strange and random happenstance

Snowspelled by Stephanie Burgis
Published by: Five Fathoms Press
Publication Date: September 4th, 2017
Format: Paperback, 168 Pages
Rating: ★★★
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Cassandra Harwood had everything. She was the only female magician in Angland. She was betrothed to Rajaram Wrexham, the best magician in Angland, after herself that is. But things weren't going to plan. Letting her have an education was all well and good, but giving her a job? No, that wasn't the done thing. What was all that work for if she's not allowed to do something? So she felt the need to prove herself as she'd been forced to time and time again and things did not go well. She over-extended herself. Her old life is no more. No magic and no Wrexham. Two months ago she felt she had to drive him away to save them both. Though she's the only one who believes this. Her sister-in-law Amy is convinced that Cassandra and Wrexham just need a chance to reconnect and what better opportunity than at a week-long house party in the elven dales? Cosgrave Manor will be filled to bursting with bickering magicians and ruthless lady politicians as the Boudiccate prepares for their Winter Solstice Ceremony to reaffirm the human's peace treaty with the elves. There will be more than enough alcoves to compromise Wrexham in if Cassandra would just admit how much she misses him. What could be more romantic than being snowbound with the love of your life? More importantly it will get Cassandra out of the house where she's become a recluse and out of the rut she's worked herself into that's half pity half self flagellation. But things don't go according to plan. The weather is abysmal, snow so thick it's almost unnatural, and when they arrive at their destination their hostess, Lady Honoria Cosgrave, is worried about her young cousin's party. Miss Fennell and Miss Banks should have arrived by now but are missing. Cassandra agrees to help in the search, which was her first mistake. Her second was walking on a troll. Her third was accidentally making a binding promise to an elf-lord. So now she has to figure out who is behind the unnatural weather or forfeit her future to the elves. And all this just when she'd finally found something to live for again, and Wrexham is only part of that future.

Snowspelled wasn't the book I was expecting. When I read "trapped in a snowbound house party" I got certain ideas in my head. Ideas that are much more common in locked-room mysteries. So I'm not here damning with faint praise, I'm here going, this will be a book I will be glad to re-read with my expectations in check. Expectations that aren't typical of my usual holiday fare. I seriously read too many murder mysteries around the holidays. I wanted more country house party less protective heat bubbles with people wandering about in bespelled snow. Seriously, they were outside way too much for being "snowbound." But once I got past my own expectations I found myself falling in love with a wonderful story about finding your path after your old path was taken away from you forever. Oh and evil elves. I seriously love evil elves. Haven't we all had dreams that have come shattering down? We've worked and worked for years and then, just like Cassandra, there's that over-extension and the horrible burst of pain and disbelief and crushing reality. This heroine's journey is atypical and therefore actually made it all the more relatable. Because not everyone gets all their dreams. We have to settle, we have to search, we have to find a new path. One that works with what we are capable of doing. This book is so much more hopeful than traditional fairy tale stories because there it's all laid out until the HEA. Here there's no guarantees. And I have to admit, a fully powered and cocky Cassandra would not have been a good look. I don't think I would have liked her. A humbled Cassandra is relatable. She's able to find a HEA with how her life has turned out. It might not have been how she expected it in the least, but the managing of expectations is a powerful lesson. Find your HEA in your own way. In a way that you can handle. Don't let anyone tell you you aren't worth it no matter how many setbacks you've faced. Everyone deserves happiness.

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 0 comments  

Labels: Angland, Cassandra Harwood, Elven Dales, Elves, Harwood Spellbook, HEA, Heroine's Journey, Locked Room, Magician, Mystery, Rajaram Wrexham, Regency Magic, Snow, Snowspelled, Stephanie Burgis, Winter Solstice

Some people might think that Gothic books are seasonal, only to be read around Halloween. Those people would be wrong. Yes, fall is a wonderful time to read spooky tales, but how about the depths of winter? When the wind blows and the landscape is bleak and tree branches gently scratch at your window. Or spring, when the snow begins to melt and new life starts to shoot up out of the dirt, what else could be unearthed? Then there's summer. I love escaping the heat to a moonlit moor or a deserted castle. Plus summer I've always associated with horror and slasher films and they are a close cousin to the Gothic. In other words, any time of the year is perfect for a good Gothic read, so why not now? That's why I'm Going Gothic right now, I hope you'll come along for the ride.

