The Enchanted Greenhouse by Sarah Beth Durst (audio)

That’s what magic was: words that brought thought to life. And Terlu was very, very good with words – or at least with words like this. She couldn’t guarantee that the right ones were going to come out of her mouth in a random conversation, but this… this she felt confident about.

I love this series. It is snuggly and comforting – that is, it begins in a very different place, cold and lonely and frightened; but it spends these long hours getting to a place of calm and warmth.

At the end of The Spellshop, in my audio edition at least, readers (listeners) were treated to a bonus beginning of this novel. In that first chapter, we learn a little bit about what happened to Caz’s creator. The sentient spider plant was spelled to life by a librarian named Terlu Perna. Terlu was not a sorcerer, and therefore her magic was illegal; but she had been hopeful that it might be overlooked, because Caz’s creation was harmless, resulting only in new life. Her magic was not overlooked. In chapter one, we see her convicted and sentenced to be turned into a wooden statue. It seems she is doomed to be a statue – a mostly aware statue, but unable to move or speak – forever. Indeed, in The Spellshop, Caz and Kiela assume that when the Great Library burned, Terlu burned with it.

But now we know she didn’t. She awoke, came all the way back to flesh and blood, in the snow in an unfamiliar forest. Alive, but still alone, which is Terlu’s least favorite thing. She had created Caz because she was lonely and friendless, and needed a friend so badly that she risked everything. Now here she is, grateful to be back in her body, and then on the verge of freezing to death, and still alone.

She finds her way into a greenhouse. She meets a man, a gardener, apparently the only gardener in what he calls the Greenhouse of Belde, an enormous, elaborate, all-containing place, with many, perhaps even countless rooms. There is a greenhouse just for roses, one just for tomatoes, and four for vegetables, one in each season of the year. There is a greenhouse of singing plants, and one filled with saltwater and ocean plants. Terlu has never heard of the island of Belde or its wondrous, mythic greenhouses. The terse, grumpy gardener, a very handsome man named Yarrow, tells her he is the only one left. The sorcerer who created the Greenhouse is dead. All of the other gardeners had been sent away. And the greenhouses are slowly dying, one by one.

Terlu is likewise alone in the world, and moved by this puzzle, especially because the fate of Yarrow and his beloved Greenhouse seems tied to her own: she has nowhere else to go. And so, slowly, they build something. With the eventual company of a sentient rose named Lotti, and then a whole squadron of talking plants, they determine to try to repair what is failing on Belde. For Terlu, this means working illegal magic again, risking her worst nightmare coming true a second time. For Yarrow, it means trusting, opening himself up again after being abandoned by everyone he ever cared about. The story grows from there.

It wasn’t lost on me that Terlu made herself a friend – Caz – out of loneliness, because she deeply needed fellowship. And then Caz was inherited (so to speak) in book one by Kiela, who insists she needs no one and would prefer to be alone – but I think we can see now that her solitude is enabled by the company of the wonderful Caz. Terlu nearly lost everything, but Kiela was perhaps saved. And there is still time in their world for the good deeds to keep on snowballing.

For what it’s worth, I love that Terlu is solidly an academic. She enjoys study. She speaks (and reads) many languages, and likes to puzzle and learn. Also, as we know, it’s central to the plot that she is very social, needs company and conversation. There’s a charming bit (which I can’t find, because audiobooks can’t be riffled through like print ones) in which she recalls telling her family she wanted to be a librarian, and then having to explain to them that no, not all librarians just shush people and hide in the stacks; there are public-facing, people-oriented librarians, too. I love that! (Kiela was the other kind, happy to hide.) Faced with the markedly unfamiliar challenges of Belde, Terlu wants to be of assistance, and luckily finds a way to help through study, reading, and linguistics. Hooray!

