As Gemma, along with her friends from the Spence Academy, try to stop The Order, a mysterious group her late mother was once part of, from taking over the enchanted realms, she must sacrifice her friendships to discover her true destiny.
Libba Bray is the author of the New York Times bestselling novels A Great and Terrible Beauty and Rebel Angels. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband, son, and a cat of questionable intelligence.
Fans of the Gemma Doyle series, which began with A Great and Terrible Beauty (2003), will grab this novel, in which Gemma seeks to restore magic to the Realms, help friends and family at home, and find her place between the worlds. Given the page count, however, they'll need to set aside plenty of reading time. Scenes in the realms are weighed down by description, and they don't always advance the plot. Yet Bray does recapture the menace, mystery, and heady romance of the previous books, as well as the wry, sharp sense of the Victorian society. Copyright 2007 Booklist Reviews.
This trilogy closer fails to deliver on the potential of the stellar A Great and Terrible Beauty (2004). Schoolgirl Gemma is facing the consequences of her impulsive commitment to share the magic of the Realms with all magical creatures. Living up to her promises will require giving up her own powers, and without those powers, how will Gemma and her friends ever escape the choking propriety that Victorian society demands? Moreover, villains abound: Realms creatures keep turning up dead, villainous Circe might not be as destroyed as everyone thought and impatient centaurs turn against Gemma. Unfortunately, in this installment, Gemma's mystical adventure has slowed to a grinding pace. After hundreds of pages of inaction, rich descriptions descend to wordiness and Gemma's adolescent development is stilted, and the sex-positive, queer-friendly spirit of A Great and Terrible Beauty has vanished, replaced with a harsh magical morality. (Fantasy. YA) Copyright Kirkus 2007 Kirkus/BPI Communications. All rights reserved.
SPENCE ACADEMY FOR YOUNG LADIES
There is a particular circle of hell not mentioned in Dante's famous book. It is called comportment, and it exists in schools for young ladies across the empire. I do not know how it feels to be thrown into a lake of fire. I am sure it isn't pleasant. But I can say with all certainty that walking the length of a ballroom with a book upon one's head and a backboard strapped to one's back while imprisoned in a tight corset, layers of petticoats, and shoes that pinch is a form of torture even Mr. Alighieri would find too hideous to document in his Inferno.
"Let us keep our eyes trained toward heaven, girls," our headmistress, Mrs. Nightwing, pleads as we attempt our slow march across the floor, heads held high, arms out like ballerinas.
The loops of the backboard chafe the sides of my arms. The block of wood is unyielding, and I am forced to stand as stiff as the guards at Buckingham Palace. My neck aches with the effort. Come May, I shall make my debut a full year early, for it has been decided by all parties involved that at nearly seventeen I am ready and that it would do me good to have my season now. I shall wear beautiful gowns, attend lavish parties, and dance with handsome gentlemen-if I survive my training. At present, that outcome is very much in doubt.
Mrs. Nightwing paces the length of the ballroom. Her stiff skirts whisk-whisk across the floor as if to rebuke it for lying there. All the while she barks orders like Admiral Nelson himself. "Heads held high!
Do not smile, Miss Hawthorne! Serene, somber expressions! Empty your minds!"
I strain to keep my face a blank canvas. My spine aches. My left arm, held out to the side for what seems hours, trembles with the effort.
"And curtsy . . ."
Like falling souffles, we drop low, trying desperately not to lose our balance. Mrs. Nightwing does not give the order to rise. My legs shake with exhaustion. I cannot manage it. I stumble forward. The book tumbles from my head and lands on the floor with a resounding thud. We have done this four times, and four times I have failed in some fashion. Mrs. Nightwing's boots stop inches from my disgraced form.
"Miss Doyle, may I remind you that this is the court, and you are curtsying to your sovereign, not performing in the Folies Bergere?"
"Yes, Mrs. Nightwing," I say sheepishly.
