the world who hasn’t read these books who wants to. Anyway, Anita’s up to something like five or six permanent boyfriends and another dozen rotating ones. The permanent ones include Jean-Claude, Master of the City of St. Louis (i.e., head vampire); Micah, the other head of the wereleopard pack; Nathaniel, another wereleopard; Asher, Jean-Claude’s second-in-command (another vampire); Damian, Anita’s pet vampire (a long story, found in another volume), and, maybe, Richard, the head of the werewolf pack. She now carries about five different strains of lycanthropy, even though she doesn’t shift shapes, and in addition to being the lupa (sort of) of the werewolf pack (and the Bolverk), she’s the queen of the leopards. She’s also arguably got some vampire powers, being that she has managed to ‘inherit’ Jean-Claude’s ardeur, the need to/ability to feed off of sex the way that most vampires feed off of blood. (i.e., she’s arguably a succubus, but not as cool as Georgina.) Because of that, she can make men become addicted to her. She still occasionally hunts things.

So in the current volume, Anita has decided to pretend to be Jason’s girlfriend while Jason goes to visit his dying father. (Jason is one of the rotating boyfriends; also generally just a friend of Anita’s since book 3.) Jason’s family is dead convinced that he’s gay, despite legions of ex-girlfriends, and apparently the presence of a girlfriend might ease the father’s passing. However, everything goes pear-shaped because Jason looks almost exactly like the governor’s son — who is getting married this weekend. Apparently the idea that said governor’s son (named Keith) could be spending time with a pretty brunette instead of his blond fiancee isn’t too far off of reality, and the media gets involved . . . and then Marmee Noir, the biggest, baddest, oldest vampire of ‘em all gets involved . . .

The disputed volume in the series is Micah, which came between volumes 12 and 13. At one point, Ms. Hamilton was going to write shorter novels, exploring the relationships between Anita and each of the individual males she’s shacking up with. I think the genesis of this plot was actually Jason’s volume, because, well, she does all she can to get Anita and Jason isolated — in North Carolina, even. (I’ve been there; it really is that pretty, but I don’t remember it being quite that messed up.) She may have changed the ending in order to get in stuff that’s relevant to the overarching plot of the series (such as it is), but basically, this is Jason and Anita and some talk therapy.

It’s sort of become the fashion to bash the Anita Blake books for having too much sex and too little plot, and while there wasn’t much plot in this volume, there really wasn’t much sex, either. Oh, enough, certainly, in terms of number of sex acts had over the course of the three or four days the book spans (I lost count), but most of them are barely described. Nothing like the 14-page epic sex scenes dating as far back as The Killing Dance (vol. 6). I like the mysteries, when they’re real mysteries, and Anita really didn’t have any investigating to do in this book. There was a moderate amount of danger, but if the book has almost no mystery plot and barely any sex, what’s left? Anita chatting with Jason about their respective screwed-up childhoods?

Another flaw of the last few volumes is Ms. Hamilton’s need to find greater and greater dangers. In the third volume (Circus of the Damned), we met and killed the world’s oldest vampire. Apparently she didn’t think about that one too hard, because now we’ve got the Mother of All Vampires, who may or may not be older than the previous guy, but is definitely scarier. This need to find something scarier and scarier in each book is causing her world-building to get more and more unwieldy, as she stretches certain points in order to put Anita in more and more danger. Of course, the more danger Anita gets into, the greater her powers have to be in order to handle that danger, and that’s why Anita apparently joined the Power of the Month club. (No, I didn’t originate that phrase. I can’t remember who did, though. Sorry.) In this book, she grabbed another animal to call and discovered that because of a combination of powers she already had, she’s even more powerful. I’d yawn, but it’s too tedious even for that.

Also, and this is a comparatively tiny nitpick, there’s a really, really simple explanation as to why Jason’s family thinks he’s gay, but she never used it. She did tell us that his sister swore she saw him having sex with another man, but he tells us he was somewhere else. So who did the sister see? Oh, well, the answer’s sort of there between the lines, but she never states it. It sort of felt like a loose end to me.

Why do I keep reading these books? Heck, until Blood Noir, I was BUYING them, in nice expensive hardbacks. Well, it’s because they’re addicting. Anita’s love life, and frankly even her professional life, is a trainwreck, but you can’t look away. Ms. Hamilton’s somewhat choppy writing style just sucks readers in, as if they haven’t left the world for over a year (as I did). The sex, when it’s present and Ms. Hamilton is writing in full form, is hot. It really is. It’s almost as euphemistic as romance novels and sometimes involves numbers and combinations and scenarios that might push the boundaries for some readers, but it’s still hot. Her characters are compulsively interesting, even if they’re all unnaturally beautiful and their flaws are of the sort that make you think they’re even more perfect. Anita has a thing for hurt/comfort sort of scenarios, and all the men in her flock seem to be broodingly gorgeous with deep pools of pain in their souls. They almost make me want to write bad emo-goth poetry, but fortunately I’m not fourteen, the way I was when I read the first of these. But they’re still hot.

Anyway, if you’re sort of insanely addicted, this might provide a decent hit until you can get a copy of the latest volume, which I’ve heard has a real plot and investigating and all that stuff, but it’s absolutely not worth it if you aren’t already hooked. I’m not sure the book even deserves a rating. The series overall started at 4/5 and has devolved to maybe in the 2.5 or 3-star range. I will say, though, that the first few volumes are pretty good, but I caution against reading them because it may make you compulsively want to read the rest of them, and then you’ll smack up against Micah, for which I’d like that hour of my life and $7 back, and Incubus Dreams, which may have had a plot but I’ve forgotten in between all the sex, and this one, which, as I’ve noted above, isn’t quite plotty enough to be decent and doesn’t have enough sex to be interesting in that way.

