Last month I read Leigh Bardugo's Ninth House (2019) while sprawled on a stolen picnic blanket in a public park in Limerick. Between pages I wandered the city alone, and after I went to Dublin, where among other things I toured Dublin College, and felt some of the chill of the book sink between steps.
It took me a long time to settle in to the story. The early flashbacks threw me off and confused me. This might just be my pandemic brain, that's for some reason still flickering to the news and to twitter even when I'm trying to relax; or it might have been lingering effects of covid. Either way, this early foreshadowing didn't quite work for me. Starting off with confusion gave me a lack of confidence in myself for the next 200 pages. I couldn't focus, and then couldn't be sure of what I'd read.
Once I was locked into the story, I loved it. The pacing moving along perfectly, which impressed me since I've only ever read Bardugo's YA books, and YA pacing is so different from adult books. I loved Alex's prickliness, the slow reveal of truth, and the hard look at redemption and trust and friendship.
Most of all, I loved the book hangover it left me with as I continued with the rest of my trip.
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