It is hopeless. I shall never curtsy without falling. I shall lie sprawled upon the gleaming floors of Buckingham Palace like a disgraceful stain of a girl, my nose resting upon the boot of the Queen. I shall be the talk of the season, whispered about behind open fans. No doubt every man will avoid me like typhus.
"Miss Temple, perhaps you will demonstrate the proper curtsy for us?"
Without ado, Cecily Temple, She Who Can Do No Wrong, settles to the floor in a long, slow, graceful arc that seems to defy gravity. It is a thing of beauty. I am hideously jealous.
"Thank you, Miss Temple."
Yes, thank you, you little demon beast. May you marry a man who eats garlic with every meal.
"Now, let us-" Mrs. Nightwing is interrupted by loud banging. She closes her eyes tightly against the noise.
"Mrs. Nightwing," Elizabeth whines. "How can we possibly concentrate on our form with such a terrible racket coming from the East Wing?"
Mrs. Nightwing is in no humor for our complaining. She takes a deep breath and clasps her hands at her waist, her head held high.
"We shall carry on, like England herself. If she could withstand Cromwell, the Wars of the Roses, and the French, surely you may overlook a bit of hammering. Think how lovely the East Wing shall be
when it is completed. We shall try again-steady! All eyes are upon you! It won't do to scurry to
Her Majesty like a timid church mouse."
I often imagine what sort of position Nightwing might seek out were she not currently torturing us as headmistress of Spence Academy for Young Ladies. Dear Sirs, her letter might begin. I am writing to inquire about your advert for the position of Balloon Popper. I have a hatpin that will do the trick neatly and bring about the wails of small children everywhere. My former charges will attest to the fact that I rarely smile, never laugh, and can steal the joy from any room simply by entering and bestowing upon it my unique sense of utter gloom and despair. My references in this matter are impeccable. If you have not fallen into a state of deep melancholia simply by reading my letter, please respond to Mrs. Nightwing (I have a Christian name but no one ever has leave to use it) in care of Spence Academy for Young Ladies. If you cannot be troubled to find the address on your own, you are not trying your very best. Sincerely, Mrs. Nightwing.
"Miss Doyle! What is that insipid smile you're wearing? Have I said something that amuses you?" Mrs. Nightwing's admonishment brings a flush to my cheeks. The other girls giggle.
We glide across the floor, trying our best to ignore the hammering and the shouts. The noise isn't what distracts us. It is the knowledge that there are men here, one floor above us, that keeps us jittery and light.
"Perhaps we could see the progress they've made, Mrs. Nightwing? How extraordinary it must be," Felicity Worthington suggests with a sweetness bordering on pure syrup. Only Felicity would be so bold as to suggest this. She is too daring by half. She is also one of my only allies here at Spence.
"The workmen do not need girls underfoot, as they are already behind schedule," Mrs. Nightwing says. "Heads up, if you please! And-"
A loud bang sounds from above. The sudden noise makes us jump. Even Mrs. Nightwing lets out a "Merciful heavens!" Elizabeth, who is nothing more than a nervous condition disguised as a debutante, yelps and grabs hold of Cecily.
"Oh, Mrs. Nightwing!" Elizabeth cries.
We look to our headmistress hopefully.
Mrs. Nightwing exhales through disapproving lips. "Very well. We shall adjourn for the present. Let us take the air to restore the roses to our cheeks."
"Might we bring our paper and sketch the progress on the East Wing?" I suggest. "It would make a fine record."
Mrs. Nightwing favors me with a rare smile. "A most excellent suggestion, Miss Doyle. Very well, then. Gather your paper and pencils. I shall send Brigid with you. Don your coats. And walk, if you please."
We abandon our backboards along with our decorum, racing for the stairs and the promise of freedom, however temporary it may be.
"Walk!" Mrs. Nightwing shouts. When we cannot seem to heed her advice, she bellows after us that we are savages not fit for marriage. She adds that we shall be the shame of the school and something else besides, but we are down the first flight of stairs, and her words cannot touch us.