One of my study group members (I’m in law school) was, er, less than enthralled with whatever it was we were supposed to be doing so took a moment out to look up the upcoming movies for this week. One of them was described as ‘hot Regency chastity,’ I think by the New York Times, and was clearly a costume drama, so we made plans to see it as soon as possible. Directed by Jane Campion, it starts Abbie Cornish as Fanny Brawne and Ben Whishaw as the poet John Keats.

Fanny is young — late teens or early twenties — and rather more interested in fashion than poetry when she makes the acquaintance of John Keats and his friend and collaborator, Mr. (Charles Armitage) Brown. The two come into closer acquaintance and then fall in love, despite the fact that Keats has less than no money and Fanny, whose father is dead, cannot marry him. Nonetheless, they enter into an affair of the heart, and although the world — and Keats’s health — conspire to keep them apart, they find ways to remain together.

The phrase ‘hot Regency chastity’ is pretty accurate; there’s no on-screen sex, but Fanny and John’s closed-mouth kisses are hotter than they should be — on a par with Newland Archer (Daniel Day-Lewis’s character) removing Ellen Olenska’s (Michelle Pfeiffer’s character) glove in The Age of Innocence. To give a better comparison, they’re as hot as the pottery scene in Ghost. No, really. Campion, the actors, and the scriptwriters all do a very good job of putting those scenes, especially the first, together.

Fanny’s interest in fashion isn’t superficial; she spends many a scene in the movie designing and sewing her own clothing, and it’s obvious seeing her in scenes with the other women in the film that she is wearing clothing that is significantly different from theirs. She wears more colors; she shows up in a dress with sheer sleeves at one point; she makes a statement about how she is wearing the first triple-pleated mushroom collar in the area. While some of these outfits look a little silly to modern audiences (especially modern audiences raised on the bland, albeit accurate, clothing from other BBC adaptations set in this era), by the end of the movie, Fanny’s obsession with fashion is not only accepted but interesting. Because of her rapidly-changing wardrobe, we notice a bit more that Keats pretty much wears the same blue coat for the entire film. We also notice that his friend, Mr. Brown (they take great pains to pronounce his name differently from Fanny’s) looks moderately silly in a plaid suit for nearly the entire film.

I don’t know that we’re supposed to like Fanny at first; she comes across as somewhat snobby and abrasive. Eventually we come to realize that it’s just Mr. Brown to whom she is actually mean; she’s much milder to Keats, and is downright sweet to everyone else in the movie. Keats is quiet; I think we’re supposed to see Mr. Brown as causing at least as many problems as he solves. Fanny and John’s relationship builds amazingly organically. For a story with very little plot, it (as my fellow student said) kept our interest surprisingly well for the two hours plus of the film. I wouldn’t call it my favorite example of romantic costume dramas — it would take more than an ill-fated pair of lovers to knock Andrew Davies’s Pride and Prejudice off its throne — but it is absolutely worth watching and has fantastic acting, cinematography, and costuming. 4.5/5 stars.

Nick and Alan are brothers and have been on the run from a coven of evil magicians (all magicians are evil; they feed people to demons) for a very long time now. When a classmate of Nick’s (named Jamie) gets into some possibly supernatural trouble, his sister Mae asks around and finds out that Nick and Alan are the ones to talk to. Unfortunately, of course, Nick and Alan have problems of their own; the coven is about to find them. Unfortunately, Jamie and Mae end up caught up in their drama. Just why are these magicians after Nick and Alan? And why does it seem like Alan is hiding things from his brother?

The Demon’s Lexicon is a fast-moving, exciting story; our main quartet of characters are being hunted by scary and/or unknown people for nearly the entire course of the story. There’s violence, with cars and guns and a possessed unkindness of ravens; there’s magic flying around all over the place, including a Goblin Market (no actual goblins, as far as I could tell), demon-raising via dancing, and magical pendants; and there’s a bit of romance, or perhaps just physical attraction. While most of the main characters are male, the female characters who appear are strong and feisty, but not in a stereotypical sort of way, and I especially enjoyed Mae’s “Romeo and Juliet Wouldn’t Have Lasted” t-shirt.

What I liked the most about this story was the twist. Yes. There’s a twist. I’m not going to give it away, but I have to say that it’s one of the best twists I’ve read in a while. Most of the books I’ve read recently with Big Surprise Twists at the end have either had really silly, really insulting, or really ‘where did that come from?’ twists. Obviously not everyone agrees with me, especially on Evernight, but if there’s going to be a Big Surprise Twist at the end, I don’t want one that makes me slap my forehead and say, “That was it?!” I’d like one that respects my intelligence and makes me laugh with delight, even if it’s sort of a big change to the whole world and possibly moves a book into darker territory than it had been in before. Ms. Brennan’s twist was a good one.

The characters and their interactions were another draw of the volume. Jamie’s nervous banter and Mae’s responses were priceless, and Alan’s and Nick’s combination of trying to protect the other were also quite interesting to watch. Alan has a crush on Mae, just to complicate things, but Mae is a bit more attracted to Nick than Alan (Nick has that bad-boy air, while Alan seems more like an intellectual). Jamie, of course, watches the whole triangle from the outside, and seems to find it a bit amusing. There are a few other characters — a dancer named Sin, for one — who fill in the edges, and I am looking forward to reading more about all of them in the next volume. My only complaint is that it’s too long until then. 4.5/5 stars.