The Enchanted Greenhouse is about loneliness and company, about finding where one belongs, about overcoming fears (and paranoia, even), taking risks and trusting. It’s about fellowship and building community. It does end in romance, as did book one. And there are plant friends (and a charismatic winged cat named Emeral). Variously labeled romantasy and ‘cottagecore’, this is a decidedly cozy novel, filled with good food and other comforts (but especially lots of good food). It moves at a decidedly measured pace – some readers will find it slow, but I’d offer the more positive descriptor, that it proceeds in leisurely or even cautious fashion, and rewards the reader’s settling in. Trusting, even. Once again, Caitlin Davies’ narration feels perfect. I’m anxious for this trilogy’s third installment, coming later this year, and will be looking into Durst’s other work. I’m delighted I found this one.


Rating: 8 honey cakes, obviously.

The Mystery of the Clockwork Sparrow by Katherine Woodfine

I picked this paperback up in a coffee shop where it had been abandoned with other, clearly used magazines and newspapers and such. It just looked fun: the cover, the back blurb. I read a few chapters that night and otherwise finished it in a single sitting. Fun fact: Amazon rates this book as being for ages 11-14, or grades 1-3. (Facepalm.) At any rate, it would be friendly for younger readers – I’d go with the age range rather than the grades listed there – but, obviously, was plenty enjoyable for this adult.

In the first years of the 1900s, a sumptuous new department store is set to open, one like London has never seen. Our protagonist is Sophie Taylor. She lost her mother young, and now, at age fourteen, she has just lost her father, a mostly-absent but loving military man. Raised in comfortable wealth, she’s now orphaned and on her own. Plucky Sophie feels lucky to have landed a job at Sinclair’s, where she’ll work in millinery and earn just enough for a spartan room in a working girls’ boarding house. But the night before the store is set to open, a priceless object is stolen: a jewel-encrusted clockwork sparrow that purportedly plays a unique song each time it’s wound. A young man is attacked in the commission of the burglary. And, in an unlikely twist, the cultured Sophie is implicated! Luckily, she has already made some new friends: junior porter Billy, who tends to get lost in his books; indomitable Lil, a chorus girl and ‘dress mannequin’; and perhaps even a less savory character with secrets of his own. Together, the young people set out to solve a mystery – or several of them – and clear Sophie’s good name. But the case is increasingly complicated, as major organized crime, police corruption, and shopgirl dramas intertwine. And the stakes get higher, as livelihoods and even lives are revealed to be at stake. But Sophie, Lil, Billy and Joe are not pushovers. They rise to the occasion. A delightful sequel is already headed my way. This is a series of four books so far!

The Mystery of the Clockwork Sparrow does indeed involve the grand, the daring, the dastardly, and the bold, as the back cover claims. I found it a delicious tale of adventure, friendship, and self-determination, not to mention mystery, danger, and code-breaking. I can’t wait to follow up with our two strong female leads. Best book picked up off a coffee shop table in years!


Rating: 8 iced buns.

Bookshops and Bonedust by Travis Baldree (audio)

I am completely taken with this very sweet series. Here, we get a big flashback from Legends and Lattes, to Viv’s youth. We meet her when she was just a young mercenary orc, on one of her earliest missions: full of cocky bravado and the joy of battle, she made the sort of error that cocky young warriors do, and found herself badly wounded. When she awakens from the fever of infection and pain, she finds that her crew has left her to recuperate in the small seaside village of Murk. Her boss has paid for her ongoing medical care and for the start of her lodging costs, and she is well funded to take her time recovering. But Viv is deeply frustrated to have been left behind – even though, when she tries to walk on her bad leg, she has to admit she could never have kept up with the pace of battle.