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 0 comments  

Labels: Castles, Fall, Going Gothic, Gothic, Halloween, Horror, Moors, Seasonal Reading, Slasher, Snow, Spring, Summer, Winter

Back in 2017 when Philip Pullman released Volume One of The Book of Dust, La Belle Sauvage, I did a deep dive into the world of His Dark Materials, re-reading all the classics and hunting down all the short stories I had missed. I even went so far as the re-watch the much maligned film. It was nowhere near as bad as I remembered, but nowhere near what these beloved books deserved, especially that sanitized ending. Therefore I was looking forward to this series with bated breath. Obviously it had to be better! On the one hand they had the time to fully explore the world, on the other hand, television series don't get the budgets of blockbusters, especially when there had been a previous and costly prior attempt. Still, the casting made my heart jump, Ruth Wilson!?! Ruth 'Alice' Wilson as Mrs. Coulter!?! That right there was enough. They could mess up everything else but I was spared the most complicated character being given to someone not up to the challenge. While this adaptation as a whole wasn't perfect, I think it was as close to perfect as we're ever going to get. The three main points of contention are the expansion of the roles of the adults, the daemon problem, and the introduction of plot points from The Subtle Knife. Well, more Ruth Wilson just made me happy and made me finally understand Mrs. Coulter, and this was done to deepen the world as well as to get around how many hours child actors can work. The daemon problem, well, yes, I understand that there is a problem, but I think it was the explanation versus the execution. Daemons needed to be better explained as our other halves versus more camera time, because I don't think we will ever get to a point where we'll have realistic CGI animals. The final issue I will fight you tooth and claw over. The Subtle Knife has plot points that take place concurrently with The Golden Compass, so one, it made sense to include them in season one because then we don't have half a season with no Lyra, and two, the big reveal of Lord Boreal and Sir Charles Latrom being the same person doesn't work in television! You'd go, hey, that's the same actor in five seconds. So it was a logical change. Plus, it made me more invested in Will from the start. What I do find entertaining though is that not one review mentioned the one major gripe I had, which was there just wasn't enough snow!

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 0 comments  

Labels: And the Emmy Goes To, CGI, Daemons, His Dark Materials, La Belle Sauvage, Lyra Belacqua, Movie, Mrs. Coulter, Philip Pullman, Ruth Wilson, Snow, The Book of Dust, The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife, Will Parry

My father had only one rule for Christmas—it had to be snowing when we went for the tree. Snow had to be in the air. My father had a reverence for seasons. He also believed in magic. This was, after all, the man who in late October would sit at dawn in his duck skiff waiting for the Mallards to rise in the morning mist. It was all about reverence and magic.

So, I would sit anxiously looking out my bedroom window at the grey, smudged sky waiting for it to open, waiting for God to make our neighborhood a gently shaken snow globe. My father expected patience. In the tradition of his own boyhood, the tree would not be put up and decorated until Christmas Eve. We had time.

Then it happened. It always happened. The heavens began to sift snow down on our little town of De Pere. The wind coming off the Fox River blew it up between the houses and the adventure would begin. Sherpas in search of our destiny! We bundled into the car and headed for the Hockers Farm on the outskirts of town, a little way beyond the city limits, just past the Mile-Away Tavern.

It was a working farm that was transformed each December. Snow fencing was run around the barnyard and Christmas lights were strung on poles. The Hockers brothers had harvested the trees and they were set against the fencing and leaned against the barn. The lights, the trees, the smells from the warm barn, the snow swirling about awakened our imaginations to the possibilities of the days ahead. If I had fretted by my bedroom window in anticipation, I was now a dizzy snow angel.

It was always a time of ritual when Doc Lefebvre arrived at Hockers. Large of heart, but with little means, the brothers relied on my father’s kindness throughout the year. There were, of course, the eggs that would appear on the porch in an old wire basket and the occasional plucked chicken arrived in time for Sunday dinner, but it was the ritual of the tree where the Hockers expressed their deepest appreciation to my father. Their affection was real and even as a boy, I could feel it though my fingers and toes were numb, numb from waiting in the snow for the adventure to unfold.

