蝶になって

Bad news first: Welp, adding The House In The Cerulean Sea to the list of “books that get hailed as progressive masterpieces because they tick a bunch of identity boxes and everyone is happy at the end, but they’re not actually, you know, good.”

Our protagonist (Linus) is a social worker who reviews specialty orphanages for kids from magical species. He gets sent to a particularly isolated orphanage, ends up getting personally-attached to the plucky orphans there, falls for the guy who runs the place (Arthur), and (supposedly) learns some Valuable Lessons about prejudice and acceptance along the way. The morals are announced with zero subtlety, the emotional beats are all completely predictable, and systemic social prejudice keeps getting defeated by the heroes making inspirational speeches. A few bits are genuinely charming or clever — but the rest of the book doesn’t live up to them.

An example of what I mean by predictable: Linus shows up at the orphanage, gets the initial tour, and finds out that one of the kids sleeps in Arthur’s room (iirc it was just-slightly separate, some kind of converted walk-in closet). Arthur says “it’s nothing untoward, he just has nightmares, so I comfort him.” Linus instantly accepts this with no follow-up questions. I thought “in the real world, this would be sketchy af, but Arthur is obviously the designated Wholesome Love Interest, so it’s going to be fine.” Sure enough, it never came up again.

The setting is hard to get a grip on. It’s a version of our world — the kids study the Canterbury Tales and listen to Buddy Holly — but you never get any clear details about what country they’re in, or what decade it is. Record shops are still in business; phones are still on cords, and the orphanage doesn’t have phone service at all; but Linus’s office has computers, and the country has same-sex marriage. (Homophobia never comes up as a concern at all, even when they’re specifically facing off against religious bigots.) One of the orphans is supposed to be The Antichrist(TM) — which everyone accepts as a fact, but there’s no detail on who decided this, or how they figured it out, and none of the characters ever put any thought to “how do I feel about the reveal that Christianity is Confirmed True?” (…I’m pretty sure no non-Christian religions are even mentioned. The heroes are all just vaguely secular.)

The “happy ending” is that all the orphans get cross-species adopted. (By Arthur and Linus. Arthur is magic — this is treated as a big surprise by the narrative — while Linus is human.) There’s not even an effort to reconnect them with their own cultures. There’s almost no worldbuilding about where the rest of their communities are, or how they’re integrated into society in general. Only one kid even knows an adult from her own culture, and it’s another person who lives in isolation near the orphanage.

And apparently TJ Klune was inspired by…learning about First Nations residential schools?

Look, I’m not out here saying “nobody can write a good fantasy allegory for real-world atrocities.” But, dude. Don’t take something that was part of the atrocity, and paint it as the happy fluffy ending in your allegory! It’s not enough to just read about the facts of history — you do actually have to internalize the lessons from it!

(The fact that residential schools were started by Christian missionaries, with the explicit goal of stealing children from their own cultures and either indoctrinating them or killing them, makes this book’s non-engagement with religion even more dissonant. You would think putting The Antichrist(TM) in a pseudo-residential-school would be a setup for some kind of commentary! Like “the abuses from Christians toward him and his fellow orphans, not to mention toward the gay supportive adults in his life, actively push him toward the Antichristing lifestyle,” or maybe “surprise, he was never really The Antichrist at all, that’s just a fantastical twist on the way the system demonizes non-Christian children.” But no! Nothing comes of this at all.)

I’ve heard that the sequel tries to address/fix some of this. Maybe just the part about “it’s not heartwarming to cut off the marginalized orphans from any kind of connection to their culture.” And, listen, I can believe it — it’s the kind of problem where, after the readers of the first book pointed out the wild oversight, a well-intentioned, progressive-minded author would try to revise/retcon it in the second book. (Can we call this “pulling a Becky Chambers”?)

For the sake of people who liked the series, I hope that’s true. But none of this was gripping or engaging enough that I’m inspired to read on and find out firsthand.

Gonna throw in a re-rec of Cathy Glass’s foster-caring memoirs instead. I kept wishing TJ Klune had taken some inspiration on “how to write realistic, well-rounded displaced children” (not to mention “good caregivers with healthy boundaries”) from stories like hers. The one I thought back on most was The Saddest Girl In The World, which (although you wouldn’t know it from the generic summary) involves a mixed-race foster child, so Cathy writes about grappling with “what specific cultural needs does this kid have, and am I, a white person, understanding them well enough to do right by her?”

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On to a brighter note: Nettle & Bone was really good!

So much that, when I finished, I immediately went looking for a sequel. No such luck. (It’s by T. Kingfisher, aka Ursula Vernon, so maybe I should just reread Digger now.)

It’s set in a fairy-tale-inspired world, without being a direct remix of any specific story, in a way that makes it comfortable and familiar without being boring or predictable. The main character, Marra, is a third-born princess, who spends a bunch of her life in a convent to keep her “saved” in case she needs to be put in a politically-arranged marriage later. So the bulk of the plot takes place with her in a state of “okay, I’m in my thirties and have learned some specific practical skills (knitting, midwifery, stable-shoveling), but wow, there are a lot of things about General Adulting that a princess/nun doesn’t get experience with.”

(The religion is only vaguely Christian-shaped, in the way the political situation is vaguely medieval-Europe-shaped. Also: as a nun, Marra specifically serves a saint that there aren’t actually any surviving records about, so her convent is openly just winging it about what kinds of devotion The Lady would’ve wanted. It’s fun.)

I like both the magical godmothers we meet. I like the animal sidekicks (there’s an evil chicken, and a skeleton dog). I like the way Marra’s real-world skills help the plot along — not in a way that’s gimmicky or contrived, just grounded and believable. Everybody feels like a real person, having real reactions to things. There are a few surprises towards the end, and they come together in a refreshing “didn’t see that coming, but now that it happened, it makes perfect sense” kind of way.

The book opens mid-magical-adventure, then flashes back to give us Marra’s whole backstory. Good writing choice, because the backstory got a little slow, and if we just started at the beginning I might have given up. As-is, I plodded through to get back to the juicy parts, and I’m glad I did.

A good read! Would recommend.