So. Viv is set back, cooling her heels, physically limited, furious, bored. She begins stumping painfully around town, looking into what there might be to do (not much), and committed to keeping up her training, as her injuries allow. It’s terrible! But she slowly discovers: a bookshop (terribly dusty and smelly, but staffed by a charmingly foul-mouthed ratkin named Fern who becomes a friend); books (reluctantly, then fiercely, she learns to love reading); a wonderful bakery (with a proprietor who finds Viv most appealing); and an indomitable young gnome who aspires to be a mercenary like Viv. She begins to find a rhythm, a new way of living. She helps Fern around the bookshop – together, they clean and reorganize, bring in a local author for a reading, and start a book club. Viv even, slowly, befriends Fern’s pet, a gryphet named Pot Roast. She enjoys a bit of a romance with the gifted dwarf baker, Maylee. And she develops a camaraderie with the gnome, Gallina, whom we already know from the later timeline. Viv is aware that these ties will be short-lived; she is anxious to get back to work with her mercenary crew when they come back through for her (fingers crossed). This gives the young love, in particular, a bittersweet flavor. Then, just to highlight how much she’s learned to care about her new friends in Murk, a threat arises. In her warrior work, Viv had been on the hunt for a necromancer called Varine the Pale. In her convalescence, it seems that Varine’s forces have come to her. It may take all she has, in both limping physical prowess and cleverness, to keep safe the people she’s met in her short stay on the coast.

This is just the sweetest tale: young love, earnest friendships, and the hard, dusty work of running a bookshop. (I feel a bit misled by Legends and Lattes: Viv did have some retail experience.) There are once more delicious pastries, and a quirky, sometimes-snuggly pet. The story ends with Viv’s departure, back on the road and back to slinging steel; but an epilogue ties these youthful events directly to Viv’s later life with Tandry at the coffee shop, and neatly sets us up for the next installment, Brigands and Breadknives, for which I am most anxious. Stay tuned! I’m entirely sold on this cozy fantasy series. Onward.


Rating: 8 bottles of bonedust.

Mrs. Shim Is a Killer by Kang Jiyoung, trans. by Paige Morris

In this bloody but cheerful novel, a middle-aged widow and mother of two becomes a contract killer to support her family, reinventing herself along the way.

Kang Jiyoung’s Mrs. Shim Is a Killer is a kaleidoscopic novel of murder-for-hire, crisscrossing loyalties, self-determination, and dark humor. In Paige Morris’s translation from the Korean, Kang’s matter-of-fact prose reveals a sly, absurdist wit. This playfully murderous thriller is not soon forgotten.

In the first chapter, readers meet Mrs. Shim. A 51-year-old widow, she supports a family of three; her son is of university age, her daughter just younger. Since the death of her husband five years ago, she has struggled to provide for her family by working in a butcher’s shop, relying on her knife skills to eke out a living while dutifully preparing kimchi, soybean soup, and other staples at home. When she loses her job, she is desperate for other work–not easy for an ajumma, or middle-aged woman, to find. At the Smile Private Detective Agency, however, she meets a boss impressed by her use of a knife. “I’d like you to become a killer,” the man says matter-of-factly, and Mrs. Shim finds she is in no position to turn down the gold bar he offers. Reluctant at first but driven by her need to provide for her children, she becomes Smile’s best killer yet, causing surprised rumors to circulate about the knife-wielding ajumma.

Mrs. Shim Is a Killer shifts perspective to follow one character and then another, from a long list of players in Mrs. Shim’s story. Aside from the title character, chapter titles refer to them by epithet: The Boss, The Shaman, The Confidant, The Daughter. Intrigue unfolds in this series of puzzle pieces, which provides varying angles on events where killers and amateurs off killers, bosses, and more. Because not all of these character spotlights take place in the same timeline, old secrets also come to light, and present-day rivals may reveal more nuanced relationships in the past. In final standoff scenes, characters are set against one another in unexpected arrangements and, through it all, readers root for Mrs. Shim, a reluctant but determined assassin.

Kang (The Shop for Killers) plays off expectations about mothers, lovers, and cultural norms to her reader’s constant surprise. With a complexly twisting plot, disarming characters, and a deceptive sense of humor, Mrs. Shim Is a Killer breaks genre boundaries in a surprisingly hopeful package. Bloody but cheerful, this unusual tale is entertaining and strangely cozy.


This review originally ran in the February 26, 2026 issue of Shelf Awareness for the Book Trade. To subscribe, click here.


Rating: 7 fishcakes.