It seemed to me that we inspected every tree in the yard, discussed its merits and then, ultimately, heard the brothers’ verdict—it was not good enough. Then, finally, frostbitten and tired, we would come upon the tree, the tree that the brothers had hand selected much earlier. It was hidden for that special moment of discovery and revelation. The procession of carrying the tree and tying it to the car was done with the greatest reverence—it outdid the celebration of Midnight Mass. As always, it was a gift, no payment could be negotiated despite my father’s protests.

This was the way we celebrated the choosing of the Christmas tree during the first half of the 1950s. It was a time of joy when simple friendship and kindness guided us to the perfect tree.

My father had been ill for a long time. Diagnosed with cancer in 1946, he struggled to live until the autumn of 1956. He died two weeks after my eighth birthday on a clear October day when the ducks were flying out over Green Bay. I was bewildered and lost.

My mother had never gone to get the Christmas tree with us. I heard her on the telephone talking to one of the Hockers brothers telling him that we would be by. When we arrived on a late, cold, snowless afternoon, the brothers were standing in the yard holding a perfect tree. They tied it on the car without saying a word. My mother did not say anything either. As we drove off, I could see these big men in their overalls and huge coats wiping tears from their eyes with their red kerchiefs.

It was the last year that my mother and I would ever have a tree. In the years that followed, we would pack ourselves up and visit family elsewhere. We never talked about the Christmas tree or the Hockers. We never talked about my father.

I keep a snow globe on my desk and when Christmas approaches, I gently shake it and I look closely to see if a small boy and his father make it to the barnyard illuminated with lights, the barnyard that lives on in my memory.

I tell this story now, years later, to honor my father and to remind myself of the lessons I learned from him. I hope that they hold meaning for you—this is my prayer in the close and holy darkness of Christmas.

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:00 AM 1 comments  

Labels: Christmas, Christmas Eve, Christmas Tree, De Pere, Lefebvre, Merry Christmas, Snow

Every year when the days start to close in and the snow starts to fall I have this deep seeded urge to read Daphne Du Maurier. Bleak tales that are the modern equivalent to the Brontes just fit with long nights and ice covering the windowpane. When I was younger the movie Rebecca was one of my favorite films and my mother's copy of the book in her Franklin Mystery Library was one of the first books I pilfered for myself from among that set (which is slowly but surely making it's way to my own shelves). Because obviously once my loopy high schoolish signature was in that book it was mine. I only knew of two other books she had written, My Cousin Rachel and Jamaica Inn, which I eventually tracked down and placed on my shelf. The little purple paperback of Jamaica Inn looking more then a little woeful next to the gorgeous edition of Rebecca. I never thought there was more to her then these few volumes. I didn't even know that the movie The Birds was based on her short story till years later!

The reason for this ignorance is that Daphne Du Maurier has never really had her books released in the United States. So, like me, most Americans figured she was a one hit wonder. Little did I know that she wrote almost forty books! Many of them classics in England. I still remember that day I was at the west side Half Price Books and there on the shelf where all these books I had never heard of by her. Quite literally a whole shelf of Du Maurier (properly shelved under "D"). I was flabbergasted by the appearance of all these lovely paperbacks published by Virago. I bought the lot and have slowly been trying to complete the collection. Only ten more to go! But despite having all these books to hand I rarely have the time to just pick a book up for fun, my reading being decided by my blog and my book club (four months of putting Rebecca in the hat to no avail!) Therefore, theme month time! Because my love of Du Maurier was ignited by my love of Hitchcock's movie I thought it would be fun to review both one of her books and then one of that book's adaptations each week. What would usually be a bleak month glutted in holiday cheer is now truly  a time to rejoice... even if it is rejoicing in bleak, mysterious, Cornish ways.

