T. Kingfisher’s latest book is a Regency(ish)-era fantasy in a world of stately mansions, butlers and ladies maids, hunting parties and society balls, best-selling books on how to have impeccable manners and, yes, magic.
But not much magic, at least according to the general populace. Sure, there are the occasional stories about someone being a little too good at cards, or a delicious scandal when the bride’s hair color changes in the middle of the wedding ceremony because a glamour spell can’t survive in a church no matter how much you paid for it. But all of that is minor enough that most people can dismiss it as superstition.
Claudia, however, is not most people. At fourteen years old she could tell people about her mother’s magical abilities. Except that her mother has ways to make Claudia obedient, and Claudia knows what her mother is capable of.
There is nothing that I can do to stop my mother from killing anyone who gets in her way.
It isn’t easy, growing up as the child of an unwed mother who holds a grudge against the entire world for her situation, including her daughter. Claudia’s childhood is about as bad as it can get, because her mother Evangeline is a horrible person who doesn’t even know that caring about other people is a concept that exists, and who can magically take control of someone and force them to do things. Things like sit motionless for hours as a punishment for imagined rudeness. Or talk brightly and cheerfully to doting strangers who don’t realize the child they’re talking to is screaming inside and being controlled by someone who’s forgotten to let them drink anything all day.
Claudia’s life is a litany of things that are not allowed. No friendships, no being angry or sad, no mistakes, no secrets. There aren’t even any doors inside their house, because privacy is for people who are hiding something. And the thing that makes me want to add a trigger warning for anyone who’s been in an abusive, controlling relationship is how skillfully Kingfisher writes Claudia’s realization that she will never be perfect enough. Even though Evangeline has the narcissist’s dream of being able to step inside her daughter’s body and make her do everything right, an abuser doesn’t actually want perfection. All they really want is a tool, and a target. Claudia will never feel safe for the rest of her life because assuming the worst and lashing out in a rage is simply how Evangeline moves through the world.
Evangeline’s plan to improve their situation by seducing a wealthy country squire gives Claudia two things: more potential casualties and, for the first time in her life, allies.
All of T. Kingfisher’s books, even the horror books (actually especially the horror books) have these really appealing elements of whimsy. The whimsy here starts with Hester, the middle-aged sister of a middle-aged Squire, Samuel. In no particular order Hester is a former goose-breeder, current kindhearted curmudgeon with bad knees, and definitely not still in love with her former flame, of course not, who has time for that, she’d never inflict something so silly on him, and also how dare you. Hester rolls her eyes when her brother falls head over heels in love, again. Her irritation that Evangeline – who she refers to as “Doom” in her head – might actually convince her brother to marry someone quickly turns to dread when she realizes that Doom’s daughter isn’t just shy, she’s terrified. Before long Hester arranges to bring in several longtime friends to thwart Doom’s plans. And while they’re at it they definitely need to rescue Claudia.
“She looks like a horse that’s been beaten so often that it doesn’t know what is expected of it any longer. And who doesn’t expect that to ever change.”
Hester’s friends embody some of the things I love about Kingfisher’s writing. They’re all loyal and very snarky (I adore how Kingfisher writes dialog), old enough to not care much for what society thinks, and young enough to get up to trouble (said trouble usually being scandalous affairs for the unmarried ones, card games and servant gossip for the married or otherwise uninterested in romantic entanglements, and secret flasks of liquor for everyone. Best of all, they care about Claudia and welcome her into the fun of things like embroidery evenings, or horse rides where the topic of conversation is trying to think up the most outrageous names for whatever bird is making that sound.
In fact, everyone who comes into Claudia’s life is genuinely nice. The butler never tries to make her feel stupid for thanking him for things, the maids don’t scold her for offering to help clean things, Hester surreptitiously points her to the right silverware so she doesn’t get embarrassed by using the wrong fork at dinner. Even Squire Samuel still occasionally proves that he’s a genuinely good person who tries to make sure Claudia and Hester are cared for, when he’s not being befuddled by Claudia’s mother. It’s less likely that the reader will be overwhelmed by the terror that drives Claudia to sleep in a corner of a wardrobe when it’s balanced out by the kindness and humor of her ladies maid gently pretending that this isn’t at all weird.
(Alice the ladies maid has got to be one of my favorites of the servants. She’s up on all of the gossip about who’s “stepping out” with whom, manages to give Claudia the first moments of comfort she’s had in years (Kingfisher always makes sure her characters get a nice bath at some point), and instinctively knows who she can trust when it comes to saying awful things about dangerous people.)
Alice snorted. “Her mother’s a fair piece of work, if you’ll forgive me speaking so bold, ma’am.”
“If anyone asks, I had very harsh words with you about speaking so of your betters and so forth.” Hester waved her hand.
“I was quaking in my boots, ma’am.”
I really love when an author creates a new fantasy world with it’s own rules about magic. There’s a little bit of history and folklore and superstition mixed in with everything, so the main characters have to try to figure out what’s happening, how it’s being done, and how they can make it stop. And they’re in a race now, because Evangeline’s plans would be bad for everyone even if she didn’t have access to sorcery. I’m not sure how Kingfisher managed it, but the secret sorceress becomes steadily worse throughout the book, and the more ruthless she becomes, the more horrifying the imagery as she cares less and less about who gets eaten by the worst of her spells. If she ever cared in the first place.
Final note: this book, like a lot of Kingfisher’s fantasies, is based on an existing fairy tale. And I’m kicking myself for not recognizing which one until like eighty-five percent of the way through. Not knowing doesn’t affect how much I enjoyed the book, but for crying out loud, the clues were right there.