“Pages to Fill” by Travis Baldree (audio)

“Pages to Fill” followed Legends and Lattes, packaged in with the same audiobook, read by the author*, and offering a tidbit of prequel background. At just about an hour long, it’s a good short view into Viv’s world of magical beings, and her own character and yearnings. It informs the novel I just finished, and keeps me interested in more. (I’m starting Bookshops and Bonedust next.)

I’ll keep this short, especially for such a short work. I enjoyed learning about Viv: a bruiser, but not invulnerable, and already showing signs of the special interest we see in Legends and Lattes, as well as the disillusionment with her then-current livelihood. She’s got a soft spot, which is beginning to be a point of conflict with her more hard-nosed colleague Gallina, despite their close relationship. I’m also left feeling curious about what happened to this short story’s antagonist. I’m excited to get into the rest of the series!

*Travis Baldree’s narration of his own work is something I failed to address in that earlier review. I liked it very well, not least because I love knowing how the author thinks a certain character will sound, or how a certain line will be delivered. If anything, this feels even more important in fantasy, where some names or other words may be the author’s inventions, or, we may have less context for what orcs and gnomes sound like than we do with fully human characters. I love hearing things the way the author imagines them, assuming the author has some basic performing chops – as this one certainly does. Baldree has other narration credits beyond (and predating, I think?) his own work. Definitely keeping this series in the mix, and stoked for it.


Rating: 7 bottles.

Secrets of the First School by T. L. Huchu

The fifth and final book in Huchu’s Edinburgh Nights series, Secrets of the First School does indeed pull things together and wrap them up neatly (though not overly so). Since The Legacy of Arniston House, Ropa has been through a lot and learned a lot. She continues to evince a teenager’s quick-changing moods and loyalties, but if this is occasionally jarring or even a little irritating, that’s not unlike “real” teenagers, is it. And she’s going through it: the loyalties unto her have taken some jarring turns, too. Avoiding spoilers, I will say we learn some shocking truths about Ropa’s own past, which challenge her relationship with everything and everyone around her.

Ropa dwells in a dystopian and at least mildly post-apocalyptic Scotland heavily influenced by her family’s Zimbabwean roots, in which magic is real and fairly complex. Ropa has special powers to communicate with the dead, who inhabit several afterworlds with varying levels of porosity with her own living one, and she has an unusual ability to travel in between. I admit I never fully grasped the details of the rules of this fictional sphere; I let it all float by me when things got a little confusing, which is often how I handle fantasy and sci fi – a personal failing? or maybe a way many of us read these genres? Not sure. At any rate, I think this is something the real world sometimes asks of us, too, and it’s always felt okay to me. I’m not sure I ‘get’ everything Ropa encounters, but who among us does? Which is all to say: this is a highly detailed act of worldbuilding. Ropa and her crew feel quirky and odd at times – like real people do. I cared deeply about what happened to her. I’ll miss her.


Rating: 7 bodies.

author interview: Polly Atkin

Following my review of The Company of Owls, here’s Polly Atkin: The Art of Noticing.


Polly Atkin lives in Grasmere, in the English Lake District, and is co-owner of the historic independent bookshop Sam Read Bookseller. She writes poetry (Basic Nest Architecture; Much with Body) and nonfiction (Recovering Dorothy; Some of Us Just Fall). She writes and talks about living with chronic illness, disability and the environment, living in a rural place, and, as a disabled person, access to nature and to the arts. In The Company of Owls (Milkweed; reviewed in this issue), she considers solitude, companionship, and the natural world through the lens of some very special neighbors.

Were you always drawn to owls?

Yes! I am a child of the ’80s, so I grew up with lots of fictional owls, like the mechanical owl from Clash of the Titans who I absolutely adored. We had owls that would call from these very large, old trees where I grew up, although I didn’t see them often. Athena’s owl was the symbol of my school when I was seven, and we got a little badge with a stylized owl face on it. They were a presence in my life.

At what point in your owl observations did you realize you were working on a book?

Very late on. The book became a book through amazing happenstance. It was one of those beautiful coincidences that can only happen when you’ve been in an industry for a while.