Posted by Miss Eliza at 12:01 AM 0 comments  

Labels: Bronte, Cornwall, Daphne Du Maurier, December, Du Maurier December, Half Price Books, Hitchcock, Jamaica Inn, My Cousin Rachel, Rebecca, Snow, The Birds, Theme Month

I was supposed to go to Chicago and see the amazingly creative Jasper Fforde, but alas... I am always optimistic that this winter will be different, but, never really is. Snow, snow, and more snow, and never when you want it! So I still have something I'm planning on announcing with regard to my Shades of Grey Giveaway... but it will have to remain under wraps for a little while longer in case things fall through, as they seem to be doing lately with alarming regularity. But I do have a treat, you might not have my words about Jasper's visit to the windy city... so how about Jasper's?

Excerpt from Jasper Fforde's Shade of Grey, Eggs Benedict Tour Blog:

"I think there is a flight school down in the Mid West somewhere that teaches airline pilots a confident 'Chuck Yeager Drawl', whose breezy tones can allay the fear from even the most nervous passengers. The flight from Detroit to Chicago might have been a nervy flight, especially when we had the 'longer than usual' de-icing to begin with, the machines looking like an adapted Disney ride. It didn't help that we vanished into a swirling snow-storm the second the wheels left the tarmac, nor the fact that a skeleton in a black cloak and holding a sythe was sitting next to me.

"How did you get the sythe past the TSA?" I asked. At first he made no answer, then told that I should switch to short stories if I were thinking of reading on the flight.

It was bumpy but not excessively so, and my black-cloaked friend moved around the cabin, reminding the passengers of past sins, and offering to play chess.

We circled Chicago three times to admire the view through the swirling snow, the pilot demonstrating to us how easily the undercarriage could be raised and lowered, and the flaps deployed, then raised, then deployed, then raised again.

It might, in fact, have been minimally frightening to a lesser human than me. But throughout all this the captain kept up a chatter from the cockpit, telling us what was going on, and how the snowploughs were out and everything was fine and dandy. In fact, he probably could have told us we had run out of fuel halfway to Honolulu with little chance of survival, but as long as he kept up the Chuck Yeager Drawl, we would all have been perfectly happy.

We landed without incident, but oddly enough the skeleton in the black cloak seemed to have vanished..

My talk was at the Barnes and Noble Skokie, and once more an amused and amusing crowd. Notable alumni were Steve, who is a stalwart of the Fforde Ffiestas with his puppets, Betsy who had driven six hours to be here, and John, who is the first person I have ever met who has had their arm broken by a swan.

Now this is remarkable, and certainly worth greater scrutiny, as the old 'don't go near a swan or it will break your arm' is one of those great lies that pepper your childhood, along with 'if the wind changes, your face will stay that way' or 'it's much much better to be cast as Shepherd #17 than Joseph' or 'Wyoming is actually the size of a double garage'. I had to quiz 'John the Swan' about his, and yes, he confirmed that he had indeed been attacked by a swan that broke his arm, although he didn't have any scars, a bent arm or even a note from the Swan's mother. Mind you, the broader issue over the whole 'you really can have your arm broken by a swan' question is that perhaps your parents were actually right about other things, too. That father Christmas wouldn't burn your existing toys if you were bad, or that Lindt chocolate perhaps wasn't 'poisonous to children' as your parents maintained. Indeed, it was even possible that there WAS a troll up the chimney that would come and wipe their bogies on your face while you slept, or that Aunt Beryl was actually a man, as you had long believed.

(I should point out for reasons of fairness that my parents never indulged in such outrageous lies. But I do. My favourite is that the tooth fairy is actually in the maraca business, and fills maracas with children's teeth. It explains why a constant supply is needed, and why you always get the same for a molar as for an incisor. They sound the same)

Chicago in the grip of snow and rain, much the same as it is back home - only here in Michigan and Illinois no-one gets into a panic over some snow. In the UK and most of Northern Europe, temperatures have dropped to record levels not seen for thirty years. Britain, which has six snowploughs, has ceased to function, and salt is running low. We could ask to borrow some from the World's salt-producing nations, but feel it might be impolite to ask, so we are barricading ourselves in our home muttering the collective mantra of the stoical British public: 'Well, mustn't grumble. Tea? Oooh, that would be lovely.'

