Lilith Saintcrow

Look yonder! It’s another Thursday Revue!

For the first third and the last eighth of Sarah Monette’s Melusine, I was in sheer despair. After all, I’d heard so many good things about this book. Why was it giving me so much trouble?

The basic premise goes like this: there’s this world, see? And it’s historical, and magic works. There’s a wizard who was once a prostitute (Felix Harrowgate, a great name) and a guttersnipe cat burglar (Mildmay, an even greater name) and on them rests the destiny of the Dickensien, fabulous (in the old sense) city of Melusine, where the rich lead lives of hardscrabble ambition and the poor die as easily as flies. Felix the wizard is used in a dastardly plot to destroy the Virtu, the magical thing that keeps the city safe, and Mildmay is drawn in despite himself, terrified of becoming a victim either of his own secrets or of the high-stakes game he finds himself in.

I loved Mildmay. I mean, actual throat-clenching, pure penguin love. I adored Mildmay’s parts of the book–in the first third and the last eighth I had to force myself not to skim through Felix’s parts. And herein lies the first problem with this otherwise very solid book.

First of all, Ms. Monette is a good writer. I didn’t feel the need to reach for my red pen once during the entire book, and anyone who knows me knows how rare that is. She has a crisp sense of historical dialogue, and despite the lack of exposition the book was still readable. Too much exposition chokes, and Ms. Monette handled the problem with chatty historical asides–she HAD to, or the whole book would have strangled a horse. She chose a novel (ha ha) way of solving the problem of worldbuilding, by starting in media res and barely slowing down to explain the numerous terms thrown at the reader. I’m guilty of this myself as a writer, so I enjoyed seeing it done in fantasy. However, I’d've wished for a glossary. Just a small one.

There was one other quibble I had with the writing, and that was chapters so short you could have two or three on two pages. Just when I would settle into someone’s head and begin to enjoy myself, I was wrenched out and stuck in another character’s head. The book is told in first-person from both Felix and Mildmay’s point of view, which is a hard slam-dunk to pull off. I never had any doubt about who was speaking–both characters have a very clear voice. Which just goes to show how good of a writer Monette really is.

No, the problems I had with this book were not the fault of the writing, which is technically sound and in some cases lucid and inspired. No, the problem centered around the fact that one of the two main characters was a narcissistic, whiny, weak and tragic little drama-queen a$$hole. And that, dear Readers, was Felix Harrowgate.

I should state that my distaste for Felix does not center on the fact that he’s gay. Nor does it center on the fact that he’s a whiny little sod. My problem stems from the fact that he’s a weak ambitious bastard, and the fact that Monette was able to evoke such diametrical responses in me–from sheer love for Mildmay and sheer nail-biting irritation at frocking Felix–is another mark of a good book. Once I got past my initial discomfort and the first 150-200 pages, it was all gravy, because Felix was schitzo-mad (the breaking of the Virtu and the compulsion put on him not to tell anyone how it was done drove him bonkers, insanity handled very deftly by the author) and provided a lot of good imagery.

What saved the book for me (and got me through that first dry, very dry hump) was Mildmay the thief. He’s scarred and bad-boy and delicious, not to mention a decent man forced to do un-decent things–one of my favorite types of hero. Not to mention a few of the historical asides (I suspect the Bastion is Prussian, and the idea of kept-thieves is the middle third of Oliver Twist in its purest form, with Fagins both terribly kind and rawly evil) that made my history-geek side wriggle with delight. I would point out that the use of the French Revolutionary calendar was a bit jarring, and a little more attention needs to be paid to the circumflexes (they’re not just there to look pretty, just ask the Selkie), but neither of these things was a dealbreaker for me.

I was pulled along just fine through the revelation that Felix and Mildmay are related, and the last third of the book, with Mildmay shepherding Felix through a hero’s-quest journey to find the Garden that can cure Felix’s madness just made me love Mildmay all the more. He’s really the only character in the book impelled by something more than ambition, and even if he’s trying to save his skin and just jumping to stay ahead of Certain Death, the way he does it–with style, grace, and an absolute refusal to be anything less than a good guy even with some very bad methods–just about made my knees weak.

Then we come to the last eighth of the book–and everything imploded.

Felix the Mad is a flawed but still sympathetic character, since you get a peek at why he’s so terrified most of the time. Felix the recovering wizard is a brat in man’s clothing, not even thinking of Mildmay–who by this time has dragged his silly a$$ halfway across a continent and through a shipwreck. When I got to Felix’s “I thought it was fine” line, I about threw the book across the room in sheer disgust. It strained believability, and I began to feel Monette was just abusing Mildmay (who suffers through the last three-quarters of the book with scarcely a rest to gather himself) to draw out the description of the Garden.

Still, I must admit that an author wouldn’t be capable of inducing that level of emotional reaction in me without being very, very good. By the time I closed the book I was relieved that I didn’t have to deal with frocking Felix anymore–and desperate to read more about Mildmay. The second book in the series (The Virtu) is out in hardback now, but when it hits paperback I’ll be reading the first ten pages in a dead-heat acid test, to find out if Mildmay’s speaking still.

If he is, Monette has herself another fan.

Oh, hell, she’s got a fan anyway.

This type of blurred-historical fantasy is not for everyone, so if you’re thinking of picking the book up, read a bit of Mildmay (the book starts out with him.) If the terminology and the style works for you, and you don’t mind little English Lit, European History, or other such nuggets (Monette’s a PhD) sprinkled throughout, then Melusine is probably a book for you. Just be prepared to be annoyed with Felix Harrowgate.

Mildmay more than makes up for it, though. The last word: well worth paying full price in paperback for, and worth it if you find a discount hardback. Then sit back and get ready to be amazed.

Note: If you want to, you can check out Monette’s LJ. Her website’s here.

Related posts:

1. REVIEW: The Gift of Fear, Or, Figure Out Who’s REALLY Going To Kill You
2. REVIEW: Pan’s Labyrinth
3. The Lonely Job, And REVIEW: Transformers aka ROBOT WHUPA$$!

This entry was posted on Thursday, October 19th, 2006 at 10:27 am and is filed under Neato Keano, Real Life, Reviews, Writing (About). You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.