There are poems about owls in all of my collections, so I’ve been writing about owls for a long time. My agent Caro [Clarke] was at the London Book Fair the year after my book Some of Us Just Fall came out, at the next table to Sarah Rigby, the editor at Elliott & Thompson. Sarah came back from a break saying, “I heard someone talking about buying a book called The Solitude of Owls, and I’m really jealous. I wish I’d bought that book!” And eventually they realized she’d misheard, and that book didn’t exist at all. But Caro thought about my owls and said, actually, I think I could get you that book if you want it.

So I had this amazing e-mail from Caro saying, listen, you know those owls you’ve been writing poems about, would you write a book about them? I said, YES! Yes please! Nothing like that has ever happened in my writing life before, that someone’s said, here, I’ll give you a chunk of money to write about that thing you’re already writing about.

None of us have any idea what she’d misheard in the first place.

As a writer of both poetry and prose, is it always clear which is called for?

I write my prose in a similar way to how I write poetry. I think very hard about every word. That sounds patronizing, like obviously other writers don’t! But the rhythm and the syntax is as important to me in prose as it is in poetry. I have to wait for the right way to say something. For everything I write, 90% of the time is thinking and percolating time, and 10% is the actual writing down. It’s very voice driven.

A poem is much more open. You can leave things dangling; the white space makes a lot of the meaning. I used to say to students: so much of the poem is what the reader brings to it. It’s a drink that you need to dilute. The poem is a really concentrated flavor, and the reader brings the water that makes it drinkable. All of that happens in space on the page, and how those images and metaphors move from person to person. This happens with prose as well, but in a different, more truncated way.

How does poetry influence your prose?

So much of poetry is about attention to what’s around us. Williams Wordsworth says poetry is about having a watchful heart and a keen eye and ear. You’re listening and observing what’s around you, but you’re also seeing beyond that. In The Prelude, he says poets and prophets are similar because they both see the unseen. That art of noticing is at the core of both poetry and prose for me.

The art of questioning too. The prose I’m interested in is open: it asks questions, raises ideas, and doesn’t necessarily tell you an answer. Writing is a moving toward understanding. That’s why I do it, and I’m trying to communicate that to other people, but I have to learn something too or it seems dead to me, kind of flat. That fundamental underlay of what’s happening with poetry is always happening for me with prose as well.

How has owning a bookstore changed your relationship with writing (or reading)?

Oh my goodness! To see people being enthusiastic about books. We’re very lucky with our shop. It’s been there since 1887, right in the center of Grasmere, where we have footfall all year round. People visit from around the world. Some have a long history with the shop, whose grandparents brought them because the grandparents shopped there. You get this amazing sense of the reading public, and I love that. All these different people coming in, excited about books–I’m getting a bit teary just thinking about it. So much of the time we’re told people don’t read anymore, especially young people, but what I see in the shop is all these young people come in, and they’re thrilled. They buy all sorts of different books; you can never guess what they will buy off of what they look like. Seeing that side of things is so heartening.

What do you wish more people knew about owls?

They are really loving. That’s the thing that struck me watching them. We often think about predators as having less care, less empathy. I think particularly birds of prey we don’t think of as family animals. Seeing the owlets care for each other, and the parents care for them, was just amazing.

There’s a farm in Yorkshire with all this owl habitat, and owl cams in the nests, and the owner had a pair of owls that lost their chicks. But somebody gave him some orphaned owlets, and he popped them in the nest, and they just went: oh! Look! A chick! And now every year he ends up with orphaned owlets and he pops them in with their chicks and the parents go, OMG! Another owlet! This is amazing! They’re so happy to accept them. It’s not just red in tooth and claw. There are lots of examples of care and cooperation.


This interview originally ran in the February 6, 2026 issue of Shelf Awareness for Readers. To subscribe, click here, and you’ll receive two issues per week of book reviews and other bookish news.

Legends and Lattes by Travis Baldree (audio)

I somehow got this book recommended, I think as a comp for The Spellshop which I loved. It was a good rec! Legends and Lattes is likewise cozy, although not without threat and even violence; offers subtle romance; and incorporates fantasy and worldbuilding elements. It was on the short side, and I got so engrossed I finished it in just two days! (I’m currently engaged in the included short story, a prequel, and will write that one up for you soon.)