But the rest of Europe has its problems too: France is wondering what to do with forty million tons of flavourless sorbet, the Belgiums are drafting a constitutional amendment to the EU charter in order to form a working committee to enable the question of 'snow' to appear on a meeting sometime in 2032, the Germans are currently adapting their fleet of Audis and BMWs to be snowploughs, the Dutch are converting their bicycles into 'ski-cycles' and the Swedes, Finns, Norwegians and Danish are doing nothing - its very much business as usual.

The search for the finest Eggs Benedict continues, and this morning I am at the Four Seasons in Chicago. I've stayed in a 4S before, and they clearly have a database of D-Class celebrities such as myself, as their attention to detail is extraordinary. When I arrived there was a chocolate book with my name on it, (see picture) and all of the staff mysteriously knew my name. Service was impeccable, the hot chocolate served with marshmallows AND cream, and the rooms so comfortable that I would have been quite happy moving in and staying, like a sort of modern day Howard Hughes.

And so we turn to the Eggs Benedict. It was excellent, and totally by the book. And that was the problem. It was marred by a certain level of mechanical perfection. Food should be brought to life with a certain degree of interpretation - one has to read the cook in any great dish. The EB was done perfectly. The eggs in particular were probably the finest poached eggs I have seen, but the hollandaise lacked a certain dash and tanginess. The cook would have to say: 'I know how to improve this - a dash of pepper, a pinch of seasoning - to hell with the conventional palate, I want my Eggs Benedict to sing great hymns!' The Soho Grand managed to do this, the 4S I feel did not. The service, however was excellent, the staff courteous to a point that an English person like me feels mildly embarrassed. Fforde EB index: 8.3

I should also point out at the juncture that I am colour-coding my signings. New York was Black pen, Michigan Blue, and Illinois Brown. Washington light Green, California will be red.

Taken around a slushy Chicago by the Veteran Media escort Bill Young. Signed stock is available from the following outlets:

Bookcellar Lincoln Square (773 293 2665), Borders at Evanston, Barnes and Noble at Evanston, Unabridged books at Lake View, Borders at Lakeview, Barnes and Noble State Street, Borders Michigan Avenue, Barnes and Noble Clybourne and Borders Wilmette."

Make sure to check out his full tour blog for the best Eggs Benedict, and of course other interesting tour stuff... it's not all yolk based.

Posted by Miss Eliza at 2:37 AM 0 comments  

Labels: Chicago, Chuck Yeager, Eggs Benedict, Giveaway, Jasper Fforde, Shades of Grey, Skokie, Snow, Swans, Winter

So this weekend isn't the best weekend, it's kind of the last weekend... of my break that is. Come Monday morning I'll be schlepping myself and my books to school once more. You can tell the excitement in my voice I'm sure! Why couldn't the snow come on Monday not Thursday, when I was off to see Jasper? Cause that nice big bleak parking lot next to the airport is always so inviting and pleasant in winter, what with the snow and the ice, not to mention the wind! We can't forget that now can we? But the BBC knew of my impending doom and has brought me a little ray of sunshine, in the form of new episodes of two of my favorite shows! I knew Being Human was returning, and I've been hooked on Aidan Turner for awhile now... not that I'm going to spoil anything, but maybe check out my Pink Carnation dream casting tomorrow... also Russell Tovey! What's not to love, plus here's hoping his girlfriend dies! But, that's not all! The BBC has fulfilled a true dream... new Lark Rise to Candleford. I knew it was coming soon, but this soon!?! Nope, not a clue. Ah Laura, Dorcas, the Pratts, I have missed you all! So now I have something to look forward to every week! A little reward that will help me face that horribly cold parking lot every Monday morning. Here's to the BBC! PBS might let me down, but you never have!

Also, here's the Being Human trailer for those who are desperate and can't wait for tomorrow... why do they make those stateside wait till at least summer? I'll really never know, the ocean isn't that big!

Posted by Miss Eliza at 5:41 PM 2 comments  

Labels: Aidan Turner, BBC, Being Human, Dorcas Lane, Jasper Fforde, Lark Rise to Candleford, Laura, Pink Carnation Spotlight, Russell Tovey, School, Snow, Winter