This novel features Viv, an orc who has worked as a mercenary – hunting bounties, killing bad guys and monsters – with a small group of associates (who are mostly also friends). She’s been dreaming of getting out of the game, though. Her back hurts. As the story opens, we see her grasp a mysterious item, a bit of a good luck charm. She journeys along ley lines to the town she’s chosen for its advantageous position. Between her luck object, the ley lines, a witching rod, and a nest egg she’s saved up, she methodically sets about establishing the first coffee shop in the town of Thune. In an interesting retail challenge, no one in Thune has ever heard of coffee; Viv herself had only encountered it in a distant gnomic city. Not only is she embarking on her first retail venture, she’s introducing an unheard-of product. Bean water?, her first few acquaintances ask her, clearly doubtful. But she has her good luck charm.

The truly cozy aspect of this story lies in Viv’s earnest desire to leave behind a life by-the-sword in favor of a more wholesome one – ‘cozy’ is in fact the word. The gnomic coffee shop she’d fallen in love with was warm, bustling, with a sense of community, as well as delicious drinks. In Thune, she slowly builds her own version of this, making friends (almost by accident and almost without noticing it) along the way. First she hires a builder, an expert craftsman but one disregarded by his local society, making him ready to appreciate Viv’s valuing his services. Next she hires an assistant, also a bit of a social outcast, but who turns out to be PR/marketing whiz (and an artist, who enlivens the chalkboard menu and signboards). Then she stumbles almost by accident on a baker, a tiny ‘ratkin’ of few words but a genius with dough and flavor. A painfully shy giant comes in to play the lute. An awkward scholar comes to study and eventually share his skills. Viv wanted a new life and livelihood; she winds up establishing a community, even a built family. And good thing, because the troubles of her old life are just around the corner.

Sweet, entertaining, page-turning. Can’t wait for more.


Rating: 7 Thimblets.

The Left and the Lucky by Willy Vlautin

In a gritty world bordering on hopelessness, a man and a boy form a friendship that may just save them both.

Willy Vlautin (The Horse; The Night Always Comes; Don’t Skip Out on Me) applies his characteristic compassion and spare tone to an unlikely friendship in The Left and the Lucky, a novel of hard times and scant hope. A boy whose life has been ruled by abuse and neglect and a man whose hard work has been rewarded by betrayal and loss find each other in working-class Portland, Ore., and forge a hard-won bond to their mutual benefit.

Russell is eight years old and small for his age. He lives with his grandmother, who has dementia; his mother, who works nights; and his teenaged brother, who is angry and troubled. As the latter spins further afield and poses an increasingly serious physical threat, Russell dreams of building a boat or an airplane to take him away to an unpopulated island near Hawai’i: he can think of no nearer salvation.

Eddie lives next door. He runs a small house-painting business, working six or more days a week, and his main employee is a scarcely functioning alcoholic whose paychecks Eddie handles for him with scrupulous honesty. It will take the bulk of the novel for Vlautin to reveal the rest of Eddie’s painful past, gradually filling in the reasons for his generosity. Russell turns up on Eddie’s rounds of the neighborhood: out too late, hiding from something. The man offers the boy food, a ride home. Russell begins waiting in Eddie’s backyard each night after work; he cleans paintbrushes after the workday. Eddie gives him odd jobs and shelter from violence. Each is lacking something in a life lived on the margins, but together they begin to build a slight, meaningful solution. They restore an old Pontiac and care for an old dog. Each finds in the other someone who needs them to survive.

In his eighth novel, Vlautin continues to focus upon an American underclass marked by desperation and poverty, people often forgotten or abandoned. With a gruff tenderness, a quiet lyricism, and moments of humor, he highlights not only the built family that Russell and Eddie assemble, but also motley characters from their neighborhood: Eddie’s employees, an aging aunt, a waitress with goals, Russell’s seething brother. The Left and the Lucky is often grim, but Eddie’s dogged decency uplifts even in this grayscale world of limited options; his unwillingness to give up on Russell offers a slim but profound thread of hope unto the story’s end. Vlautin’s character sketches and the careful value he places on perseverance are not soon forgotten.


This review originally ran in the February 13, 2026 issue of Shelf Awareness for the Book Trade. To subscribe, click here.


Rating: 7 brushes.

Virgil Wander by Leif Enger (audio)

I don’t even know what to do with this book which is in the running for the best of the year! I am overcome. I feel like I’ve found another Brian Doyle: this story is set in a small community, filled with mostly good people, but some maybe not. There is whimsy and not literal magic, but certainly the kind we can find in everyday life, and mysterious forces in nature and human nature… there is a sense of everythingness that I associate with Doyle and with Amy Leach. So many things happen, and they’re all disconnected and they’re all unlikely, but that’s life, too.

Virgil Wander is a middle-aged man in the small town of Greenstone, Minnesota, somewhere north of Duluth on Lake Superior. He owns and lives above an antique movie theatre where he spools up reels of old film for his few neighbor-customers, operating at a loss. We meet him shortly after he’s accidentally launched his old Pontiac over a small cliff and into the freezing lake; a fellow Greenstonian pulls him out, and he’s recovering from a TBI, physically off-balance, linguistically working without adjectives, and struggling to sort through his memories. He thinks of the past version of himself as “the previous tenant,” as in, he feels like he’s living in someone else’s apartment, wearing someone else’s clothes, and surmising what that other guy would have done. In a word, the new Virgil is less fearful of giving offense, still mild-mannered, but more likely to speak his mind (mostly sans adjectives).

This book is about many of Greenstone’s motley citizens, but always centered on Virgil, our narrator. Early on, Virgil meets Rune: an old man, new to town, avid flyer of wildly ornate and lovely kites that he makes himself. Rune wants to hear everyone’s stories about Alec Sansome, a former minor-league baseball pitcher and Greenstone resident who disappeared one day in a small plane over Superior, leaving behind a notably beautiful wife Nadine and a young son, Bjorn. In perhaps my favorite of Virgil Wander‘s many bittersweet tragic threads, Rune has only recently discovered that he had a son, Alec – but Alec has been missing for a cool decade now. The old man desperately wanted a child all his life, and in one fell swoop gained and lost one. Now he hangs around Greenstone, delighting the locals with his kites, investigating the lost Alec, and attempting to build family with Nadine (amenable) and Bjorn (as a teenager, less so). There is also the Pea family with their streaks of bad luck and big fish; the mayor and her hope to turn Greenstone’s luck around with the annual fair; the sisters who run a small cafe; and a returned prodigal son who is either the town’s best hope or worst enemy. There are terrible losses and griefs, but also love and new beginnings, fishing and kite flying, reinventions and reinvigorations. Greenstone is an odd place of hard luck, whose history involves deaths and disappearances as well as that one time it rained frogs (yes), and there is more to come. It’s a completely fascinating place and story.

Here are a few of my favorite lines – I’ve decided against offering them any context. Enger is a thrilling writer of single sentences as well as larger plot.

He peered around as though not wishing to be seen accepting birthday wishes from a cheerful moron up to his chin in the freezing sea.

There is nothing wrong with being kissed on the cheek by a sweet round woman in a cafe after you have nearly died.

She had a marvelous eye roll, refined through long discipline, precise as acupuncture.

I’d lived years without a woman to tell me small things. Her work went well and she wanted to say so, and I was the man who was listening. That fact swung open and light came in.

There is no better sound than whom you adore when they are sleepy and pleased.

And all of this read for us by MacLeod Andrews in a delightful sort of humble Minnesotan accent (and Rune’s Norwegian one, which amplifies the reader’s sense of him as a twinkling elf of good cheer). I do not know how this book could be improved upon, except to have more of it. I am devoted to Enger – and sadly halfway through his works. Do yourself a favor and spend some time with Virgil.


Rating: 10 pots of boiling milk.